To My Gentle Dictator – Chapter 037

To be honest, none of the vulgar things Vasily was saying even registered.

Not long ago, just thinking of Vasily was enough to send her into a panic. But now that he was actually in front of her, it wasn’t him that was causing the panic—it was something entirely different.

“Whatever becomes of me is none of your business, General. Please leave.”

An eerie silence fell.

Vasily, who had been staring at Sasha as if frozen, opened his mouth to speak again—only for the carriage door to suddenly swing open, revealing an unexpected figure.

“Hello, Sasha. You’re here. What are you doing, brother?”

With an elegant smile, Lyudmila looked between the two of them.

Vasily clicked his tongue, his forehead twisted in irritation.

“Shit. This bitch or that one…”

He kicked the carriage door open violently as he got out, making Sasha’s shoulders shrink in alarm.

Immediately, a pale-faced Natasha and several security agents rushed over.

“Are you alright?”

“Thank you, Miss Lyudmila. If you hadn’t stepped in…”

“I’d be in trouble too if my brother started making a scene. Sasha, are you okay? Let’s go in.”

Lyudmila, answering the agents’ thanks with a bright smile, personally stepped forward and helped Sasha out of the carriage.

She looked every bit the benevolent figure worthy of her nickname: the Saint.

But a saint is, in the end, still only human.

Led by the saint, the bride who stepped out of the carriage seemed like Snegurochka, about to melt under the dazzling sunlight, or a Rusalka who had just grown legs.

Somewhere, a sigh was heard.

It felt as though the entire Kafka Cathedral, with its centuries of history, was letting out a sigh.

Lyudmila, with a composed smile, looked at Sasha.

“Congratulations, Sasha. You’re beautiful today.”

“Thank you.”

Sasha barely managed a reply to Lyudmila’s friendly tone.

Turning her worried gaze toward Madame Sonya, she was relieved to see that the Madame seemed alright.

Just then, Lyudmila let out a clear, warm laugh.

“Oh my, what’s with that stiff tone? Speak like you used to. We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

“…Yes.”

Sasha nodded absentmindedly.

She didn’t even have the mental space to reflect on whether they had ever truly been friends.

While they walked through the gallery leading to the ceremony hall, Lyudmila kept saying something, but Sasha didn’t catch any of it.

Because her mind was consumed by just one thought.

‘If Ulrich finds out…’

There was no way the incident that just occurred wouldn’t reach Ulrich’s ears.

It might have already reached him.

‘It’s okay. It’s not like I followed Vasily. I didn’t break the promise I made to Ulrich. So… still…’

Still, it wasn’t like she was completely blameless.

Because she didn’t handle things properly. Because she didn’t stop Vasily from getting into the carriage. Because she didn’t act calmly and gracefully like Lyudmila and instead reacted like a fool…

Couldn’t it be said that the shameful incident was her fault?

‘If he ends up disappointed in me again, this time…’

The lily-of-the-valley bouquet in her hands trembled faintly.

* * *

In the new era, the concept of reserved seating no longer existed.

Whether it was at a theater, a banquet, or any other event, everyone, regardless of class or profession, was expected to line up equally and take their seats in order—this was the principle of the new age.

Of course, even within such an egalitarian worldview, invisible layers still existed.

For instance, the guest booths closest to the platform were reserved for only the highest-ranking Party members.

As for the commotion that had just taken place at the cathedral entrance, only the wedding staff were aware of it so far.

“Plenty of ladies will be weeping blood today.”

Someone muttered.

It was said while glancing at Ulrich, who was exchanging whispers with his best man beside the platform.

The best man was Major Fedir.

Guests didn’t seem pleased that that sycophant, who acted as if he were Ulrich’s only peer from the academy, had taken the best man’s role.

“Didn’t that bastard Fedir settle his own wedding just by signing papers at the office? Even before the civil marriage law was officially enacted. What a slick rat, that one.”

“Ulrich’s the impressive one. A traditional wedding in a cathedral in this day and age, and the bride is—”

“You think the Supreme Commander would’ve approved this for no reason? It’s all a show.”

“Didn’t they say the bride’s brother isn’t attending? Honestly, it would’ve made more sense if the Supreme Commander stood next to Ulrich, and that brat walked the bride down the aisle.”

It was clear to everyone that Kryuchkov should have stood beside Ulrich, and Kiril should have accompanied Sasha in.

In many ways, this was a wedding as strange as the bride and groom pairing itself.

“General Vasily’s been left chasing shadows. Must be burning up inside.”

“If I were Ulrich, I’d be seeing some hot divorcée from the New Continent. That’s the trend in places like Brutania these days, right?”

“Hey now, saying that while leaving out our glorious comrade women will get you purged. Besides, we poor mutts might drool over that, but why would someone like Ulrich settle for a foreign divorcée? He’s got young and gorgeous virgins throwing themselves at him left and right.”

“But don’t you think Ulrich would actually get bored with virgins?”

“Bored with virgins, so he’s marrying a military prostitute?”

“Shh, watch your mouth, man—”

“Who knows? Hey, anyone here actually slept with the princess?”

At that whispered question from one officer, the rowdy guest booth fell into a sharp silence.

The fact that most of them had never even met Sasha was secondary. There was no way anyone would dare to utter lewd jokes about Ulrich’s bride.

Right then, the grand chords of the pipe organ began to resonate through the towering stained-glass ceiling.

As the doors to the ceremony hall opened, all the guests in the booth stood at once.

The bride, her hand held by the Supreme Commander’s daughter, entered—her maid of honor lifting the train of her dress.

Everyone had been ready to sneer at the grotesque sight.

But when the bride finally entered, all the booths fell silent.

Only the music filled the air, as every person stared, spellbound, at the bride.

‘That woman… is the princess?’

Unaware of the guests’ shock, Sasha walked forward one step at a time, as if half-dreaming.

The panic that had gripped her entire being paradoxically shut everything else out, scattering the anxiety that had kept her sleepless the night before.

Now, the only thing she was able to register was Ulrich standing at the front of the platform.

Ulrich, not in the black NSS uniform, but in a navy ceremonial suit.

It felt like her breath would stop.

Had she still been the old Sasha, had she not lived through the last three years, she might have thought this was fate—he looked just like he had in the fantasies of her youth.

But Sasha no longer believed in fate.

What she believed in was the possibility of misfortune—more precisely, the curse of bad luck that clung to her.

If she had remembered that, she should never have taken Ulrich’s hand.

She should have left him behind as her last untainted memory.

Not just for herself—but for him, too.

And yet, in the end, she had taken his hand.

Ulrich, having received the bride’s hand from Kryuchkov, led her up to the platform.

When he lifted the veil, the sudden wave of reality made Sasha let out a small breath.

Her pale violet eyes, like lilacs, widened like those of a startled fawn.

The bishop on the platform began reciting the wedding liturgy.

Ulrich gently took Sasha’s trembling hands in his and smiled.

A dizzying, melt-your-heart kind of smile—one so sweet it could undo your soul.

As if he truly loved his bride.

Like a prince finally reunited with his Rusalka after a long and painful journey.

‘Does he still not know?’

The bride, looking up at him with hesitation, smiled softly as well.

Like a Rusalka who, in the end, couldn’t help but surrender and grant her final kiss.

The moment the prince kissed the Rusalka, the specially permitted press photographers all pressed their shutters at once.

TL/N: “Rusalka” is a reference to Slavic folklore. A Rusalka is a mythological water spirit, often depicted as the ghost of a drowned young woman. Depending on the tradition, Rusalki (plural) can be enchanting and beautiful, luring people—especially men—with their appearance and songs, sometimes to love, other times to death by drowning.
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