The Bride Of The Devil-Chapter 78: The Devil’s Mentor Pt1

Fifteen Years Ago

Velinsk – The Northern Borderland Between Zolotaria and Venograd

The wind outside howled like a wounded animal as the carriage rolled across the snow-covered path. The wheels creaked under the weight of the frost, and snowflakes clung to the glass like cold little stars. Inside the carriage sat a small boy, no older than nine. His back was straight, his chin raised, but his hands trembled quietly in his lap. It was Ivan.

His face was still and calm, the kind of calm that comes when you’re too afraid to cry. His eyes, though, told the truth. They were wide and restless, darting to the window, to the floor, and then back again. He tried to be brave. After all, a prince shouldn’t cry. But he was just a child, and he was terrified.

He had been sent to join the military. Not asked—ordered. The late Czar and Queen had given the command. Even his father, the Grand Duke, had approved it without hesitation. Ivan couldn’t understand why. He had only spoken up once, just once, during a meeting. He had said it was wrong to use new, young soldiers as bait in war. He said it with all the courage he had, thinking it would help someone.

But it wasn’t his place to speak.

So the Czar had punished him.

"If he cares so much about soldiers," he had said coldly, "let him become one."

Ivan had been pulled from his studies, his tutors, his bed, and sent away.

His stepmother, the Grand Duchess, had smiled faintly when the order came. She didn’t try to hide her joy. She never treated him like a son. She never even looked at him with anything close to warmth. In fact, he was sure she would’ve preferred if he didn’t come back at all.

The carriage rattled as it pulled into the army base at Velinsk. A cold gust of wind rushed in as the door opened, and Ivan stepped out into a place that felt nothing like home. Snow covered the stone ground. Soldiers walked quickly through the camp, their coats heavy with frost. No one greeted him.

Most just glanced at him and looked away. Some whispered. Others frowned.

He was used to it. Even in the palace, people whispered. But something about this place felt worse. Harsher. Lonelier. The air itself felt different, like it had teeth.

Then he saw him.

Ruslan. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

A tall young man, maybe in his mid-twenties. His coat was clean but worn. His face was sharp, eyes serious, but not cruel. Their eyes met, just for a second, and something about his gaze felt different. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He just looked at Ivan like he was human.

That alone felt like warmth.

Days passed. Then weeks. Then a few months.

The snow melted, but life didn’t get easier.

Ivan trained every day, and every night. He was assigned to General Nikolai, the coldest man in the camp. Everyone feared him. He never gave praise. He never spoke unless necessary. Yet for some reason, he trained Ivan personally.

It wasn’t normal. But no one said anything. They only watched, and whispered more.

The other soldiers grew jealous. They saw a royal boy getting attention from the general, and they hated it. They couldn’t hurt him directly—he was still a prince—so they found other ways to make him suffer.

They started small. One day, one of his boots disappeared. He found it later, half-buried in mud. Another day, his armor was missing. It turned up in the old latrine pit, where soldiers once relieved themselves.

He said nothing. He held his head high. But every day, he felt a little smaller inside.

At mealtimes, it was worse.

One evening, he entered the dining hall. It was loud at first, full of voices and laughter. But when he stepped inside, silence fell like a stone. Chairs scraped. Men shifted. Within seconds, there was no empty seat anywhere near him.

He walked to the far end of the room, sat alone, and poked at his food.

"I don’t need them," he whispered to himself.

But he did. He needed someone. Anyone.

Then, footsteps.

Ruslan.

He sat beside him with a quiet smile. "Don’t mind them, Prince Ivan."

Ivan didn’t answer. But his hand stopped trembling.

From then on, things changed.

Ruslan started watching out for him. When the others tried to hide his things, Ruslan would find them first and clean them. When Ivan was too tired to train, Ruslan would stay by his side. He talked to him during meals. Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they just sat.

Ivan began to trust him.

He had never had an older brother. But if he did, he imagined he would be like Ruslan.

Then one day, Ruslan left.

His mother had died, and he had to return home for her funeral. He would be gone for a week.

That week was a nightmare.

The taunting grew worse. The soldiers weren’t even hiding it anymore. They pushed him into the washroom and held him underwater. They poured buckets of cold water on his bed. They laughed and mocked him openly. Even his rations were spoiled once—someone had poured vinegar in his soup.

He had no one to help him now.

The day Ruslan was to return, Ivan walked into the dining hall as usual. His food tray in hand, his steps quiet. As he walked to his usual corner, a young soldier about twenty stuck out his leg.

Ivan fell hard. His tray clattered to the ground. Food spilled everywhere.

He got up slowly, brushing snow and food from his clothes. He turned to leave quietly, but voices stopped him.

"He’s just a child," one soldier said.

"He’s also royal," another replied. "If the Czar finds out we’re bullying his grandson, we’ll be dead."

Laughter.

The boy who tripped him grinned and shouted, "Oh no, my head! My poor head!"

More laughter.

Then his voice changed.

"Please. The Czar doesn’t care about him. Not even the Grand Duke. Why do you think he’s here? He’s trash. A disgrace. A child born from a whore. A stain in the royal blood."

The room went still.

Then a sharp gasp.

Blood spilled from the boy’s neck. He staggered back.

Ivan stood there, holding a fork. His eyes were red with rage.

The soldier tried to run. Ivan followed him.

He yanked the fork out and stabbed again.

"Don’t you talk about my mother!"

Again. And again. And again.

The boy stopped moving. Everyone watched in horror.

Ivan looked around. Blood was everywhere. On the floor. On his hands. On his face. He was panting. Frozen. Wild-eyed.

Some soldiers backed away. One dropped his spoon. Another clutched the table, as if it could protect him.

At the door, Ruslan stood. His eyes wide. His expression unreadable.

Ivan ran.

Back in his quarters, he tried to wash the blood away. But it didn’t come off. His hands were clean, but they still felt dirty. He stared at the water. He wanted to scream.

Then the door opened.

Ruslan.

He walked in slowly, knelt beside him, and helped him wash.

"It’s okay, Prince Ivan," he said softly.

Ivan’s voice trembled. "I killed him."

"I know. And I know it won’t change anything. But remember what he said. What he did. He wasn’t a good person. He hurt you. He laughed at you. He insulted your mother."

Ivan said nothing.

"He deserved it."

That night, Ivan didn’t sleep.

News traveled fast. The Czar heard what happened. Orders were sent. Ivan was to return to Svetlana. From now on, he would train inside the palace.

No one said goodbye.

Not one word from the soldiers. Just silence.

But it wasn’t the same silence from before.

This time, it was fear.

They avoided his eyes in the halls. They stepped aside when he passed. They lowered their voices when he was near. Some flinched when he entered the room. Even the ones who had once mocked him now stared at the ground like frightened dogs.

They weren’t laughing anymore.

At night, they locked their doors. One of them even slept with a knife under his pillow, though Ivan never went near him again. They never knew when he might snap. And that fear stayed.

On the morning he was leaving, he mounted his horse quietly. Snow fell around him.

Then, running footsteps.

Ruslan.

He came to a stop, panting. In his hand was a small box. He handed it to Ivan.

Inside was a silver mask.

Ivan blinked. "What is this?"

Ruslan smiled, but there was something strange in his eyes. Something sharp. Something dark.

"Wear it. When people see your face, they feel nothing. But when they see this, they will fear you."

Ivan looked down at the mask. It was smooth, cold, and expressionless.

"Why would I want them to fear me?"

Ruslan leaned closer.

"Because fear is power. You were born a sin. They treated you like one. But now, you can be a warrior. You can be something stronger. Something they can’t laugh at."

Ivan didn’t know what to say. He thought Ruslan was giving him protection. Maybe even love.

But he didn’t know yet—this was how it began.

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