Soviet of the Vampire World

"Though the Holy Blood Church strictly forbids such acts, lawless vampires are everywhere. The Church can only monitor official venues—in the shadows, this happens all the time."

Old Koen clearly knew much about the Holy Blood nobles, enlightening even city-bred Yeletsky.

"So they dump the victims in the river to avoid detection?" Yeletsky guessed.

Koen nodded approvingly. "Quicker on the uptake than my apprentice. Exactly."

"But true Plagueborn we fish up are rare—mostly corpses or half-dead wretches."

The captain reflexively reached for his pipe, then paused and pocketed it.

"Dead ones are simple—bury or toss back. The half-alive are trouble."

"After vampire 'hospitality,' they don't last. And might turn upon dying."

"They gave me this job because I was already half in the grave."

His trainer got eaten by a Plagueborn within a month—found with half his face missing.

New recruits came yearly, none surviving beyond two years. Only Koen, seemingly blessed, dodged every attack, setting longevity records.

Until five years ago, when he netted a black-haired, black-eyed foreigner.

"Master, that was Yeglin, right?!"

Apprentice Luka's interruption drew no reprimand this time.

"Aye, that was Yeglin. Fished him up wearing nothing but his smallclothes."

Koen's melancholy evaporated, eyes brightening.

"Fancy smallclothes too—smoother than any river rat's shirt!"

"I thought him a goner. Yet he lived—miraculously!"

"And Yeglin... he was different."

The old man straightened proudly.

"In those days, only hopeless wrethes took corpse-fishing."

"But Yeglin..."

Unnoticed by himself, Koen's lips curled upward, his voice shedding decades.

"He was fire!"

"Fire no wind could extinguish, no rain could quench!"

"Even this waterlogged old log caught flame! Then he set the stinking Leman Marshes ablaze!"

The captain stood, gripping Yeletsky's shoulders solemnly.

"Answer me, son—any family left?"

Yeletsky shook his lowered head.

"Anyone you care about?"

Another silent negation.

...

Koen's final question came softly:

"Son... do you want to go back?"

"No." Yeletsky looked up, bitter smile twisting his lips. "What's there? Debts to that bastard Dragomirov?"

The captain laughed heartily at this answer.

"Then come with us!"

Yeletsky couldn't refuse his saviors—yet something puzzled him.

He still didn't understand their true purpose.

Though Luka called them corpse-fishers, their conversations and current docking suggested deeper currents.

And who was this Yeglin who inspired such fervor?

Yeletsky had never seen anyone electrify downtrodden folk so.

He envied their blazing spirit—especially Koen's transformation under Yeglin's influence.

Such expressions, such defiance—unthinkable for blood cattle. Yet they mesmerized him with... urgent longing.

"Curious lad, aren't you?"

Koen adjusted his patched cap, taking the empty bowl.

In the dim light, his stooped silhouette radiate fatherly safety; his gravelly voice evoked Yeletsky's long-dead sire.

"Truth is, if not for urgent business, we'd take you to base first."

"Our mission might shock you, but as Yeglin says—our cause is just, our path is bright! No need for secrecy!"

"So I'll say it plain—we're rebels."

The admission stunned Yeletsky. Rebellion meant death. And given Koen's scathing "vampire" and "bloodsucking scum" remarks—this wasn't petty dissent, but full revolt against the Holy Blood!

Raised on loyalty to the sanguine nobility, Yeletsky's initial reaction was terror—then unexpected calm.

Having lost everything, he found himself... unafraid.

Koen watched the emotions play across his face before resuming his tale.

"As I said—I was garbage. Failed as father and husband. The whole town laughed when I staggered drunk through the streets."

Now he smiled faintly at the memory.

"But one man never mocked me. He said..."

"...'None of this was your fault!'"

The growl rumbled like an engine igniting, stoking long-banked fury.

"Yeglin asked me—without the failed voyage, without the thugs' extortion, without the wrongful imprisonment—would I have become this drunkard?!"

"Did I choose this wretchedness?!"

"Did I want this life?!"

"No! I was forced into it!"

The outburst mirrored Yeletsky's sudden realization—his tragedies weren't self-inflicted either!

The blood taxes, the robbers, Dragomirov—they'd orchestrated his ruin!

"Like Yeglin says—poverty isn't our birthright! No babe enters the world destined for suffering!"

Koen's words struck Yeletsky's raw nerves.

"If vampires and their lackeys deny us survival, we'll make their lives hell too!"

"So, son..."

The captain extended his scarred, calloused hand.

"Will you help us smash this cannibal society?!"