Soviet of the Vampire World

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Two hours later, the doctor set down his stethoscope and spoke emotionlessly:

"Your wife isn't in critical condition. She just fainted from anemia. But her blood..."

He paused, frowning slightly.

"Did she pay her blood tax at ​Bevik Street?"

Yeletsky wasn't sure. He strained his memory before recalling:

"I think she mentioned going there last week—it was cheaper. Doctor, is there something wrong with that tax station?"

His voice grew urgent.

The doctor shook his head as he packed his instruments.

"No, no, the Holy Race's tax stations are ​flawless. It's just... I've heard some of the collectors there are... ​less disciplined. Your wife's condition is likely because of that."

"Then what should I do?"

"A blood transfusion."

The answer stunned Yeletsky.

The doctor quickly added:

"She's lost ​too much blood. Without replenishment, she might not make it."

"And..."

He hesitated again, choosing his words carefully.

"Her blood type is ​rare. She'll need ​a lot, and it won't be cheap."

To Yeletsky, ​money was nothing compared to Agnessa's life.

But one thing confused him—wasn't she Type O?

"That's just a ​simplified classification for laymen. The real system is ​far more complex."

The doctor didn't elaborate.

Packing his things, he grabbed his kerosene lamp and stepped out. Yeletsky followed.

"The consultation fee is ​8 rubles. I'll waive the change. How will you pay?"

At the mention of money, Yeletsky's face ​twisted in despair.

He ​searched every pocket, but found ​not a single coin.

The only thing of value was the ​fountain pen Fima had given him.

In the dim lamplight, the ​brass clip gleamed, revealing a tiny engraved script:

Hofmann.

A ​Hofmann pen—a luxury brand from the ​Duchy of Grosenia.

Even the cheapest model ​cost at least 5 rubles.

For the ​valve girls, this was ​months of savings.

The more Yeletsky realized this, the ​harder it became to part with it.

"A word of advice—without the original box, this won't fetch much."

The doctor, a gaunt man, spoke kindly.

In this vampire-ruled world, ​doctors were undervalued. Many dabbled in ​shady dealings just to survive.

"Doctor... would you take ​drafting equipment and books instead?"

With a heavy heart, Yeletsky ​put the pen back in his pocket.

He knew he'd ​regret this, but he ​had no choice.

"Depends on what you have. Show me."

Yeletsky ​gently closed the bedroom door and led the doctor to his ​study.

His ​books, blueprints, and certificates—once his ​pride—were now ​appraised like junk.

"'Valves, Machinery & Piping,' 'Phlogiston Equipment Maintenance,' 'Principles of Pneumatics,' 'Alchemical Runes Deciphered,' 'Advanced Mechanics,' 'Mathematical Applications in Mechanical Structures'..."

The doctor ​recited the titles, but his expression remained ​unimpressed.

"Sir, I must warn you—these books ​won't sell well in the lower district. No one pays for things they can't understand. But ​this..."

He patted the ​old drafting board.

"This might be worth ​2 rubles."

That left a ​6-ruble gap.

Seeing Yeletsky's desperation, the doctor pulled out ​one certificate from the pile.

"This ​Advanced Mechanical Engineer certification is in demand. Would you consider selling it to someone... ​more in need?"

"Wait—don't answer yet. Let me explain the options."

According to the doctor, such certificates were ​highly sought after in the lower district.

A basic one ​started at 4 rubles.

But Yeletsky's was ​advanced—priceless in the right hands.

He offered ​two choices:

​10 rubles upfront—the doctor would ​bear the risk of resale. ​Consignment—the doctor would find a buyer, and they'd ​split the profit 70-30.

In theory, the ​second option was more lucrative.

But with the ​blood tax collectors arriving at midnight, Yeletsky ​had no time to wait.

"Pleasure doing business."

The doctor ​handed over the cash without hesitation, unfazed by Yeletsky's frail frame.

Effortlessly lifting the ​heavy drafting board, he strode to the door.

Before leaving, he added:

"Stay close to your wife these days. And keep an eye on your child—I was the one who changed his diaper, by the way."

The doctor was gone.

But Yeletsky was ​more lost than ever.

He had ​sold his only proof of expertise.

After deducting the ​8-ruble fee, he was left with ​4 rubles—enough to ​scrape by for a few months.

But...

"Why does it have to be ​tonight...?"

Tears welled in his eyes as he stared at the ​closed door.

He knew their ​troubles were far from over.

Taking a deep breath, he ​steeled himself and pushed open the bedroom door.

"Alyosha... believe me. I'll... I'll..."

Holding Agnessa's ​cold hand, seeing her ​pale face, his voice ​broke.

Even the ​proud, resourceful Yeletsky had ​run out of solutions.

6 rubles.

A sum so small, yet it ​crushed this family.

And it wasn't just the ​blood tax.

The doctor had said Agnessa needed a ​major transfusion—another ​huge expense.

But what else could Yeletsky sell?

The ​house? Too slow—no buyer would come in time.

His ​own blood? The Holy Race ​wouldn't touch a sick man's blood.

That left only ​one option...

The cruelest choice.

Trembling, he ​staggered to the crib, looking down at his ​one-month-old son.

His vision ​blurred.

Tears ​fell silently.

Yeletsky stood there, ​silent...

...waiting for his heart to ​harden.