Chapter 533: A Night Watcher’s Tale

I’m a loser. Sunshine or rain, I hardly notice anymore—there’s just no time to care.

My parents can’t support me, I don’t have much education, and I’m alone in the city chasing some kind of future.

I’ve applied for all sorts of jobs, but no one’s hired me. Maybe nobody likes someone who’s awkward with words, doesn’t enjoy small talk, and doesn’t seem to have much skill.

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For three days straight, I survived on just two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. Lucky for me, I’d already paid a month’s rent so I could keep living in that dark basement, far from the winter cold outside.

Finally, I landed a job—night watch at the hospital. My duty? Watching over the morgue.

The hospital felt even colder at night than I’d imagined. The corridor lamps weren’t lit, so everything was dim. Only the faint glow leaking from nearby rooms let me see where I stepped.

The smell was terrible. Every so often, someone would bring in another body sealed tight in a bag, and we’d help carry it into the morgue.

It wasn’t a great job, but at least I could afford bread. Plus, the quiet nights meant time to study—though I didn’t have money for books, nor could I see myself saving enough for them anytime soon.

I should thank my predecessor; if he hadn’t quit so suddenly, I probably wouldn’t have gotten even this job.

Sometimes, I dream of working days instead. As it is, I always sleep with the sunrise and rise after dark. It’s worn down my body and sometimes my head throbs.

One day, a workman delivered a new corpse.

Rumor had it, this was my predecessor—the one who quit without warning.

Curious, I waited until everyone left, pulled open the drawer, and quietly unzipped the body bag.

It was an old man—skin was deathly pale with a bluish tint and wrinkled all over. In that dim light, he looked truly horrifying.

His hair was thin and almost entirely white. He’d been stripped bare, not a scrap of clothing left.

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On his chest, I saw a strange mark—a bruise-black symbol. I couldn’t really tell the shape; the lighting was too dim.

I reached out and touched the mark; nothing happened. It was unremarkable.

Looking at my late coworker, I wondered: if I kept going like this, would I end up just like him?

I told him, tomorrow I’d take him to the crematorium myself and bring his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. Otherwise, the guys in charge might just dump him in a random river or wasteland.

That meant giving up a morning’s sleep, but with Sunday coming up, I could catch up then.

After I said that, I zipped him up and slid the drawer shut.

The room seemed to darken even further…

Ever since that night, every time I slept, I dreamed of a bank of thick fog.

I’ve got a feeling something’s coming. Someday soon, something not quite human will seek me out. But no one believes me; they just say my mind’s gone unstable from working in a place like that and that I need to see a doctor…

A man seated at the bar looked over at the storyteller, who’d suddenly fallen silent.

“And then?”

The man looked in his thirties, wearing a brown coarse wool coat and pale yellow trousers. His hair was slicked flat, with a simple dark round hat nearby.

He looked utterly average—just like most of the folks in the bar: black hair, pale blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly, nothing to set him apart.

To him, the storyteller appeared to be a young man of eighteen or nineteen. He was tall with long limbs, also with black cropped hair and light blue eyes—but his sharp features really caught the eye.

The young man gazed into his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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“Then I quit my job and came back to the countryside to swap stories with you.”

As he spoke, the young man grinned, an unmistakably mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

The man at the bar blinked in surprise.

“So you made all that up?”

A burst of laughter rippled around the bar.

When the chuckling faded, a skinny middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed outsider and said,

“You must be new around here to trust Lumian’s stories. He changes them every day! Yesterday, he claimed to have been dumped by his fiancée because he was poor, and today he’s suddenly a morgue watchman!”

“Yeah, sometimes it’s ‘thirty years on the east side of the Serrence River, thirty on the right’—always rambling about something!” added another regular.

They were all farmers from Cordu, a big village, dressed in rough jackets—black, gray, or brown.

Lumian, the black-haired youth, braced himself against the bar and stood up slowly, grinning at everyone.

“You all know it’s not my story. My sister writes them. She loves making things up—she’s even a columnist for the ‘Weekly Novel Magazine’.”

Then he turned to the outsider, palms open, and flashed a dazzling smile.

“Guess she’s a pretty good writer after all.”

“Sorry for misleading you.”

The man in the brown coat wasn’t upset. He stood up with a smile.

“That was an entertaining tale.”

“What should I call you?”

“Isn’t it common manners to introduce yourself first?” Lumian said with a wink.

The outsider nodded.

“My name’s Ryan Coste.

These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He nodded to the young man and woman seated beside him.

The man looked to be twenty-seven or twenty-eight, his blond hair powdered a bit, his eyes a deeper blue than lakewater—he wore a white vest, blue wool coat, and black trousers. You could tell he’d taken care with his appearance.

He seemed rather aloof, barely glancing at the farmers and herders around them.

The woman looked a bit younger than the two men. Her long, pale gray hair was pinned in an elaborate bun, topped with a white veil-turned-hat.

Her eyes were the same color as her hair. She watched Lumian with an open, amused smile—as if everything happening was just delightful to her.

In the glow of the gas lamp, Leah’s delicate nose and graceful lips became even more pronounced—she stood out as a true beauty in a rural place like Cordu.

She wore a snug, white cashmere dress without pleats, a cream jacket, and a pair of Marcille long boots. Her veil and boots had little silver bells tied to them, jingling all the way in, turning more than a few men’s heads.

People couldn’t help thinking this kind of fashion belonged in a big city like Bigo, or even the capital Trier—not out here.

Lumian nodded at the three visitors.

“I’m Lumian Lee. You can just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong—something bad about my surname?” Lumian asked curiously.

Ryan Coste explained on Leah’s behalf.

“Your surname is pretty intimidating. I almost couldn’t keep my voice steady just now.”

Seeing the local farmers and herders look confused, he added,

“Anyone who’s rubbed elbows with sailors or sea merchants knows this saying from the Five Seas.

‘Better to face pirate generals—even their kings—than to cross paths with anyone named Frank Lee.’

“He’s got the same surname.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“No idea. But if there’s a legend, that’s reason enough to steer clear.”

He dropped the topic and turned to Lumian.

“Thanks for your story. It’s worth a drink. What’ll you have?”

“A glass of Absinthe,” Lumian replied without hesitation, settling back into his seat.

Ryan Coste raised an eyebrow.

“Absinthe… that bitter green stuff?”

“I should warn you, it’s harmful to the body. This spirit can even cause hallucinations and mental confusion.”

“Didn’t expect Trier’s trends to reach out here,” Leah added with a chuckle.

Lumian gave an ‘oh’ of surprise.

“So people in Trier like Absinthe too…

For us though, life’s already tough enough. What’s a little more damage if it helps us relax?”

“Alright,” said Ryan, turning to the bartender. “One Absinthe, and another Fiery Heart for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a famous fruit brandy.

“Why don’t I get an Absinthe too? I was the one who called out the truth, and I can tell you everything about this kid!” complained the skinny middle-aged man who’d revealed Lumian’s tall tales. “You’ve still got doubts, don’t you, outsiders?”

“Pierre, you’d do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back, raising his voice.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian chimed in,

“Or why not let me tell it again? That way I get an extra glass of Absinthe!”

“That’s because they never know if you’re telling the truth,” Pierre said smugly. “Your sister’s favorite bedtime story is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ A liar always loses trust.”

“Whatever.” Lumian shrugged as the bartender slid a pale green drink his way.

Ryan glanced over, asking for permission.

“Go ahead,” Lumian replied carelessly. “As long as your wallet’s good for it.”

“Then make it two Absinthe,” Ryan agreed.

Pierre beamed with delight.

“Generous outsider! This kid’s the village’s biggest prankster—you really shouldn’t trust a word he says.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back here and he hasn’t left the village since. Think about it—he was just thirteen when that happened. No way he could’ve worked in a hospital morgue then! The nearest hospital is down the mountain in Daliege—a whole afternoon’s walk away.”

“She brought him back?” Leah interjected, sharp as ever.

She tilted her head, and the silver bells jingled softly.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took Aurore’s surname, Lee, and even the name ‘Lumian’ was chosen by her.”

“I don’t even remember what my original name was,” Lumian chuckled, taking a sip of Absinthe.

He didn’t look the least bit embarrassed or ashamed to have his past put on display.