Soviet of the Vampire World

Old Koen was advanced in years, but his story wasn't particularly long. Or perhaps all the bitterness had been condensed into these few words, with the rest being nothing but the dried-up tears of the poor.

In his youth, he'd been one of the best fishermen in the region—bold and skilled enough to venture out to sea alone in a small boat.

With three parts courage, three parts skill, and ninety-four parts sheer luck, he always managed to bring back catches that were scarce in the shallower waters.

"In my day, the Spire wasn't fully built yet," Koen reminisced, his voice thick with nostalgia. "If you sailed far enough out, you could still see the sun."

He'd never forget the sight of golden sunlight spilling across the endless waves.

"Shame you youngsters'll never see it. If I hadn't risked sailing beyond the fog myself, I'd never have believed the old folks' tales either."

Back then, his daring and skill had earned him land, a house, a wife, and two chubby-cheeked children by the time he turned thirty.

But that peaceful life didn't last.

One fishing trip went wrong—whether he'd hooked a giant fish or some sea monster, none of his harpoons made a difference. They only angered the creature.

Though Koen made it back alive, his boat was wrecked.

Medical bills drained the family's savings. Then, like vultures, the vampire lord's lackeys swooped in.

They didn't care about his unauthorized voyages. Their charge was "spreading heretical teachings."

What heresy?

His stories about the sun, of course.

When young Koen protested, they broke his leg and threw him in jail.

By the time his wife scraped together the bail, their home and land were gone. The family became beggars living under others' roofs.

If the thugs had shattered Koen's right leg, beggary broke his spirit.

Hopelessness drove him to drink. Even when the pantry was bare, he'd scrounge coins for liquor.

"My eldest was gathering firewood when local toughs beat him to death," Koen rasped, blinking rapidly. "The steward ruled it an accident—ordered them to pay blood money."

Yeletsky, who'd been staring blankly, now listened intently.

"What did I do? Bought fine liquor with the coins. Dragged little Ivan's corpse home dead drunk."

"My girl was 'lucky'—chosen to work at the lord's manor." Koen's laugh was bitter. "Whether she actually worked or... well, I didn't care. Just counted how many bottles her 'wages' would buy."

He exhaled sharply. "Even when my wife lay dying, I couldn't put down the bottle."

"Knew I was worthless. But what could I do? Didn't even own my own life—how could I help them?"

His calloused hand gripped Yeletsky's shoulder.

"That's why I admire you, lad."

Tears glimmered in the old man's eyes as he forced a ghastly smile.

"Compared to this drunkard, you were a proper husband!"

...

Perhaps Koen's story offered some solace—Yeletsky's situation suddenly seemed less dire. At least he and Agnessa had parted better than this.

"What... what happened after?" Yeletsky's voice was hoarse.

The captain chuckled. "Eh? My misery entertains you?"

"Luka! Quit eavesdropping—bring the soup!"

The apprentice, also hearing this history for the first time, had completely forgotten the fish stew. By the time he served it, the broth had reduced to glue.

One thumb-sized fish floated in half a bowl of water. Yeletsky accepted the steaming bowl gingerly.

"Up you get. Cold floors don't suit storytelling."

In the warmer engine room—despite the phlogiston pipes' leaks—Koen stretched his legs against the bulkhead and continued.

"Got older. Begging got harder. Eventually, numbness outweighed fear—joined the corpse-fishers."

As Koen spoke, Yeletsky learned about this grim profession.

Corpse-fishers always needed hands. Even in a land where vampires left bodies strewn everywhere, the work stayed dangerous.

Disease was common. But the real threat were the Plagueborn.

These abominations resulted from vampires breaking feeding protocols.

Under Sylvania's laws, every living subject paid monthly blood tithes—100 milliliters per heartbeat. While preservation spells kept this "bread" fresh, certain nobles preferred... direct dining.

Some discovered that injecting a trace of their own blood first made the vintage more intoxicating.

This pseudo-Embrace became a fad among young aristocrats.

But problems arose when a vampire grew full mid-meal. What became of the half-turned leftovers?

Officially, all "breadcrumbs" required Purification—a euphemism for execution, preventing rogue bloodlines from overpopulating.

None anticipated nobles treating the sacred Embrace as a condiment.

The botched transformations created monsters—not vampires, but ravenous beasts enslaved to thirst.