Chapter 535: Tales from the Bar: The Corpse Watcher’s Story

I’m a loser. I barely even notice whether the sun is shining or not—there’s just no time for that.

My parents can’t support me, my education is pretty lacking, and I’ve been wandering the city alone searching for a future.

I’ve applied to all kinds of jobs but none of them have hired me. Maybe people just don’t like someone who’s bad at talking, hates socializing, and can’t show any special skills.

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For three days, all I ate were two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me tossing all night. Luckily, I’d paid a month’s rent up front, so I could keep staying in that dark basement and didn’t have to brave the brutal winter winds outside.

At last, I landed a job—doing night shifts at the hospital. My job was to watch over the morgue.

Nights at the hospital were even colder than I imagined. The corridor lamps were never on, shadows were everywhere, and I could only see my steps by the faint slivers of light leaking from the rooms.

The place reeked. Every now and then, someone would shove a corpse in a body bag and bring it by, and I’d help move it into the morgue.

Not exactly a dream job, but at least it paid for bread. Plus, with so few people coming to the morgue—unless there was a delivery or a pickup for cremation—the quiet nights were perfect for studying. Too bad I couldn’t afford actual books yet, and at this rate there’s no hope of saving any money either.

I owe my thanks to the guy who had the job before me—if he hadn’t quit suddenly, I wouldn’t have even got this gig.

I dreamed of switching to the daytime rotation. These days, I always sleep when the sun’s up and rise after dark. My body’s worn thin from it, and sometimes my head throbs for no reason.

One day, the workers brought in a new corpse.

Word was, it was my predecessor who quit out of nowhere.

I couldn’t help feeling curious. When everyone left, I slid open the drawer and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man, his skin pale blue and white, wrinkles everywhere. Under those weak lights, he looked downright frightening.

He barely had any hair left—most of it was white. His clothes were gone too, not even a scrap left on him.

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I saw a strange mark on his chest, bluish-black, but I couldn’t really make out the details. It was just too dark.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing seemed odd.

Looking at him, I wondered—if I just keep drifting along like this, will I end up like him when I’m old…

I told him, tomorrow I’d escort him to the crematorium myself. I’d make sure to take his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. That way the ones in charge couldn’t just toss him in a river or dump him outside from laziness.

I’d have to give up a morning’s sleep for that, but it was almost Sunday anyway. I could catch up then.

After saying that, I fixed the body bag and slid him back into his slot.

Somehow, the light in the room seemed even dimmer…

Ever since that night, I started dreaming of thick fog every time I slept.

I’ve got a feeling something’s going to happen soon—like something not quite human might come looking for me. But nobody will believe me. They say working in a place like this is messing with my mind, and that I need to see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar glanced at the storyteller, who had suddenly paused:

“So, what happened next?”

This man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a brown rough tweed coat and pale yellow trousers. His hair was slicked down, and there was a plain dark bowler hat sitting next to his hand.

He looked very ordinary—just like most people in the tavern. Black hair, pale blue eyes, not handsome but not ugly either, just nothing that stood out.

The man’s eyes rested on the storyteller: a young man, eighteen or nineteen, tall and lean, also with short black hair and pale blue eyes. Except his features were sharp and striking—the kind you remember.

The young man stared down at his empty glass, let out a sigh, and said:

“What happened next?”

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“Well, then I quit and went back to the countryside. Now I’m here bluffing with you.”

As he finished, a sly grin spread across his face—a hint of mischief in his smile.

The man at the bar looked a little stunned:

“Wait, all that was just made up?”

“Ha!” A burst of laughter broke out around the bar.

After the laughter died down, a thin middle-aged man glanced at the slightly embarrassed stranger and said:

“Outsider, you actually believe Lumian’s stories? He makes up something different every day. Yesterday he claimed he’d been dumped by his fiancée because he was broke, and today he’s the morgue watcher!”

“That’s right. One day it’s thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence, the next it’s thirty on the west. All he does is talk nonsense!” another tavern regular chimed in.

They were local farmers from Cordu, all dressed in worn, short jackets—black, gray, or brown.

The young man, Lumian, propped himself up on the bar, standing up slowly with a playful smile:

“Come on, you guys know I didn’t make these stories up. My sister writes them all! She loves writing. She’s even a columnist for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned to the outsider, spread his hands, and flashed a brilliant grin:

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

“Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

The ordinary-looking man in the brown tweed coat didn’t seem upset. He got up too, smiling as he replied:

“That was an entertaining story.”

“What should I call you?”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself before you ask someone else’s name?” Lumian teased.

The outsider nodded:

“My name’s Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman sitting right beside him.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight, powder dusted on his blond hair, and his eyes were a shade darker than a lake’s blue. He wore a white vest, a blue fine-wool coat, and black trousers—obviously dressed with care.

His expression stayed cold and distant. He barely glanced at the other farmers and herders.

The woman seemed younger than the two men. Her long, pale gray hair was twisted into an elaborate bun, and she’d used a white veil as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair. Looking at Lumian, her smile was warm and unguarded, as if she’d found the whole exchange amusing.

Under the tavern’s gas lamps, the woman—Leah—showed off a dainty nose and lovely curved lips. Out here in Cordu, she was a true beauty.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, an off-white cropped jacket, and a pair of Marsil boots. Two tiny silver bells were tied to her veil and boots. When she walked in, they jingled with every step, and more than a few men had their eyes glued to her.

To the locals, this kind of stylish dress only belonged in a provincial capital like Bigo or the big city of Trier.

Lumian nodded to the three outsiders:

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong? Is there a problem with my surname?” Lumian asked, genuinely curious.

Ryan Coste explained for Leah:

“Your family name is kind of scary—the kind that makes people nervous. I almost couldn’t keep my voice steady just now.”

Seeing the puzzled faces of the farmers and herders nearby, he added:

“Anyone who’s met sailors or merchants from the Five Seas knows a saying that goes around:

‘You’d rather face a pirate admiral or even a pirate king than ever cross paths with a man named Frank Lee.’

That guy’s surname is also Lee.”

“Is he really so terrifying?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head:

“I couldn’t say. But with a legend like that, you know it’s no joke.”

He dropped the subject and turned to Lumian:

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

“An Absinthe,” Lumian said with no hesitation, settling back into his seat.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… The Green Fairy?”

“Let me warn you—absinthe isn’t good for you. It can mess with your mind, make you hallucinate.”

“I’m surprised fashions from Trier have made it out here,” Leah chimed in with a smile.

Lumian gave a little “oh”:

“So Trier folk like Absinthe too…

For us, life’s already tough enough. Who cares about a little more harm? At least it helps us unwind.”

“Alright then.” Ryan sat back down and turned to the bartender. “One Absinthe. And bring me a Fiery Heart.”

Fiery Heart was a well-known fruit brandy.

“Why not buy me an Absinthe too? I’m the one who spilled the beans and can tell everyone exactly what’s up with this kid! Outsiders—I know you’re still skeptical about his story!” The skinny middle-aged man who’d first exposed Lumian’s tall tale shouted.

“Pierre, you’ll do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back at full volume.

Before Ryan could respond, Lumian added:

“Hey, why not let me tell the story myself? That way, I’d get another Absinthe!”

“Because no one here knows whether to believe a word you say,” Pierre replied with a smug grin. “Your sister’s favorite story for kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’—lie enough times and no one trusts you anymore.”

“Fair enough.” Lumian shrugged and watched the bartender slide him a pale green drink.

Ryan looked at him and asked,

“Is that alright?”

“Sure, long as your wallet can cover the tab.” Lumian didn’t care one bit.

“Then make that two Absinthe,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face lit up.

“Generous stranger! That kid’s the biggest prankster in the village, so keep your distance.

Five years back, his sister Aurore brought him back here and he hasn’t ever left. Think about it—he was only thirteen then. How would he have worked in a hospital morgue before that? The nearest hospital’s all the way down in Daliege, a full afternoon’s walk away.”

“Brought him back?” Leah pressed, ever sharp.

She tilted her head, making her bells chime.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took Aurore’s surname—Lee. Even his first name, Lumian, was picked by Aurore.”

“I can’t even remember what my original name was,” Lumian said with a cheeky grin, sipping his absinthe.

Strangely, he didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed or ashamed to have his past laid bare like this.