Soviet of the Vampire World

Yeletsky arrived at the factory where he worked. But as soon as he entered the workshop, he spotted a man with a ​bright red armband barking orders.

Frowning, he watched the figure darting around, a terrible thought creeping into his mind—

Had his position been taken?

No. Impossible!

He shook his head violently, dismissing the idea.

Besides, this was the ​phlogiston refining workshop. No technical supervisor would waste time harassing workers instead of monitoring gas pressure gauges and pipeline valves.

This must be the new factory inspector.

He recalled rumors before his illness—workers at a neighboring factory had revolted, led by some group called "the Vics." The uprising had even drawn a ​regiment of city guards.

"Mr. Yeletsky... you're back."

A crisp voice snapped him out of his thoughts. A girl in work clothes stood beside him.

"Fima? What are you doing here?"

"Sir, the pipelines are malfunctioning. Boilers No. 4 and No. 22 are overloading. The relief valves opened, but pressure won't drop. I even connected the relief pipes from No. 7 and No. 14—nothing worked."

"No. 4, huh?"

Yeletsky stroked his chin, then issued precise orders:

"Ignore No. 22. Connect No. 4's thermal flow pipeline to the heat storage chamber to form a circulation loop. Reduce supply to other loops accordingly. Then link the steam pressure pipeline to the lower venting chamber and the exhaust pipeline to the smelting workshop's exhaust channel. Vent every 15 minutes—stop when the gauge drops below the yellow line. You can extend venting during furnace refueling."

His instructions were rapid and technical, but he had no doubt ​Fima—a veteran worker at just ​nine years old—would remember every word.

Ever since mages invented ​fire-element solidification, ​phlogiston—paired with engraved metal runes—had fueled the ​steam revolution.

These massive machines brought unprecedented productivity—but they were also ​far more complex.

Pipeline valves were often crammed into spaces too tight for adults—even most children. So factories hired ​girls aged five or six as valve operators. By ​eight or nine, they grew too tall and were forced to "retire."

Fima, malnourished and still tiny at nine, was one of the lucky few kept on.

"Oh, and Fima—be careful with the thermal flow pipe. Don't burn yourself."

Yeletsky had always pitied these ​pipeline children.

They worked the same hours as adults, crawling through dark, claustrophobic machinery—no conversation, no light.

That's why factories preferred ​girls for this job: they were ​more meticulous and ​more tolerant of isolation.

Boys, meanwhile, were sent to the ​smelting workshop—strapped with harnesses, crawling into furnaces to drag out slag or pushing coal carts through tunnels no wider than ​dog holes.

"Thank you, Mr. Yeletsky."

Fima's voice was ​cold, but not from indifference. The job had ​stripped her of warmth.

In truth, she ​liked Yeletsky—all the valve girls did.

He never yelled. When problems arose, he ​explained solutions clearly, just like now.

Thanks to his arrangements, they no longer had to scramble between machines nonstop. They even had ​moments to rest, crouching in corners, lulled by the hum of machinery.

For Fima, these were the ​happiest days since she started working.

Glancing at the red-armbanded figure in the distance, she ​quickly slipped something into Yeletsky's hand.

"Sir... we heard you were sick. We didn't know where you lived. This is from all the valve girls. We pooled our money... hope you like it."

Before he could react, the tiny veteran worker ​darted away.

Yeletsky looked down—a fountain pen.

"Perfect timing. I needed one. Thank you, Fima."

Heart swelling with hope, he strode toward the ​manager's office, straightening his coat—only to realize ​he'd misbuttoned it earlier.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Enter!"

A sharp voice.

Yeletsky stepped into the ​opulent office, lingering near the door—afraid to dirty the ​gold-trimmed velvet carpet.

Behind the desk sat ​Nikolai Brodovich Dragomirov—a ​pale, sharp-eared vampire, his employer.

"Ah, Yeletsky. Back so soon?"

"Yes, sir. I've recovered."

"You should've rested longer! No need to rush."

Yeletsky thanked him profusely, oblivious to the ​disdain flickering in Dragomirov's eyes.

"Boss, I have a design I'd like you to review."

He unfurled his blueprint. The vampire's interest ​piqued immediately—he recognized its potential.

But then his brow furrowed.

"Why is the multi-stage linkage section unfinished?"

Yeletsky explained his ​financial troubles.

A ​smirk tugged at Dragomirov's lips.

"Boss, the initial valve design alone can cut maintenance costs by ​20%—with minimal modification. The second half is a ​full减压 system for the entire workshop, which would slash costs by ​over 50% when paired with the new valve."

He leaned forward, voice urgent.

"I need money now. You can pay ​half upfront—I'll complete the rest ​for free."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Dragomirov drummed his fingers on the ​mahogany armrest, eyes narrowed in thought.

Then—silence.

He straightened, crossing his legs, hands folded over his abdomen.

His gaze ​pierced Yeletsky, ​wordless, ​unblinking.

Yeletsky's lips trembled. His eyes ​darted away.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His pulse ​hammered in his temples. Sweat ​soaked his hairline.

"Boss, I—"

Dragomirov cut him off.

"Yeletsky... don't you think your request is ​outrageous?"

"I—"

"No explanations. I don't need them."

He ​flung the blueprint onto the desk, rising to circle Yeletsky like a ​predator.

A ​bony hand clapped his shoulder.

"I know you're struggling. But running this factory isn't easy either."

"So many workers to feed. Endless banquets. Taxes."

He plucked a ​crystal decanter from a shelf, pouring ​crimson liquid into a glass—its ​rich, metallic aroma filling the air.

Sipping his ​blood martini, he sighed.

"Workers just need to ​obey. But me? I carry the ​weight of everything."

"So... your decision, boss?"

Dragomirov smiled.

"Since I ​raised you up, I can't just abandon you."

"I'll buy your design for ​20 rubles—including the unfinished portion."

Yeletsky's face fell.

"Boss, that's—"

"Too little?"

Another ​chilling grin.

"Don't worry. The rest will come as a ​salary adjustment."

"But I can't just ​raise your pay—others would riot, no?"

His solution?

Yeletsky would ​resign, then be ​rehired as ​assistant manager at a ​friend's new factory—with higher pay.

"Problem solved. You get more money. I avoid ​breaking rules."

He slid a ​prepared resignation letter across the desk.

To vampires like him, such contracts were ​meaningless scraps of paper—but useful for moments like this.

Though suspicious, Yeletsky ​needed the money.

With ​Fima's pen, he ​signed.

Before he could ask about the "new factory," a ​deafening explosion rocked the building.

"What the—?!"

Dragomirov ​snatched an umbrella and stormed toward the ​phlogiston workshop—now a ​smoldering wreck.

"Useless blood cattle! Do you know how much ​each minute of downtime costs me?!"

He ​raged, demanding answers.

Yeletsky pushed through the chaos, grabbing a worker.

"Where's Fima? Are the valve girls safe?"

No one answered.

A ​pale man in a red armband strode over, ​pointing at Yeletsky.

"You!"

"You countermanded my orders, didn't you?!"

Orders?

Yeletsky had only done his job—No. 4's relief valve had been faulty for months, but Dragomirov refused to replace it.

Before he could explain, a worker ​stepped forward, finger accusing.

"I saw him! He told the valve girls to tamper with it!"

"Lies!"

Yeletsky ​snarled.

"No. 4's issues are ​old news! I've handled it for years—I know what I'm doing!"

"And who the hell are you? I've never seen you in this workshop!"

The red-armbanded vampire ​sneered.

"He's ​my servant. Know your place, ​blood cattle."

Turning to Dragomirov, he snapped:

"Uncle, my father sent me here to ​learn, not deal with ​filthy laborers. This ​vermin ruined my arrangements—what will you do?"

The choice was ​obvious.

Dragomirov ​turned on Yeletsky, voice dripping with ​fake outrage.

"For your years of service, I'll ​graciously let you ​pay for damages with that ​worthless design of yours!"

"Plus ​37 rubles for lost production. Pay by month's end—or face the ​Holy Blood Court!"

"Now ​get out of my factory!"