(Jeanyx's Point of View)
A week had passed since the disaster of the Great Retreat. Russia bled across her fields, villages burned, and thousands of soldiers stumbled eastward in exhaustion and shame. Nicholas wore the weight of it openly now; the once-proud Tsar looked gaunt, his eyes hollowed with sleepless nights. But his resolve had not broken. When he summoned me to his study, his voice carried the burden of an emperor and the plea of an uncle.
"Ты должен ударить их. Ты должен показать немцам, что Россия ещё жива."
(You must strike them. You must show the Germans that Russia still lives.)
I nodded. For my uncle, for the family that had accepted me, I would. But when the question of travel arose—how a man cloaked in mold and fire would approach the enemy—I had no answer. Nicholas ordered me taken to the vehicle depot, where row after row of army wagons, armored cars, and lumbering transports awaited.
I walked among them with disinterest. Trucks rattled too slow, horses too fragile, armored cars too conspicuous. None of them suited me. My uncle noticed, his face tightening with concern, but said nothing. He trusted me to find my own path.
We turned back toward the palace. The convoy rattled along a frost-covered road, flanked by birch trees stripped bare by autumn winds. Soldiers rode in silence, their eyes fixed ahead. Then, as we passed a crooked wooden sign pointing toward a forgotten industrial quarter, I saw it.
A junkyard.
"Стой." (Stop.)
The soldier driving glanced back, startled, but obeyed. The truck ground to a halt, and I stepped down into the snow. The others muttered in confusion, but none dared question me. The Tsar himself sat in the back, watching, silent.
The yard was a graveyard of machines. Twisted iron lay in heaps, carts broken in half, gears rusted into stillness. Chains hung from wooden beams, creaking faintly in the wind. And there, half-buried beneath a mound of discarded scrap, I saw it: the skeleton of a motorcycle.
It was pitiful—its frame rusted through, its wheels bent and half-sunk in mud. The handlebars were crooked, the seat torn and rotting. It had not run in years, perhaps decades. Yet something in me stirred.
I approached, my boots crunching over frozen debris. Slowly, I lowered my hand to the corroded metal.
The instant my skin touched the frame, a flame ignited.
Black and violet fire burst from my palm, racing across the rust like wildfire. The gems on my panjas bracelets flared blood red, brighter than they had in years, pulsing like the beating of a second heart. Energy surged out of me—through me—spilling into the machine.
The fire spread beyond the motorcycle. It crawled across the junkyard, climbing up heaps of twisted gears, wrapping around abandoned carriages, swallowing chains, iron plates, and shattered engines. The pile of ruin shook, glowing as though lit from within.
The soldiers gasped, shielding their faces from the heat. Nicholas stood, his eyes wide, watching as though witnessing a resurrection.
The junkyard itself began to change. Metal groaned, reshaping, fusing. Sparks rained down like falling stars as the wreckage collapsed inward, feeding into the burning frame of the motorcycle. The fire roared higher, a bonfire of mold, hellfire, and demonic energy.
And then, at last, it stilled.
Smoke curled into the air, hissing in the snow. The light dimmed, leaving behind a silhouette that glistened with a sleek, unnatural sheen.
I stepped closer, and my eyes widened.
It was no relic of 1915. It was something that should not exist for another century.
A motorcycle unlike any Russia—or the world—had ever seen. Its form was muscular, aggressive, sculpted from black metal with crimson accents glowing faintly like veins. The tank gleamed smooth and predatory, the wheels fat and wide, designed for speed no horse could match. Pipes curled along its flanks like the ribs of a beast, humming with restrained violence.
The Yamaha V-Max, though I did not know its name. A machine of the future, born from hellfire and ruin in a Russian junkyard.
The soldiers stood in awe, some crossing themselves, others stepping back in fear. Nicholas whispered under his breath, his voice trembling.
"Господи… это… это дьявольская машина."
(My God… this… this is a devil's machine.)
I ran my hand along the frame. It was warm beneath my touch, as though alive, as though it breathed with me. The fire within me answered, flaring faintly, and the engine roared to life without a key. Black smoke hissed from the exhaust, laced with violet sparks.
I swung my leg over the seat. The machine fit me perfectly, as though it had been forged not for men, but for me alone. Chains rattled faintly at my side, answering the motorcycle's growl.
I looked back once at my uncle. My voice was calm, steady, unyielding.
"Теперь у меня есть моя лошадь."
(Now I have my steed.)
Nicholas said nothing. He only nodded, grief and pride warring in his eyes.
And then I twisted the throttle. The beast roared, spitting fire, and together we tore from the junkyard into the Russian night—mold and flame trailing in our wake.
(Commander Wilhelm Krafft's Point of View)
It had been a dull afternoon. The air was heavy with damp earth and gunpowder, the kind of air that crawled into your lungs and stayed there. I lounged in the corner of the trench, half-dozing, my boots caked in mud, the rumble of distant artillery nothing more than background noise.
And then I heard it.
At first, I thought it was thunder. A low, guttural rumble rolling over the plains. But it grew deeper—unnatural. It wasn't thunder. It was something else. Something alive.
Then came the laugh.
It tore through the air like claws scraping across the soul. A sound so cruel, so mocking, it could only belong to the Devil himself clawing his way out of Hell. My eyes snapped open, my heart hammering as though it would break my ribs.
"Herr Kommandant! Herr Kommandant!" One of my scouts stumbled into the trench, his face pale, his words a jumble of terror. He was screaming, pointing back toward the horizon. I grabbed his shoulders, but his panic was infectious—his voice cracked, broken. I couldn't make sense of him.
"Schweig!" (Silence!) I shoved him aside and tore the binoculars from his hands.
I raised them, my breath freezing in my chest.
And I saw it.
At first, I thought it was a motorcycle—but no, no motorcycle looked like this. It rolled out of the haze like a beast, its body wreathed in fire. Black and purple flames burst from the engine, licking at the wheels, the tires glowing as though forged from molten iron. Every turn left behind a trail of burning shadows, a scar across the earth.
But it wasn't the machine that made my soul recoil. It was the rider.
He sat tall, cloaked in a trench coat that billowed like smoke, his clothes black as midnight—boots, trousers, shirt, all swallowed by the shadows around him. His hood was drawn low, but not low enough to hide what lay beneath.
For when I raised the glass to his face, I saw no flesh. No eyes. No man.
Only a skull.
A bleached skull lit aflame with hellfire—black and violet fire that burned without consuming, fire that screamed of damnation. Its jaw cracked open, and that same laugh—God help me—that same laugh thundered again, rattling my bones.
I felt my knees weaken. My hands trembled so violently I nearly dropped the binoculars. A thought, vile and desperate, stabbed through my mind: better to put my pistol to my head now than wait for that thing to come for me.
But I could not move. I could only watch as the Devil rode straight for us.
The trench was chaos.
Men screamed, rifles cracked, and yet it all seemed meaningless. The sound of bullets vanished beneath the roar of fire and the rattle of chains. That infernal machine shrieked as it tore across the battlefield, spitting black and violet flame with every turn of its wheels.
And the rider—God in Heaven—the rider swung a chain that burned hotter than the sun.
With each sweep, it hissed through air and flesh alike. Helmets melted like wax. Rifles split apart, glowing orange before dissolving into ash. Soldiers who had been men—comrades who laughed and sang in the barracks the night before—became nothing more than cinders, scattered into the wind in the blink of an eye.
I stumbled back, my boots slipping in the mud, as he leapt from the motorcycle into the trench. He moved like no mortal thing, the chain lashing in arcs of pure destruction. The stench of burning hair, melting steel, and cooked flesh filled the air until I gagged, choking on bile.
"Halt ihn auf!" I shouted hoarsely. (Stop him!) But my voice cracked, lost in the screams of men who no longer believed such a thing was possible.
Then I saw him—one desperate soul.
A young soldier, eyes wild, his rifle gone. He scrabbled in the mud, hands closing around a rusted scythe, no doubt abandoned from a nearby farm requisition. With a cry that was half-prayer, half-madness, he lunged.
The blade struck true—or it should have. It pierced the rider's side with a sickening crunch. For a heartbeat, hope flared in me. Perhaps this nightmare could bleed.
But then the demon turned.
Slowly, inexorably, the flaming skull tilted toward the soldier. Hollow sockets locked onto him. I swear I saw the boy's soul leave his body in that gaze.
The rider's hand shot forward, wrapping around the soldier's face like an iron vise. Flames licked at his palm as he lifted the boy from the ground. The soldier kicked, screamed.
Then the demon did something that froze my blood.
He bent down, scooped a handful of jagged stones from the trench floor, and shoved them into his flaming maw. The sound was monstrous—rock grinding against fire, teeth snapping like iron. He chewed. He swallowed.
And then he leaned forward.
With a guttural roar, he spewed molten rock straight into the soldier's face.
The boy's scream will haunt me until the end of my days. His flesh melted in seconds, dripping away in steaming rivulets. His eyes burst like eggs. His skull blackened, cracked, and collapsed inward. When the body fell, there was nothing left but a twitching husk of charred bone.
I wanted to retch. I wanted to run. I wanted to put my pistol to my temple and never see again. But my body betrayed me. I stood frozen, trembling, as the demon pulled the scythe from his own body.
The wound closed instantly, black and violet fire knitting fleshless bone back together. He held the scythe aloft. For a heartbeat, it was still rusted, broken.
And then the flames came.
They raced along the handle, crawling like serpents, devouring the wood, reshaping the blade. The air itself shuddered as the weapon screamed—a sound of metal reforged in Hell's forge.
Before my eyes, the scythe transformed. Its handle lengthened, blackened, curving like the spine of some great beast. The blade split and shifted, forming a cruel crescent edged with death itself, its steel glistening as if forged from bone and shadow. The entire weapon pulsed with an aura of decay, as though the world around it grew older simply by existing near it.
I had studied arms my whole life. I knew sabers, lances, bayonets, cannons. But this—this was no weapon of men. This was the scythe of a Reaper.
The demon twirled it once, and the trench wall behind him blackened, cracked, and collapsed into dust. He laughed again—mocking, eternal, a sound that carried straight into my marrow.
My knees buckled. I fell, staring in horror at the impossible.This was no soldier. No weapon. No man.This was Death, and he had chosen to walk among us.
The air was fire.
Every breath scalded my throat as the demon strode forward, wielding that cursed scythe as if it weighed nothing. The black and violet flames licked along its blade, hungrily stretching with every motion.
He swung once—only once—and the world cracked open.
The scythe screamed through the air, its flaming arc carving a line that tore through men, mud, and timber alike. Helmets burst like fruit, rifles shattered, and bodies were unmade, crumbling into piles of ash before they could even hit the ground. The trench wall itself split apart, a gaping wound in the earth, collapsing inward as though refusing to stand against such a weapon.
I stumbled back, choking on smoke, my legs trembling so badly I could hardly keep upright. All around me, my men broke.
"Zurückziehen! Zurückziehen!" they shrieked. (Retreat! Retreat!)
But where could they run?
The motorcycle roared again, as if alive, circling the trench like a predator. The demon vaulted back into the saddle, the scythe held high. With each slash, he tore great swaths of destruction: barbed wire dissolved, sandbags burst into flame, machine gun nests exploded as though struck by artillery.
Our artillery—our artillery—answered desperately, shells howling from the rear. They rained down with deafening crashes, dirt and fire exploding skyward. But the smoke cleared, and he still stood. Not a scratch. His flames only burned hotter, brighter, hungrier.
One soldier, mad with fear, tried to man the Maxim gun. He opened fire, bullets rattling like hail against the skull aflame. The demon turned slowly, almost mockingly, and swung his scythe. The weapon cleaved through the air—and the bullets themselves disintegrated midflight. Then the chain lashed out, wrapping the machine gun and its wielder alike, yanking them both into the fire. When the smoke cleared, there was nothing but smoldering ash.
My heart hammered. My breath came ragged.
Then came the most terrible moment of all.
He leapt back into the trench, landing with the weight of judgment itself. A soldier barely twenty scrambled for cover, but the demon's flaming hand seized him by the throat. The boy kicked, gasping. The skull leaned down, close, and the scythe's blade ignited brighter than ever before. With a single swing, the boy ceased to exist—no body, no scream, only ash carried away on the wind.
Men fled in all directions. Some clambered from the trench only to be caught by the chain and yanked screaming into the inferno. Others dropped their weapons, collapsing to their knees, begging prayers that God never answered.
One sergeant dared to charge, bayonet fixed, shouting to steady the men. Brave fool. The scythe met him mid-thrust, cleaving not only through him but through four others behind him. Their bodies turned to glowing dust that floated into the smoky air like sparks from a pyre.
It wasn't battle anymore. It was a massacre.
I pressed myself against the trench wall, shaking, my pistol heavy in my hand. I considered ending it then and there—better to die by my own bullet than to watch my soul devoured by those empty sockets.
But still, I couldn't move.
The demon's laughter rolled over us again, black fire flickering across his skeletal grin. With every swing of that cursed scythe, the trench grew emptier, quieter. The ground itself seemed to weep, the mud hissing under the flames, collapsing where the blade struck.
Artillery roared again, closer this time, and one shell burst so near it threw me to the ground. My ears rang, my vision swam. When I looked up, through the haze and smoke, I saw him.
Standing amid the wreckage, scythe resting on his shoulder, flames guttering but not extinguished. He turned his skull toward me. For an instant, I felt his gaze pierce my very marrow.
And I knew.
This was no Russian. No soldier. No man.This was Death on a steed of fire, and we had dared to wage war in his shadow.
(timeskip)
I do not remember how I survived.
One moment, the trench was fire and ash, men screaming as they dissolved into nothing. The next, I was crawling through mud and smoke, my ears ringing, my body trembling so badly I could scarcely move. Perhaps the demon spared me deliberately. Perhaps I was beneath his notice. Or perhaps he wanted someone left to tell the tale.
Either way, I lived. And that was a cruelty.
I staggered east, through the smoldering ruin of what had been a proud line of German defense. The sky itself seemed blackened by the trail he left behind, purple fire flickering in the smoke. I passed corpses without flesh, helmets melted into skulls, rifles twisted into grotesque shapes. Every step was a march through Hell.
By the time I reached the rear command post, I was a ghost of myself. My uniform was caked in blood and ash, my hands shook uncontrollably, and my eyes darted at every flicker of shadow. The sentries lowered their rifles at me, mistaking me for a deserter.
"Halt! Identify yourself!"
I croaked my name—Commander Wilhelm Krafft—and they pulled me inside.
In the war tent, under flickering lamplight, the High Command listened. Generals with polished medals and sharp eyes leaned close as I spoke, my voice breaking again and again.
I told them everything. The sound of the motorcycle. The flames. The skull. The scythe that burned through flesh and steel as if both were parchment. The way men turned to ash. The laugh—God, the laugh that still rang in my ears.
Silence followed.
One general sneered, muttering that I was mad, that the retreat had broken me. Another called me a coward dressing failure with fairy tales. But then I saw the truth in their eyes. They were afraid.
Because even if they did not believe my words, they believed my face.
The chief strategist finally spoke, his voice flat, pragmatic.
"And you claim it was Russian?"
I swallowed, my throat raw. "No… it was not Russian. Not German. Not… human."
The generals shifted uneasily. One crossed himself. Another scoffed but would not meet my gaze.
At last, the commander of the Eastern Front slammed his fist on the table.
"Then let it be recorded. There is a new weapon in the Russian arsenal. A rider cloaked in fire. Spread the warning to all units."
He leaned forward, his eyes hard but glimmering with something else—fear, yes, but also awe.
"Tell the men this: they face not just Russians, but the Reiter des Teufels. The Rider of the Devil."
And so the story spread. Whispered in trenches. Scribbled in letters home. A myth, they said. A demon that rode against the Kaiser's armies, wielding flame and scythe. Some laughed, others trembled. But every soldier who went to the front listened for the roar of that engine, for the echo of that laugh.
And I—Wilhelm Krafft, who had seen him with my own eyes—knew the truth.
The Devil had come to war. And he had chosen Russia's side.
(Jeanyx's Point of View)
The report reached us faster than I expected. Soldiers returning from the front spoke in hushed voices, carrying with them more than wounds or medals. They carried a story.
At first it was nothing but rumor—muttered in barracks, whispered in taverns, scrawled hastily in letters home. But the tale grew like fire in dry fields. By the time it reached Petrograd, it was no longer rumor. It was a warning.
The Germans had given me a name.
Der Reiter des Teufels.
The Rider of the Devil.
I was summoned to the Winter Palace under nightfall. Nicholas sat at the head of the council chamber, his face pale but composed. Around him stood the Chief of Staff, Rasputin, and a handful of trusted ministers. The lamps flickered, casting long shadows across their weary faces.
The Chief of Staff wasted no time. He dropped a bundle of intercepted German reports onto the table.
"Ваше Величество, немцы верят, что мы выпустили демона против них. Их командиры называют его 'Дьявольский всадник'."
(Your Majesty, the Germans believe we have unleashed a demon against them. Their commanders call him the Devil's Rider.)
Nicholas' eyes flicked to me, heavy with both pride and dread.
"Jeanyx… что ты сделал?"
(Jeanyx… what have you done?)
I did not flinch. "Я исполнил приказ. Я ударил их так, что они запомнят."
(I carried out your order. I struck them so they would remember.)
Rasputin's lips curled into a faint smile, his hands folded behind his back.
"И запомнят они, несомненно. Ваш племянник стал легендой, Государь. Слух о нём укрепит дух ваших солдат так же, как он отравит сердца врагов. Это — дар судьбы."
(And remember they shall. Your nephew has become a legend, Sire. The tale will strengthen the spirit of your soldiers even as it poisons the hearts of your enemies. This is a gift of fate.)
The Chief of Staff scowled, slamming a fist against the table.
"Дар? Это проклятие! Если союзники узнают, что у нас есть 'демон', они не будут видеть союзника, а угрозу. А если народ узнает… они возненавидят вас за то, что вы держите чудовище под своей кровлей!"
(A gift? This is a curse! If the Allies discover we harbor a 'demon,' they will not see an ally, but a threat. And if the people find out… they will hate you for keeping a monster under your roof!)
The chamber erupted in argument. Ministers muttered about secrecy, propaganda, the church's fury should they hear of this. Rasputin raised his voice above them all, insisting it was divine proof of Nicholas' chosen destiny.
And Nicholas sat silently through it all, staring at me.
At last, he raised his hand. Silence fell like a hammer. His gaze fixed on me, and for the first time, his words came not as a Tsar, but as my uncle.
"Скажи мне, племянник. Ты это сделал ради меня… или ради России?"
(Tell me, nephew. Did you do this for me… or for Russia?)
I stepped forward, lowering myself to one knee once more. My head bowed, my voice steady.
"Я сделал это только ради тебя. Только ради семьи, что приняла меня. Россия получит пользу от этого, да. Но я не её оружие. Я — твой щит, твой меч. И ничей больше."
(I did this only for you. Only for the family that accepted me. Russia may benefit, yes. But I am not its weapon. I am your shield, your sword. And no one else's.)
Nicholas' breath shuddered. His hand trembled where it rested on the table, but his eyes softened. For a moment, the Emperor's mask slipped, and he was simply my uncle again—the man who had raised me more than my father ever did.
Rasputin stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with something almost feral.
"Видите? Он уже сделал выбор. Его верность — не к трону, не к церкви, а к вам. Это сильнее любой армии."
(Do you see? He has already made his choice. His loyalty is not to the throne, not to the church, but to you. That is stronger than any army.)
Nicholas closed his eyes, whispering a prayer under his breath. When he opened them again, he nodded slowly.
"Тогда пусть это останется тайной. Для народа он умер. Для армии он легенда. Но для меня… он сын."
(Then let this remain a secret. To the people, he is dead. To the army, he is a legend. But to me… he is a son.)
And with that, the council was dismissed.
The whispers of the Demon Rider spread across Europe, igniting terror in German trenches and hope in Russian hearts. But only Nicholas, Rasputin, and I knew the truth: that the devil's steed and the scythe of fire served not Russia, not the Tsar's empire, but one man—my uncle.
And only for as long as he lived.