Soviet of the Vampire World

The night was thick, the sky shrouded in a dense curtain of mist that blotted out even the faintest glimmer of celestial light—not even the Blood Moon, the pride of the vampires, was permitted to shine upon the world.

"Praise the Holy Ancestor—Night, Immortality, Blood.

Praise the Holy King—Wisdom, Courage, Fortitude.

...

Praise the Veil, which shields us from the Evil Eye.

Praise the Empire—may the Holy Blood's glory endure forever."

The hymn echoed as the procession advanced. The ​blood-red holy cross stood tall, its ornate carriage carrying the ​purest innocence through the narrowest alleys.

The melody of the Mass was solemn and reverent, every note converging into a final, sacred proclamation:

"Exalt us, for the Holy Blood shall bestow mercy!"

The leading bishop suddenly raised his hand, halting the procession. His ​clouded white eyes scanned the darkness, his voice hoarse as he spoke:

"I sense a man drowning in despair... Ah, and within that despair, there is still such fierce love."

"Stop. Let us wait for this poor soul."

Sobbing, Yeletsky stumbled from his home, clutching his child to his chest.

He walked from ​Fisherman's Lane to ​Zhadov Boulevard, then ran through the entirety of ​Blackwater Alley, following the hymn until he found the ​Communion carriage on ​Fragrant Mist Street.

The cold night wind had long dried his tears—only his ​reddened eyes bore witness to the torment within.

"P-please... is this the Communion carriage?"

Even now, he couldn't bring himself to say why he had come. He ​cradled his son protectively, turning slightly to shield him from the wind.

"This is indeed the Communion carriage, lost lamb. Step forward."

Bishop ​Lindentein, a ​pureblood vampire elder, towered before him—his ​tall blood-cross mitre and ​black-and-red robes marking his rank.

Yet, even to a ​lowly blood slave, he showed the ​mercy befitting a priest.

"May the Holy Blood bless you, lost lamb."

"Now, let me see your child."

This was no ​diluted half-blood like Factory Director Dragomirov.

This was a ​true Holy Blood noble—his very presence sent ​primal terror coursing through Yeletsky's veins.

Trembling, Yeletsky ​couldn't lift his head, afraid his haggard face would offend.

"Ah... a lovely child."

The bishop gently pulled back the swaddling cloth, then—with a ​long, sharp fingernail—drew a thin cut on the infant's arm.

The baby ​wailed in pain, but Yeletsky ​could do nothing.

He ​clenched his teeth, forcing himself to ignore the cries, his vision blurring.

The bishop ​licked the blood from his nail, savoring the taste.

"One month old. Healthy. Excellent Communion."

"Bring him forward."

Yeletsky was ​dragged before the bishop, who ​cut his arm as well—though the wound ​healed almost instantly.

But when the bishop tasted ​Yeletsky's blood, his face ​twisted in displeasure.

Yet he ​did not spit it out.

"You are indeed the father. Not one of those ​filthy frauds who seek to mock the Holy Blood's mercy."

"Speak. What do you desire?"

Yeletsky had ​no turning back now.

His voice shook as he fought to steady it.

"M-money, my lord. I need money... for exemption certificates... I need..."

He ​couldn't look at his child, his words dissolving into a ​pleading whisper:

"...I need the Holy Blood's mercy."

The baby in the bishop's arms ​began crying again, and Yeletsky's tears ​fell freely, splashing against the cobblestones—shattering the last of his resolve.

"Hush now, little one. La la la..."

Bishop Lindentein ​rocked the child gently, far more skilled than Yeletsky had ever been. Soon, the cries turned to ​giggles.

"What an ​unfit father you are. Look how thin he is."

The bishop ​tutted, still swaying.

"Lucky you brought him now. A month later, he might have ​starved to death."

The baby ​drifted to sleep, his peaceful face softening even the vampire's cold heart.

As the bishop turned toward the ​luxurious Communion carriage, ready to tuck the child into a ​soft, warm crib, Yeletsky ​suddenly shouted:

"MY LORD!"

Tears streaming, he stared at his son—one last spark of defiance flaring in his chest.

"Please... let me see him... one last time..."

"IMPUDENT!"

The ​Holy Blood guards ​slammed him to the ground, a boot pressing on his neck—ready to punish the ​insolent blood slave.

But Lindentein ​stopped them.

"The Holy Blood is merciful. Release the poor lamb."

He carried the child back, placing him in Yeletsky's arms.

"Th-thank you... thank you for your mercy..."

Yeletsky ​wept uncontrollably, gazing at his son.

His ​shaking hand hovered, unable to bring itself to touch the baby's face.

"I'm sorry... my child... I'm so sorry..."

The old bishop sighed.

"Once, when my heart still beat... I, too, was a father. I know how hard this is."

"Kiss him. A final farewell."

Yeletsky ​pressed his lips to the baby's forehead—but his ​stubble ​scratched the child awake, provoking fresh wails.

Only when returned to the bishop's arms did the baby ​calm again.

And just like that—his child was gone, carried into the ​Communion carriage, where ​dozens of identical swaddled bundles lay.

There, the children would have ​warmer beds, ​better food, ​more care...

...and, soon enough, a ​far crueler fate.

"By the laws of the Holy Blood, this is yours."

The bishop handed Yeletsky a ​heavy pouch of rubles, along with ​two small cards.

"And these... are my personal gift. Fathers like you, who still love their children... are rare these days. May this aid you."

"I hope we meet next at the Holy Mass... and not here."

"Farewell, child..."

As the ​Communion carriage rolled away, the hymn fading into the distance, Yeletsky ​finally looked at the bishop's gift.

Two six-month blood tax exemption certificates.

Just as the bishop had said—this would save him.

Now, the ​blood tax was resolved.

The ​money for Agnessa's treatment was secured.

The ​factory's compensation was no longer an issue.

And there was even ​enough left to live ​a slightly better life.

But Yeletsky ​felt no joy.

Because he had ​just condemned his own child to hell.