Chapter 541: The Night Watchman’s Tale

I’m a failure. Sunshine or rain hardly matters to me—I simply never have the time to care.

My parents can’t support me. My education is lacking and I’m alone in the city, still searching for my future.

I’ve applied for plenty of jobs but kept getting rejected. Maybe no one likes someone who doesn’t talk much, avoids people, and never shows enough skill.

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For three whole days, I ate nothing but two loaves of bread. The hunger kept me awake at night. Thankfully I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so at least I could stay in that dark basement instead of braving the freezing winter winds outside.

At last I landed a job—working overnight at the hospital, as a night watchman for the morgue.

Nights at the hospital are colder than I expected. Corridor wall lamps stay off, everything’s dim, and the only light comes from the faint glow seeping out of nearby rooms, just bright enough to see my feet.

The smell there is terrible, and from time to time, another body arrives zipped up in a bag. Together, we’d help move it into the morgue.

It’s not a great job, but at least I can afford bread now, and the slow nights give me time to study. Almost nobody ventures into the morgue unless there’s a body to bring in or cart away for cremation. Of course, I can’t afford books yet, and saving up still feels impossible.

I owe it to my predecessor—if he hadn’t quit so suddenly, even this job might not have been mine.

I dream about someday getting put on the day shift. For now, I sleep through the sunshine, wake up when it’s dark, and it’s left me weak, with a head that throbs every so often.

One day, the porters brought in a new body.

Rumor was, it was my former coworker—the one who’d quit out of the blue.

Curiosity got the better of me. After everyone left, I slid open the drawer and quietly unzipped the bag.

There he was, an old man with a face ashen and wrinkled, almost frightening under the nearly nonexistent lights.

He didn’t have much hair left; what remained was almost completely white. They’d stripped off all his clothes, not even a scrap left to cover him.

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I noticed something odd on his chest. A dark bluish mark—hard to describe and the lighting was simply too dim to really see it.

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

Looking at my old colleague, I wondered—if I kept going like this, would I end up just like him…?

I told him I’d go with him to the crematorium in the morning, carry his ashes myself to the nearest free cemetery. Otherwise, the people in charge would probably dump him in a river or toss him out in some wasteland just for convenience.

I’d be sacrificing a morning’s sleep, but it’s fine. Sunday’s coming—I could catch up then.

After that, I zipped the bag, slid him back in the drawer.

Somehow, the lights inside the room seemed to dim even further…

Ever since then, every time I slept, I dreamed of a dense, endless fog.

I kept having this feeling—something was coming. Sooner or later, something not quite human would come looking for me. But no one believed me. They all said I’d gone mad from the morgue, from the job, and needed a doctor…

At the bar, a man sitting at the counter watched the storyteller who’d suddenly fallen silent.

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a coarse brown jacket and pale yellow trousers. His hair was slicked flat, and a battered dark round hat sat by his hand.

Nothing really set him apart—just another ordinary face in the pub: black hair, pale blue eyes. Neither handsome nor ugly, no obvious features to stand out.

To him, the storyteller was a young man, eighteen or nineteen, tall and lean, with black cropped hair and striking pale blue eyes. His sharp features lit up the room.

The young man stared down at his empty glass, sighed and replied:

“And then?”

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“Then I quit, went back to the countryside, and ended up here, spinning stories with you.”

As he spoke, he grinned, a sly amused smile flickering across his face.

The man at the counter froze for a second.

“You mean, you were making it all up?”

A burst of laughter rolled around the bar.

When things quieted down, a skinny middle-aged man looked at the somewhat embarrassed guest and said:

“Stranger, I can’t believe you fell for Lumian’s tale. His stories change every day. Yesterday, he was some poor soul dumped by a fiancée for being broke. Today, he’s a night watchman!”

“Right! Next he’ll say ‘thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence, thirty years on the right!’ Always spouting nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, the big village in these parts, dressed in jackets of black, gray or brown.

The young man—Lumian—propped himself up on the bar and stood, smiling smoothly.

“You all know I don’t make these things up. My sister writes every story. She loves it. She’s even a columnist for some ‘Weekly Novel Magazine.’”

Then he turned toward the out-of-towner, shrugging with a brilliant grin.

“Guess she’s got real talent.”

“Sorry if I misled you.”

The man in the coarse brown jacket wasn’t upset. He stood and returned the smile.

“It was an entertaining story.”

“What should I call you?”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first before asking someone else’s name?” Lumian teased.

The out-of-towner gave a slight nod.

“I’m Ryan Coste.

These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman seated nearby.

The man was around twenty-seven or twenty-eight, blond hair dusted with powder, eyes deeper than any lake—somewhere between blue and steel. He wore a white vest, a blue tweed jacket, and black trousers; clearly, he’d dressed with care.

He seemed withdrawn, barely glancing at the farmers and herdsmen around.

The woman looked younger than both men. Her long pale gray hair was twisted into an elaborate bun and topped with a white veil, serving as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and she looked at Lumian openly amused, clearly finding the exchange entertaining.

Beneath the glow of the bar’s gas light, Leah’s pretty nose and graceful lips stood out—by Cordu’s standards, she was a true beauty.

She wore a white, close-fitting cashmere dress and a cream short jacket, paired with a set of Massir boots. Silver bells hung from her veil and boots; when she entered the bar, their ringing turned heads and drew plenty of stares from the men.

In their eyes, only fashion from Bigo, the provincial capital, or Trier, the capital city, could compare.

Lumian nodded politely at the three newcomers.

“My name’s Lumian Lee. You can just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah repeated, surprised.

“What? Is there something wrong with my surname?” Lumian asked, genuinely puzzled.

Ryan Coste explained for Leah:

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

Seeing the locals’ confusion, he went on:

“Anyone who’s spent time with sailors or merchants knows a saying across the Five Seas:

‘Better to face pirate lords, even kings—just don’t cross paths with someone named Frank Lee.’

That man’s surname is Lee, too.”

“Is he really that dangerous?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I couldn’t say, but if there’s a rumor like that, he must be something else.”

He let the topic drop and turned to Lumian again.

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

“Absinthe,” Lumian answered, not the least bit shy as he sat back down.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… you mean ‘the Green Fairy’?”

“I should warn you—absinthe can be dangerous to your health. It can mess with your mind, cause hallucinations.”

“Didn’t expect Trier’s trends to reach here.” Leah added, smiling.

Lumian let out an ‘oh’.

“So even Trier folk drink ‘the Green Fairy’… Well, life’s tough enough already, what’s a little extra harm? At least a drink like that can help us unwind.”

“Alright,” Ryan settled back in his seat and called to the bartender, “One absinthe. And another ‘Fiery Heart’ for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a famous fruit brandy.

“Why not order me an absinthe too? I’m the one who spilled the beans, and I could tell these out-of-towners the whole truth about this kid!” grumbled the skinny middle-aged man who’d exposed Lumian’s storytelling, “You outsiders must still have doubts about that wild story!”

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

Before Ryan could respond, Lumian piled on:

“Why can’t I just tell my story and score myself another absinthe?”

“Because they never know whether you’re telling the truth or not,” Pierre replied with a smug grin, “Your sister’s favorite story for the kids was ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ People who always lie lose everyone’s trust.”

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

Ryan regarded him, asking gently:

“Is that alright?”

“No problem—as long as your wallet can handle all this booze,” Lumian replied with a laugh.

“Then another absinthe,” Ryan agreed.

Pierre’s grin widened to the breaking point.

“Generous outsider! You should know—this kid is the worst prankster in the whole village. You ought to steer clear. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back—he hasn’t left since. He was thirteen then. No way would a kid that age be watching over corpses in some city hospital! Anyway, the nearest hospital is down the mountain in Daliege, and that’s a walk that’ll take all afternoon.”

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

She tilted her head slightly, setting her little bells jingling.

Pierre nodded.

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“And so, he took his sister Aurore’s surname, ‘Lee.’ Even ‘Lumian’ is a name she picked out for him.”

“Truth is, I can’t even remember what I was called before,” Lumian said, sipping absinthe with a crooked smile.

He looked completely unbothered to have his past dragged out in front of everyone.