Soviet of the Vampire World

The long, mournful whistle pierced the bustling night of the Old Port District—both a signal for the night shift workers to clock out and a herald of approaching dawn.

Though the vampires used the Spire to maintain thick cloud cover against their celestial enemies, the number of Spires in Sideros remained insufficient. While the residents of Wolfgrad still couldn't see the sun, the cycle of day and night was at least perceptible—unlike the Holy Land of Sylvanía, where Spires stood so densely that true eternal night reigned.

But these distant rumors held little relevance for Li Yeglin and his comrades.

At this moment, he paced anxiously inside an old tavern in the Old Port District.

"Why haven't our land route comrades arrived yet? Has something gone wrong?"

Just as he voiced his concern, the tavern door swung open. A young man in a patched coat and hood stumbled in, panting heavily.

"Yeglin, we've brought them."

"Volov, why are you alone? Where's Comrade Josef?"

Ivan Davidovich Volov wiped his brow and replied between gasps:

"Stalinski ran into trouble at the city gates. The whole cart was detained—and of course, it was the one carrying our weapons and ammunition."

A tense silence fell over the room.

"Have we been exposed?!" Old Captain Koen asked the critical question with forced calm.

"No, no." Volov shook his head vigorously, his tone easing. "Just some gate guards looking for bribes. They hadn't even inspected the cart when I got there—just extorted some coins and let us take it back."

"As for Comrade Stalinski, he's cooling his heels in the city guard's jail, accused of smuggling hazardous materials. Those bastards claimed the coal on the surface wasn't watered enough and might spontaneously combust. After we paid up, they 'graciously' sprinkled some water on it and called it a day."

Volov chuckled as he removed his cap and plopped onto a stool to rest.

With the explanation for the delay provided, the gathered revolutionaries relaxed—though no one seemed particularly worried about Stalinski's imprisonment. As Volov continued:

"Before getting arrested, Stalinski told me not to waste resources on him. Said he'd get out on his own."

Everyone present, including Yeglin, took this declaration at face value. Josef Milodovich Stalinski—deputy commander of the Leman Marsh Guerrillas—was renowned for his unyielding perseverance and ruthless methods against external threats. Having broken out of prison multiple times (once even leading fellow inmates to overthrow the guards and raid the lord's armory and granary), jail time was practically a vacation for him—an opportunity to recruit new members.

"Since Comrade Josef can't join us temporarily, let's begin the meeting," Yeglin announced as the last attendees filtered in.

"First, let us welcome our new allies—the Mud Society of Wolfgrad—and their leader, Yakov Ivanovich Nalnier!"

Amid enthusiastic applause, a short, bespectacled man with curly hair and a thick beard stepped forward. The Mud Society—primarily composed of coal burners and dockworkers—was among the weaker revolutionary factions in Wolfgrad, yet they were also the most receptive to Yeglin's rural-focused theories.

Most attendees came from the city's absolute bottom—peasants who'd migrated to the metropolis out of desperation. While intellectuals and urbanites dismissed Yeglin's ideas, these men recognized their foresight and potential firsthand.

However, the current situation in Wolfgrad was dire. As Comrade Nalnier explained:

"Right before you arrived yesterday, the United Front sent word demanding all factions abandon armed struggle—and ordered us to surrender our guns to the inspection teams within two weeks!"

"What?! Have they gone mad? Calling for this on the eve of uprising?!"

The room erupted before Nalnier could finish. Though most Leman Marsh guerrillas had distrusted this so-called United Front from the beginning, none expected such a betrayal at the critical moment.

"Comrade Nalnier, what happened? Was it the Psheviks again?"

"Yes, damn them!"

Nalnier slammed his cap onto the table and slumped onto a barstool, cursing vehemently.

"Kashrov, that Pshevik leader, got nominated for city council. Now that he's got a whiff of officialdom, he's telling us to stand down—claims he can improve working conditions in the lower districts and mediate between workers and factory owners once elected!"

The tavern buzzed with disbelief. Some newer Mud Society members initially found the proposition reasonable, but the seasoned guerrillas only laughed.

"What can one councilor achieve? There are hundreds of them—if others oppose, his promises mean nothing!"

"Exactly! And he's just a candidate—no guarantee he'll even win!"

From fresh-faced youths to grizzled veterans, the guerrillas displayed remarkable political acumen—stunning Nalnier, who hadn't immediately grasped the implications himself. Many Mud Society brothers still clung to Kashrov's empty promises.