Soviet of the Vampire World

(Author's Note: This is a prologue volume—a short story introducing the worldbuilding. It has some connection to the main plot but isn't crucial. Enjoy!)

Year 1288 of the Holy Blood Calendar — Governorate of Bryak, Wolfgrad.

A city at the mouth of the Gordon River. For its residents, dawn and dusk make no difference—the sky is forever shrouded in gloom.

If one were to look up, they'd see nothing but oppressive gray. Look down, and their feet would sink into the mud. But gaze into the distance, and no matter the hour, the smokestacks of the old harbor district's factories would be belching thick black fumes into the air.

These chimneys stood like lazy sentinels, guarding the towering spire at the city's heart—a structure so massive it pierced the suffocating heavens.

The newspapers proclaimed:

"The Spire is the pinnacle of the Holy Race's technology and magic. It shields us from the corruption of the evil Celestial Eye. It symbolizes the Sylvania Empire's supreme authority and benevolence."

Grand words, indeed. For the poorest, the Spire's ​authority was visible every time they lifted their heads.

But its ​benevolence? That never stepped beyond the five-inch width of the newspaper.

"And I heard from a relative who follows a heretical cult—that 'evil eye' is actually called the ​Sun, a cursed thing summoned by dark gods to slaughter the Holy Race. Only those who worship it are spared its burning gaze."

"Really? That terrifying?!"

"Of course! You know where I live. My neighbor, Gloyev, joined some 'Red' organization—always shouting about taking up arms against the Holy Race."

"By the gods! Rebelling against the Holy Race? Doesn't the city guard do anything?"

"Do what? When was the last time those 'honorable' guards stepped foot in our Crow's Alley?"

The morning market teemed with all sorts of people—and all sorts of rumors.

Aleksei Ivanovich Yeletsky shook his head and quickened his pace. He wanted no part in such dangerous talk. He had to hurry home to his sick wife.

"Cough… cough…"

A sudden fit of coughing weakened his legs. After two steps, dizziness surged through his skull. A cold gust of wind snapped him back to reality, his vision swimming with golden sparks.

"Shoeshine! Shiny leather shoes, two kopecks!"

"Sir, need a polish?"

At the street corner near his home, a small figure darted in front of him. A child.

The boy carried a folding stool taller than himself, a tattered canvas bag slung over his shoulder—so low it nearly dragged on the ground.

"Sir, I've got Dukis brand polish. Two kopecks, and your shoes will shine like new!"

The boy carefully opened a small tin of polish, his red, frozen fingers clutching it tightly—afraid it might be snatched away, yet terrified of crushing it.

"Sir… are you alright?"

Seeing Aleksei's dazed expression, the boy timidly asked.

Snapping back, Aleksei shook his head.

"No, I'm fine. Thank you."

He waved off the boy's offer of help and took a step back. Who knew how many of these street kids had sticky fingers?

But seeing the boy's frostbitten cheeks and ragged clothes, Aleksei's heart softened.

"The city guard will start patrols soon. There's one living on this street—you'd better hide before they catch you."

With that, he tucked the food he'd bought under his coat and hurried home.

"Alyosha, I'm back."

Exhausted, Aleksei noticed the door to the second-floor study was open.

"Alyosha, you should be in bed! Why are you up?"

His wife, ​Agnessa Andreyevna Yeletskaya, smiled weakly.

"You were working late last night. I knew you wouldn't have tidied up, so I…"

"That's nothing. I can handle it. You should— ​cough cough —"

He turned away, covering his mouth, not wanting to infect his wife and child.

"Aleksei, my love, what's wrong?"

Agnessa, holding their baby, rushed to his side.

"Gods, you're still sick! You shouldn't have gone to the market—you need rest!"

"No, Alyosha, ​you're the one who needs rest."

Gritting his teeth, Aleksei helped his frail wife back to bed and placed the loaf of black bread on the side table.

"Damn it… even black bread costs 57 kopecks now. A factory worker's daily wage can't even buy a pound. Those profiteers… ​cough ..."

Another coughing fit cut him off.

"If not for this damned illness, I wouldn't have— ​cough —"

The cold wind had worsened his condition. His lungs refused to settle.

Agnessa laid the baby in the crib and sat beside her husband, gently rubbing his back. When the coughing subsided, she pulled him into her arms.

"Aleksei, I know… you're the best. No one else could rise from a lowly welder to department head. No one else could outshine those bookish fools with self-taught skills."

"And…"

"No one else, even after climbing to the edge of high society, would still remember our childhood promise."

Her shy words were a soothing balm. Aleksei's coughing eased as he rested his head on her lap.

"Believe me, Aleksei… we'll get through this."

"With me, with you, with our child… our family will endure."

Her raspy voice, like the waves of the Gordon River, carried no grandeur—only the quiet strength to push forward.

By the next day, Aleksei's condition had improved. But Agnessa's health had plummeted.

"It's my fault… If I'd saved more money, or if we hadn't rushed to buy this house… you wouldn't have had to pay ​both our blood taxes while I was sick."

Tears welled in Aleksei's eyes as he knelt by the bed. Agnessa only smiled.

"Trust me, I'll find a way to get the money."

His words tumbled out in a rush.

"My cousin owes us 12 rubles—I'll collect it."

"But that's not enough. A monthly ​blood exemption certificate costs 10 rubles now. We'll need two."

"Damn those nobles! Just because I was sick, they think my blood is tainted!"

Pacing the room, he suddenly stopped.

"My design!"

"It's not finished, but I swear—this could cut ​phlogiston pipeline maintenance costs by half!"

"Alyosha, if I can sell this, we'll have enough!"

His confidence lifted Agnessa's spirits—until her smile froze on her pale face.

"Alyosha… what's wrong?"

"Aleksei, I…"

Her hesitation filled him with dread. He pulled her close.

"It's okay. I'm here. Don't be afraid."

His warmth shattered her composure. She sobbed.

"Forgive me, Aleksei… I couldn't endure the last blood tax. The collectors… they're coming tomorrow."

"How long?"

"..."

Agnessa whispered in despair:

"Tomorrow."

Aleksei fell silent. The air thickened like gelatin, each breath a struggle.

Thump… thump… thump…

Only the steady beat of his heart against her ear kept her from breaking completely.

"Aleksei, what are you—?"

"I'm going to the factory!"

"I'll sell the half-finished design. The boss can pay half now—I'll complete it later!"

Fumbling into his green wool coat (not noticing a misbuttoned clasp), he wrapped his scarf hastily.

"Half payment for a brilliant design—he'll agree!"

"But he hasn't visited once since you fell ill. Do you really think…?"

Aleksei forced a confident smile.

"He's one of the Holy Race. It's beneath him to visit ​blood cattle like us."

"But he hasn't fired me, even after all this time. That means he remembers my worth."

"Wait for my good news, Alyosha!"

Kissing her forehead, he strode out—clutching his rolled-up blueprints.

The streets were eerily quiet for daytime.

At the corner, a patrol of city guards stopped him.

"Halt! Identify yourself!"

"I'm an engineer at the Dragomirov Phlogiston Plant. Delivering designs."

They inspected his work pass, eyed the blueprints, and let him go with a warning.

"Next time, leave earlier. Don't waste our time!"

Nodding apologetically, Aleksei hurried to the tram station—just in time to board.

At this hour, the tram was empty. No need to fight for space like the morning rush.

Leaning against the cold metal, he felt every jolt of the tracks. Through the grimy window, the world outside blurred into gray.

"Old Harbor District. Next stop."

The raspy voice of the elderly conductor snapped him back.

Stepping off, Aleksei coughed—not from illness, but from the coal-choked air.

Here, every breath was like swallowing flour.

Hugging the walls of narrow alleys, he prayed no cargo carts would force him into the open.

Then—darkness. A shadow loomed overhead.

A Helvetian airship droned propaganda:

"Work hard for your family. Donate blood for the Holy Race's glory."

Its mechanical roar was the voice of a slow, monstrous giant—patrolling its domain.

And beneath its shadow, the people struggled on…