Kim & Putin Forge 'Blood Alliance' as Russian War Desperation Mounts

Paul Riverbank, 12/28/2025As Russia’s economic woes deepen, Putin leans on a costly new alliance with North Korea, trading military support for solidarity. But with mounting losses and industry unrest at home, Moscow’s gamble exposes the shifting, perilous foundations of its war strategy.

Reports from several international observers, including a recent CNN investigation, describe columns of North Korean conscripts shuttled to the brutal battles outside Kursk. Of the 12,000 sent, more than 6,000 have not returned. For Pyongyang, the price of brotherhood is etched sharply in those numbers, and it hasn’t hesitated to promise tens of thousands more. Outlandish as some of the rhetoric might sound, the human cost is as real as the burned-out tanks scattered across the Ukrainian steppe.

Vladimir Putin, meanwhile, hardly seems poised to retreat or compromise. The Russian economy teeters on the edge of a familiar precipice, with export markets shrinking and sanctions biting deeper than many expected. Internal figures—ones not broadly talked about in state media—show a measurable decline in major industries. The last time Moscow’s business leaders watched their order books with this much dread was during the 1998 financial crisis, a year seared into the memory of anyone who lived through it: banks shuttered, savings vanished, and the ruble became a punchline on Western news.

Frustration is rising. Some of Russia’s business elite, long willing to let politics be politics, are starting to audibly bristle behind closed doors. One source close to major industrialists summed up the mood recently: “Patience has run out.” These are not, typically, men and women given to public dissent—but it is harder to ignore a ledger wrapped in red ink.

Faced with sanctions and discontent at home, the Kremlin has fallen back on a classic survival strategy: demonstrate military prowess. On the heels of grim economic news, the Russian navy announced development of a new class of nuclear-powered submarine. According to statements made by Admiral Nikolai Patrushev—best known, until now, for his work on cyberwarfare—this technology leapfrogs anything in the Western arsenal. Early schematics hint at fewer missile tubes but clever integration of unmanned vessel “escorts,” a kind of robotic wolf pack designed to hunt NATO submarines. The timing of this announcement, some observers note dryly, feels too pointed to be mere coincidence.

Away from missile silos and shipyards, Russia’s diplomatic dance grows increasingly awkward. China and India, the energy buyers Moscow once counted on, have quietly stepped back from the Russian marketplace. Replacement partners in Africa and Southeast Asia have proven sporadic, at best, and Western tariffs continue to squeeze the last easy profits from national champions like Gazprom and Rosneft. On most days, the talk among Russian business circles revolves less around policy than around survival.

Yet for all the talk of “invincible brotherhood” and new alliances, nothing about this feels permanent. North Korea, always a wildcard, appears to relish its new relevance—and the attention it buys from Moscow—but the tangible cost is measured in body bags and broken equipment. Russia, for its part, seems eager to project strength but, in reality, looks increasingly isolated—grasping for lifelines as established partners drift away.

In the end, as old certainties falter and unexpected partnerships flourish, one question lingers: how much longer can Putin’s Russia survive—economically, diplomatically, even spiritually—on a steady diet of defiance and sacrifice? The answer, to borrow from Russian history, will likely surprise everyone, perhaps even those waving flags in Red Square.

On a gray morning not long ago, Kim Jong Un fired off a note to Vladimir Putin that strayed into the dramatic, even by North Korean standards. “Russia relations have been further consolidated into the sincerest alliance of sharing blood, life and death in the same trench,” he declared, echoing the heavy verbiage of Pyongyang’s official statements. This wasn’t chest-beating for its own sake. North Korea, for the first time in its short history, has reportedly put thousands of troops on the ground for Russia’s cause in Ukraine—a move difficult to separate from the desperation that hovers over Moscow’s war room.Reports from several international observers, including a recent CNN investigation, describe columns of North Korean conscripts shuttled to the brutal battles outside Kursk. Of the 12,000 sent, more than 6,000 have not returned. For Pyongyang, the price of brotherhood is etched sharply in those numbers, and it hasn’t hesitated to promise tens of thousands more. Outlandish as some of the rhetoric might sound, the human cost is as real as the burned-out tanks scattered across the Ukrainian steppe.Vladimir Putin, meanwhile, hardly seems poised to retreat or compromise. The Russian economy teeters on the edge of a familiar precipice, with export markets shrinking and sanctions biting deeper than many expected. Internal figures—ones not broadly talked about in state media—show a measurable decline in major industries. The last time Moscow’s business leaders watched their order books with this much dread was during the 1998 financial crisis, a year seared into the memory of anyone who lived through it: banks shuttered, savings vanished, and the ruble became a punchline on Western news.Frustration is rising. Some of Russia’s business elite, long willing to let politics be politics, are starting to audibly bristle behind closed doors. One source close to major industrialists summed up the mood recently: “Patience has run out.” These are not, typically, men and women given to public dissent—but it is harder to ignore a ledger wrapped in red ink.Faced with sanctions and discontent at home, the Kremlin has fallen back on a classic survival strategy: demonstrate military prowess. On the heels of grim economic news, the Russian navy announced development of a new class of nuclear-powered submarine. According to statements made by Admiral Nikolai Patrushev—best known, until now, for his work on cyberwarfare—this technology leapfrogs anything in the Western arsenal. Early schematics hint at fewer missile tubes but clever integration of unmanned vessel “escorts,” a kind of robotic wolf pack designed to hunt NATO submarines. The timing of this announcement, some observers note dryly, feels too pointed to be mere coincidence.Away from missile silos and shipyards, Russia’s diplomatic dance grows increasingly awkward. China and India, the energy buyers Moscow once counted on, have quietly stepped back from the Russian marketplace. Replacement partners in Africa and Southeast Asia have proven sporadic, at best, and Western tariffs continue to squeeze the last easy profits from national champions like Gazprom and Rosneft. On most days, the talk among Russian business circles revolves less around policy than around survival.Yet for all the talk of “invincible brotherhood” and new alliances, nothing about this feels permanent. North Korea, always a wildcard, appears to relish its new relevance—and the attention it buys from Moscow—but the tangible cost is measured in body bags and broken equipment. Russia, for its part, seems eager to project strength but, in reality, looks increasingly isolated—grasping for lifelines as established partners drift away.In the end, as old certainties falter and unexpected partnerships flourish, one question lingers: how much longer can Putin’s Russia survive—economically, diplomatically, even spiritually—on a steady diet of defiance and sacrifice? The answer, to borrow from Russian history, will likely surprise everyone, perhaps even those waving flags in Red Square.