Chapter 539: The Night Watcher’s Tale

I’m a loser. I hardly ever pay attention to whether the sun is shining because I don’t have the time.

My parents can’t support me, and I don’t have much education. I’ve been wandering this city alone, searching for some kind of future.

I applied for many jobs but never got hired. Maybe no one likes a person who can’t talk well, hates socializing, and doesn’t seem very capable.

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I went three whole days eating just two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. At least I’d paid rent a month in advance, so I could keep staying in that dark basement instead of facing the biting winter wind outside.

Finally, I landed a job—night shift in a hospital, keeping watch over the morgue.

Nights in the hospital were even colder than I’d imagined. The hallway lights stayed off, and everywhere was shrouded in gloom. Only the faint light spilling from the rooms let me see my feet.

It always stank there. Sometimes they’d wheel in a new corpse stuffed in a body bag, and we’d have to help carry it into the morgue.

It wasn’t a great job, but at least it let me buy bread. Nights were mostly free, so I could use that time to study. Hardly anyone ever came to the morgue unless there was a body to deliver or burn—and honestly, I couldn’t even afford books yet, nor could I see any hope of saving up.

I owe this job to the guy before me. If he hadn’t quit out of nowhere, I wouldn’t have gotten even this.

I kept hoping I’d get a daytime rotation. These days, I sleep through the sunrise and wake up at night; my body’s growing weak, and sometimes my head throbs for no reason.

One day, the porters wheeled in a new body.

Word was, it was the last guy before me—the one who suddenly quit.

I felt a little curious about him. After everyone left, I slid the drawer open and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man, his face both pale and bluish, wrinkles everywhere. In the dim light, he looked outright terrifying.

His hair was thinning, mostly white, and he wasn’t given a stitch of clothing. Nothing covered him—not even a scrap of cloth.

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I saw a strange mark on his chest, bluish-black. I can’t really describe it, the lighting was much too dim at the time.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing special happened.

Looking at the man, I wondered—if I stayed like this my whole life, would I end up just like him?

I told him that tomorrow, I’d take him to the crematorium myself and bring his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. I didn’t want the people in charge to get lazy and dump him in some random riverbank or field.

It’d cost me a morning’s sleep, but luckily Sunday was coming. I could catch up then.

After talking to him, I zipped up the body bag and slid it back into the drawer.

The room seemed even darker than before…

Ever since that night, I always dream of a thick fog whenever I go to sleep.

I have a feeling something will happen soon. It’s like, sooner or later, something that might not even be human will come find me—or so it feels. Not that anyone believes me. They think this job’s driven me a bit crazy, that I should see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar glanced at the storyteller, who’d suddenly stopped.

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a coarse brown jacket and pale yellow trousers. His hair was neatly pressed, and a battered dark bowler hat sat at his side.

He seemed completely ordinary—black hair, light blue eyes. Not handsome or ugly, nothing that stood out. He blended right in with the regulars.

But in his eyes, the storyteller was a teenager of eighteen or nineteen. Tall, long-limbed, with short black hair and piercing light blue eyes. His sharp features would catch anyone’s attention.

The young man stared at his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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“Then I quit, went back to the countryside, and now I’m here telling tall tales with you.”

As he said this, a sly little smirk tugged at his lips.

The man at the bar seemed taken aback.

“You mean all that was just a story?”

“Haha!” Laughter burst out around the bar.

When the laughter faded, a skinny middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed visitor and said,

“Outsider, you actually believed Lumian’s tale? He spins a new yarn every day. Yesterday, he was a poor soul dumped by his fiancée; today, he’s a night watchman at the morgue!”

“Yeah! He’s always babbling on about thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River, thirty years on the right. Never makes any sense!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, this big rural village, dressed in black, grey, or brown coarse jackets.

The young man called Lumian pushed himself up on the bar with both hands, beaming smugly.

“You guys know it’s not my story—it’s my sister’s! She’s got a thing for writing. She even writes columns for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

Then he turned to the out-of-towner, held out his hand and flashed a brilliant smile.

“Looks like her stories aren’t half-bad after all.”

“Sorry for tricking you.”

The ordinary-looking man in the brown jacket didn’t seem upset. He stood as well, answering with a smile,

“That was an entertaining tale.”

“How should I address you?”

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

The outsider nodded in agreement.

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman sitting next to him.

The man looked to be twenty-seven or twenty-eight, powder dusted over his blond hair. His eyes were a deeper blue than lake water. He wore a white vest, a blue wool jacket, and black trousers—clearly dressed with some care.

He held himself coldly, barely glancing at the farmers and shepherds around him.

The woman seemed younger than the other two. Her light gray hair was tied in an elaborate twist, topped with a white veil serving as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and she looked at Lumian with open amusement. She’d clearly enjoyed the whole episode.

Under the glow of the bar’s gas lamps, Leah’s delicate nose and graceful lips stood out. In a place like Cordu, she was a real beauty.

She wore a fitted white cashmere dress, a cream-colored jacket, and a pair of Marcil boots. Silver bells dangled from her veil and boots, tinkling as she’d entered—catching the eye of every man in the place.

To the villagers, that getup belonged in the provincial capital Bigo or the big city of Trier, not here.

Lumian nodded to the three strangers.

“I’m Lumian Lee. Just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What, is there something wrong with my surname?” Lumian asked curiously.

Ryan Coste helped her out, explaining,

“Your surname is enough to frighten people. I nearly lost control of my voice earlier.”

The farmers and shepherds all looked baffled, so he explained further.

“Anyone who’s dealt with sailors or merchants knows, there’s an old saying on the Five Seas:

“Better to run into a pirate admiral or a king than cross paths with a man named Frank Lee.”

“That man’s family name is Lee, too.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I’m not sure, but if the tale’s gotten around this much, it must mean something.”

He dropped the subject and turned to Lumian.

“Thanks for the story. It’s worth a drink. What do you want?”

“Absinthe,” Lumian replied without hesitation, dropping back onto his stool.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… the Green Fairy?”

“Just a heads up,” he added, “absinthe isn’t good for you—it can mess with your mind, cause hallucinations.”

“I didn’t expect trends from Trier to have reached way out here,” Leah added with a smile.

Lumian gave an “oh.”

“So even people in Trier drink absinthe? For us, life’s hard enough, no point worrying about a little more damage. At least the stuff helps us relax.”

“Alright then.” Ryan returned to his seat and called to the bartender. “One Green Fairy—and a Fiery Heart for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a well-known fruit spirit.

“Why not order me a Green Fairy too? I was the one who told you the truth, and I can spill all this kid’s secrets!” grumbled the skinny middle-aged man who’d called out Lumian before. “I can tell you guys still aren’t sure if his story’s true!”

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

Before Ryan could answer, Lumian added,

“Why can’t I tell the story myself? That way I could have another Green Fairy!”

“Because nobody knows if you’re telling the truth,” Pierre said smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Someone who always lies can never be trusted.”

“Fine.” Lumian shrugged, watching the bartender slide over a glass of pale green liquor.

Ryan looked down at him, checking,

“Is that alright?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can handle it,” Lumian replied, not bothered at all.

“Then make it two Green Fairies,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre broke into a big smile.

“You’re generous, outsider. This kid’s the biggest troublemaker in the village. You’d best keep your distance.—Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to Cordu. He’s never left since. Think about it, before that, he was only thirteen—no way he was working as a watchman in a city hospital. Besides, the nearest hospital’s all the way down the mountain in Daliege; it’d take a whole afternoon to walk there.”

“Brought him back?” Leah asked sharply, a little bell jingling as she turned her head.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took on Aurore’s last name—Lee. Even ‘Lumian’ was a name Aurore chose for him.”

“I can’t even remember what I was called before,” Lumian said with a cheeky grin, taking a sip of absinthe.

He didn’t seem ashamed or embarrassed at all by his past being laid open.