Chapter 540: Tales in the Village Tavern

I’m a failure. I barely notice whether the sun is shining anymore—there’s just no time.

My parents can’t support me, I didn’t get much of an education, and now I’m alone in the city, searching for a future.

I’ve applied for job after job, but none have hired me. Maybe nobody wants someone awkward, who can’t hold a conversation and doesn’t seem to have any real talent.

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For three whole days, all I had to eat was two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me up at night. Luckily, I’d paid a month of rent in advance, so I could keep living in that dark basement. At least I didn’t have to face the biting winter wind outside.

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

Night at the hospital was even colder than I’d imagined. The corridor lights were out, shadows everywhere, and I had to rely on the faint slivers of light leaking out from the rooms just to see my feet.

The smell there was awful. Every now and then, another corpse would arrive, zipped up in a body bag. We’d help carry it inside and load it into the morgue.

It’s not a great job, but at least I could afford bread. The nights were quiet, too, so I could spend the time studying. Hardly anyone ever sets foot in the morgue unless it’s to deliver a fresh body or collect one for cremation. Of course, I still couldn’t afford books—and saving up felt impossible.

I have to thank my predecessor. If he hadn’t quit so suddenly, I wouldn’t have even gotten this job.

I dream about getting switched to the daytime shift. Right now, I always sleep when the sun comes up and wake when night falls. It makes me feel weak, and sometimes my head throbs for no reason.

One day, a worker delivered a new body.

I heard it was the same predecessor who quit out of the blue.

Curiosity got the better of me. After everyone left, I pulled out the drawer, quietly unzipped the bag.

He was an old man. His face was pale and blue, covered in wrinkles. In that dim light, he looked downright terrifying.

He didn’t have much hair, most of it white. He was completely naked, not even a scrap of cloth left on him.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest, dark blue-black. I couldn’t make out what it was—the light was just too dim.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing happened.

Looking at my former coworker’s body, I wondered—if I keep going like this, will I end up just like him once I get old?

I whispered to him that tomorrow I’d go with him to the crematorium. I’d deliver his ashes myself to the nearby public cemetery, just in case the officials got lazy and dumped him in some river or deserted field.

It would cost me a morning’s sleep, but it was fine. Sunday was just around the corner—I could catch up then.

After promising, I zipped up the body bag and slid it back into the drawer.

The lights in the room seemed even dimmer after that…

From that day on, whenever I slept, my dreams filled with thick fog.

I sensed something was going to happen soon. I felt like something—was it even human?—was coming for me. But nobody believed me, chalked it up to the strain of working in a job like that. Said I needed to see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar looked at the storyteller, who’d suddenly stopped:

“And then?”

This man was in his thirties, wearing a brown rough-wool jacket and pale yellow trousers. His hair was slicked flat, and a battered dark round hat rested on the bar.

He looked perfectly ordinary—black hair, pale blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly, nothing to make him stand out from the other tavern-goers.

From his perspective, the storyteller was a young man, probably eighteen or nineteen, tall and lean, also with black cropped hair and light blue eyes—but his features were sharp, striking, the kind that made you take notice.

The young man gazed at his empty glass and let out a sigh:

“And then?”

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“Then I quit the job, went back to the countryside, and now I get to spin tales with you here.”

As he spoke, a sly smile crept onto his face.

The man at the bar blinked in surprise:

“So all that was just a tall tale?”

“Ha!” Laughter broke out around the bar.

As the laughter died down, a thin, middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed newcomer and said:

“Stranger, you really believed Lumian’s story? He spins a new yarn every day. Yesterday he was dumped by his fiancée for being broke, today he’s a night watchman at the morgue!”

“Yeah! And the way he rambled on about ‘thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River, thirty on the right bank,’ it’s all nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, this large village, dressed in short jackets of black, gray, or brown.

The black-haired youth known as Lumian braced himself on the bar and slowly stood, grinning ear to ear:

“You all know these aren’t my stories. They’re my sister’s. She’s obsessed with storytelling and even writes a column for something called the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned to the outsider and spread his hands, flashing a bright grin:

“Looks like she’s pretty good, huh?”

“Sorry if I misled you.”

The brown-jacketed man didn’t seem upset. He stood as well and replied with a smile:

“It was an entertaining story.”

“What’s your name?”

“Isn’t it basic manners to introduce yourself before asking others?” Lumian shot back, a playful glint in his eye.

The outsider nodded:

“My name’s Ryan Coste.

These two are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He was referring to the man and woman sitting beside him.

The man looked to be twenty-seven or twenty-eight, blond hair lightly powdered, small eyes a shade deeper than lake blue, dressed sharp in a white vest, blue fine-wool coat, and black trousers—clearly, he’d put thought into his appearance.

He seemed aloof, barely sparing a glance for the farmers and herders around him.

The woman appeared younger than the two men, her pale-gray hair styled into a complicated updo and wrapped with a white veil as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and when she looked at Lumian there was an open, amused smile—like she found the whole episode delightful.

Under the tavern’s gaslight, Leah’s pert nose and lovely curved lips stood out—definitely a beauty by Cordu village standards.

She wore a white, form-fitting cashmere dress beneath a cream jacket, with a pair of Marcille boots. Silver bells dangled from her veil and boots, jingling brightly when she came in, drawing plenty of stares from the local men.

In their eyes, only the provincial capital Bigo or the metropolis Trier could have such fashionable styles.

Lumian nodded at the three travelers:

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

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

Ryan stepped in to explain for Leah:

“Your surname gives people the chills. I almost couldn’t keep my voice steady earlier.”

Seeing the farmers and herders around them look confused, he elaborated:

“Anyone who’s crossed paths with sailors or sea merchants has heard this saying from the Five Seas:

‘Better to face the pirate lords or kings than cross a man named Frank Lee.’

“His surname is Lee too.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head:

“I don’t know myself, but with a reputation like that, he must be something else.”

He let the subject drop and said to Lumian:

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

“An Absinthe,” Lumian said without hesitation, settling back onto his stool.

Ryan frowned slightly:

“Absinthe…

I should warn you—it can be dangerous. It’s said to cause hallucinations and even madness.”

“I didn’t expect trends from Trier to reach out here,” Leah teased, her eyes shining.

Lumian let out an ‘oh’:

“So Trier folk drink Absinthe too… For us, life’s rough enough already. A little more harm doesn’t matter. This stuff helps us unwind.”

“Alright then.” Ryan sat back and said to the bartender, “An Absinthe, and one Fiery Heart on top of that.”

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

“Hey, why not get me an Absinthe too? I was the one who set the record straight, and I can tell you all about this rascal’s secrets! Stranger, you can’t really believe everything he says!” the thin man who’d exposed Lumian protested.

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

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian added:

“Why can’t I tell the story myself? That way I could get another Absinthe!”

“Nobody knows if you’re telling the truth,” Pierre replied with a smirk. “Your sister’s favorite story for kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ People who lie too much can’t be trusted.”

“Fine.” Lumian shrugged and watched as the bartender slid a glass of pale-green liquor toward him.

Ryan looked at him, asking for permission:

“Is it okay?”

“Don’t worry, as long as your wallet can cover the bill,” Lumian answered breezily.

“Make it two Absinthes, then,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face instantly lit up:

“Such generosity, stranger! That kid’s the biggest troublemaker in our village. You’d best watch yourself around him.

Five years back, his sister Aurore brought him home and he’s never left since. Think about it, he was only thirteen then—how could he have worked as a night watchman at a hospital? The nearest hospital’s down in Daliege, it takes a whole afternoon to walk there.”

“Brought him home?” Leah asked sharply, tilting her head until her bells jingled.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took Aurore’s surname, Lee. Even his name, Lumian, was her idea.”

“I’ve already forgotten what my old name was,” Lumian said cheerfully, sipping his Absinthe.

He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed or ashamed to have his past laid bare.