Chapter 534: Stories at the Cordu Tavern

I’m a failure. I barely notice whether the sun is shining or not because there just isn’t time.

My parents can’t support me. I don’t have much of an education, and here I am—all alone in the city—chasing the future.

I’ve applied for all kinds of jobs but never landed one. Maybe nobody wants someone who’s awkward, quiet, and doesn’t really show much ability.

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I’ve spent three whole days surviving on just two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me up most nights, but at least I paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could still sleep in that dark basement and not face the freezing winter wind outside.

Finally, I found a job—night watch at the hospital, guarding the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I’d imagined. The corridor lights were all off. Shadows clung to every corner, and the only thing lighting my way was the sliver of glow spilling from nearby rooms.

The smell there was almost unbearable. Sometimes they’d bring in bodies, shoved into body bags, and we’d help move them into the morgue.

It’s not a good job, but it keeps bread on the table. The nights are quiet, so I can study too—no one comes to the morgue unless there’s a body to bring in or to take out for cremation. Of course, I can’t afford books yet, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be saving any time soon.

I owe this gig to my predecessor, who quit out of the blue. Without that, I probably wouldn’t have this job at all.

I dream of working the day shift. Right now I’m always sleeping when the sun’s up and waking when night falls. It’s made me weak, sometimes my head even throbs with pain.

One day, the porters brought in a new body.

People said it was the guy who had the job before me, the one who quit suddenly.

Curiosity got the better of me. When everyone left, I slid open the drawer, unzipped the body bag in secret.

He was an old man—skin bluish and pale, wrinkles everywhere. Under the dim light, his face looked terrifying.

Most of his hair was gone, just a few white strands left. They’d stripped off all his clothes—nothing covered him at all.

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I saw a strange mark on his chest, dark blue in color, but I couldn’t really make out the shape—the light was just too faint.

I reached out and touched the mark. It didn’t feel special.

Looking at him, I wondered if I’d end up like this if I kept living the same way—old, alone, just another body in the morgue…

I told him I’d take him to the crematorium myself tomorrow, personally see that his ashes made it to the nearest public cemetery. If I didn’t, the people in charge would probably just toss him in a river or some random field to save themselves the trouble.

I’d be losing a whole morning of sleep, but it’s fine—Sunday’s coming up, I can catch up later.

When I finished, I zipped up the bag again and slid it back into the drawer.

The light in the room seemed to get even dimmer…

Ever since that day, I started dreaming of thick fog every time I tried to sleep.

I’ve got a feeling something’s coming. Maybe, sometime soon, something—or someone—not quite human will seek me out. But nobody believes me. They say working in a place like that has scrambled my mind and that I need to see a doctor.

At the bar, a man seated at the counter turned to the storyteller, whose words had just trailed off.

“And then?”

This man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a brown rough-spun coat and light yellow trousers. His hair lay flat, and a battered dark bowler hat sat by his hand.

He seemed utterly ordinary—like most in the tavern—with black hair, pale blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly, and nothing that stood out.

To him, the storyteller was a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen, tall and lean, with black short hair and striking pale blue eyes. His features were sharp, the kind that make you look twice.

The young man stared at his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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“Then I quit my job, went back to the countryside, and now here I am, swapping stories with you.”

As he spoke, a mischievous smile crept across his face.

The man at the bar looked a bit thrown.

“Wait, was all that just a story?”

“Ha!” Laughter erupted around the bar.

When the noise died down, a thin middle-aged man looked at the flustered guest and said,

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He spins a new one every day—yesterday, he was a tragic guy dumped by his fiancée because of poverty; today, he’s a morgue watchman!”

“Yeah! And he’s always going on about thirty years on the left bank of the Serrence River, thirty years on the right. Nonsense, all of it!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, this big village, dressed in black, gray, or brown short coats.

The young man with black hair—Lumian—propped himself up on the bar and grinned.

“C’mon, you know I don’t make these up. They’re all my sister’s stories. She loves writing—she’s even a columnist for Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned to the out-of-towner with a flourish, smiling bright.

“Seems she’s a pretty good writer, huh?”

“Sorry for leading you on.”

The man in the brown coat didn’t seem upset. He got up too, smiling back.

“It was a fun story.”

“What should I call you?”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself first before asking someone else?” Lumian joked.

The stranger nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He nodded toward the man and woman sitting close by.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, dusted powder over his blond hair, with dark blue eyes deeper than any lake. He wore a white vest, blue wool jacket, and black trousers—obviously made an effort before coming out.

His face was cold and distant, barely glancing at the local farmers and herders.

The woman looked younger than the other two. Her long, pale gray hair was twisted into an elaborate updo, with a white veil standing in for a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and her playful gaze lingered on Lumian. She seemed to find the whole scene amusing.

Under the glow of the tavern’s gas lamps, Leah’s pretty nose and graceful lips made her a real beauty—especially for a rural place like Cordu.

She wore a white, seamless cashmere dress hugged close to her figure, with a cream jacket and a pair of Marsil boots. Two little silver bells were tied on her veil and boots, tinkling every step she took and turning many male heads when she walked in.

Everyone figured only the provincial capital Bigo or the main city Trier could inspire such fashion choices.

Lumian nodded at the three travelers.

“My name’s Lumian Lee. Just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“Why, is there something wrong with my last name?” Lumian asked, curious.

Ryan Coste answered for Leah.

“Your surname actually gives people chills. I nearly raised my voice when you said it.”

Seeing the confusion on the faces of the local farmers and herders, he explained further.

“Anyone who’s been around sailors or merchant seamen has heard this old saying about the Five Seas:

“Better to cross a pirate lord—even a king—but never get mixed up with a Frank Lee.

“He shares your surname.”

“Is he really that terrifying?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I couldn’t say, but with a rumor like that, I doubt he’s harmless.”

He let the subject drop, turning to Lumian.

“Thanks for the story. That was worth a drink. What’ll you have?”

“An Absinthe,” Lumian didn’t hesitate, sliding back onto his stool.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… The Green Fairy?

“I should warn you, absinthe can be bad for your health. It might even mess with your head and make you hallucinate.”

“I’m surprised the fashions of Trier have caught on all the way out here,” Leah added with a smile.

Lumian let out an “oh”.

“So even Trier locals like absinthe… For us, life’s rough enough. What’s a little extra harm? At least the Green Fairy helps us relax more.”

“Alright,” Ryan sat back down and looked at the bartender. “An Absinthe, and add a Fiery Heart for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a famous fruit brandy.

“Hey, why don’t I get an Absinthe too? I’m the one who called out your story was made up! I could tell these folks everything about this kid, word for word! Stranger, you still think that story is true, don’t you!” the skinny middle-aged man protested.

“Pierre, you’ll beg for anything if it means a free drink!” Lumian called out.

Before Ryan could reply, Lumian piped up again.

“Or let me tell it myself—then I can have another Absinthe!”

“Because nobody’s sure whether your stories are true,” Pierre grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Your sister always loved the tale of ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ A liar never earns anyone’s trust.”

“Alright,” Lumian shrugged, watching as the bartender slid a pale green drink his way.

Ryan looked over and checked.

“Is that alright?”

“No problem—if your wallet can handle it,” Lumian replied without concern.

“Then make it another Absinthe,” Ryan said, nodding.

Pierre beamed.

“Generous stranger! And don’t trust this kid—he’s the biggest prankster here. Stay away if you value your peace. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him to this village. He hasn’t left since. He was only thirteen then—how could he have worked as a morgue watch at a hospital? The nearest one’s in Daliege. That’s a whole afternoon’s walk from here!”

“Brought him back?” Leah inquired, sharp as ever.

She turned her head slightly, making the bells on her veil jingle.

Pierre nodded.

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“So now, he took Aurore’s last name Lee—and she’s the one who named him Lumian too.”

“I can’t even remember what my old name was,” Lumian said with a grin, taking a sip of absinthe.

He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed that his past was out there for everyone to hear.