The next morning, I woke up and immediately assessed the scale of the tragedy. The amount of manure my golems had cleared from the barns was... impressive.

  I sighed and opened the book I’d confiscated from the Demon of Poverty—Farming for Dummies.

  — "Alright, let's see... Compost. Mix grass, weeds, kitchen waste... And how long does this take to sit? Three to six months?!"

  I flipped the page.

  — "Humus. Mix manure with straw, stack in mounds... Maturity time: three to six months."

  I closed the book and looked up at the sun.

  — "Why is everything in this world so slow? Six months just for a pile of fertilizer?"

  Nevertheless, I ordered the golems to follow the instructions. Dig massive pits, throw branches at the bottom for "ventilation" (that’s what the book said, don't ask me), and layer the manure and grass. It was a tedious process; you even have to stir the whole thing once a month so it doesn't turn sour.

  "With this approach," I thought, "the harvest will be modest. And I don't like the word 'modest.' I like the word 'massive'."

  I haven't lived this long for nothing. Theoretically, I should be able to solve these problems. I walked over to the field where my five-meter-tall golems were methodically turning the earth into perfect velvet. I picked a random, scrawny little flower, knelt beside it, and poured in a tiny dose of mana. Just a smidge. Just a nudge.

  The flower didn’t disappoint. It began to grow with the sound of tearing fabric.

  Higher, wider, thicker... A second later, a three-meter-tall nightmare towered over me, complete with tooth-filled petals, poisonous spikes, and a clearly carnivorous gaze. A predator plant. It immediately tried to take a taste of my sleeve.

  — "Right. An error," I concluded.

  With one motion, I ripped the thing out by its roots and incinerated it mid-air.

  I see. Sitting around trying to calculate the perfect proportions for plant growth was far too much effort. I looked at the massive piles of manure.

  — "Fine," I muttered. "If I can’t speed up the plant, I’ll speed up the rot."

  Actually, forget it. I decided to give up on agronomy. I’m a lousy farmer anyway.

  Though, truthfully, it was driving me insane. I could have solved all this land's problems with a snap of my fingers: turn the manure into gold and the weeds into premium wheat. Но after that incident with the volcano, I was wary. One reckless movement of mana, and instead of potatoes, I’d have another active lava-spewing mountain growing here.

  — "Whatever," I grumbled. "Let the golems toil; they’re used to it."

  I walked over to the cellar—a small mound with a massive door that guarded a blessed chill. I looked at the empty shelves.

  — "So, where’s the nearest place to trade?"

  I returned to the house to find the Demon of Poverty and the Demon of War deep in some debate of their own.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  — "Hey," I unceremoniously cut into their conversation. "Where’s the city? You know, the kind that isn't a hundred miles away, where I can sell something and buy some salt?"

  — "Twelve miles that way," Poverty waved a hand without even looking at me. "Safe travels."

  They continued their argument. I was just about to go and saddle a horse when the silence of the yard was shattered by a loud, demanding neigh.

  We all turned toward the door in sync.

  Standing on the threshold was a man. Clad entirely in black: a long, heavy coat and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his eyes. His clothes were so thick and buttoned-up it seemed as if a walking wardrobe was hiding underneath rather than a man.

  He surveyed us with a sharp, calculating gaze and stepped forward with confidence.

  — "My name is Shor Nois," he said in a flat, emotionless voice. "I am the official tax collector for these lands. I have been informed that the estate has a new owner."

  He extended his hand to the Demon of Poverty for a handshake. Poverty looked at the collector's palm and didn't budge. He didn't take the hand.

  Shor Nois wasn't at all flustered. He adjusted his glove and added: — "Very well. Perhaps you would offer a traveler some tea? We could discuss the details of your... ahem... new status in a more relaxed setting."

  We let him into the house. Shor walked in as confidently as if he’d been there before—he sat in an armchair without even glancing around. The Demon of War, grumbling something about "arrogant humans," set about brewing tea.

  Judging by the sounds coming from the kitchen, her brewing was more like an experiment in poison creation. A few minutes later, she slammed a cup of some inky-black sludge down in front of our guest. The smell was as if every flower in the local forest had been shredded into boiling water along with their roots and a couple of dead bees. It was physically impossible to drink.

  The tax collector sniffed it. A barely perceptible, polite smile touched his face. He looked at the cup, then at us. Apparently, this guy had seen things far scarier than demonic tea.

  — "An interesting blend," he murmured, in no hurry to take a sip. "The current owners have a... very specific palate."

  The dialogue at the table followed a very strange script. It felt like an interrogation where the investigator wasn't entirely sure who he was catching.

  — "Where did you come from?" Shor Nois asked, twirling the cup of undrinkable tea.

  — "Not important," the Demon of Poverty snapped.

  Shor narrowed his eyes, sweeping us with a heavy, scanning gaze. — "I see. You have a... curious company here. Are you even a family?"

  Poverty hesitated, frantically trying to remember what Farming for Dummies said about such cases. — "This little brat..." he pointed in my direction, "is her nephew. And this lady..."

  He looked suspiciously at the Demon of War. She didn't even blink; she simply stated: — "I’m his wife. My husband is just a bit slow; he hasn't quite recovered since the war. He’s a bit of a dimwit at times."

  Poverty choked on air, but he didn't dare argue. She made it sound far too natural.

  — "I see, I see..." Shor nodded.

  I was tired of beating around the bush. This guy stood out way too much.

  — "Listen," I leaned forward suddenly. "I thought you all went extinct ages ago. At least, that’s what my last records said. How did you survive?"

  Nois froze. His polite mask flickered. — "Whatever do you mean, young man?"

  — "Why are you playing games?" I leaned back on the sofa. "You’re a vampire. Or what’s left of them."

  Nois slowly bared his teeth. Long, sharp fangs glinted under his upper lip. The room suddenly felt a lot cozier.

  — "Well," I muttered. "How fun. So many bloodsuckers in one place."

  — "And I know who you are," Shor Nois said, placing the cup on the table. "I remember the legends about you from my very childhood. And when I grew up, I saw you in the flesh."

  He paused for a moment, and a shadow of very old pain flickered in his eyes. — "I watched my parents get slaughtered before my eyes. Vampires just like me."

  He looked me straight in the eyes—the ones that were now completely human. — "Arkgrim."

  "Arkgrim," then. Another name for my collection.

  — "Yes," Shor continued. "I am nearly the last one who still retains the essence of a vampire. The others devolved long ago. They lost their strength, became ordinary humans, blended into the crowd. They became nobodies."

  — "But not you," I noted.

  — "Not me," he gave a bitter laugh. "But don't worry, I don't hold a grudge for my parents. My old man and lady were total bastards, truth be told. The world is probably cleaner without them. But here’s the weird part... I’m six hundred years old. For a pureblood vampire, that’s the prime of life, yet I am aging rapidly. I look over forty; my body is wearing out. But you, Arkgrim... you haven't changed a bit. You're still the same teenager you were hundreds of years ago."

  I looked at my palms. — "Don't call me that. Right now, I'm Greg."