Chapter 542: The Night Watcher in the Morgue

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

My parents can’t support me, my education is lacking, and I’m all alone in this city trying to carve out a future.

I’ve applied to countless jobs but never got hired. Maybe nobody likes someone who’s awkward, avoids conversation, and comes off as incompetent.

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For three full days, I survived on just two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. Luckily, I’d prepaid a month of rent, so I still had my dark basement room—no need to battle the biting winter wind outside.

Finally, I landed a job. A night shift at the hospital, keeping watch over the morgue.

Nights at the hospital were colder than I ever imagined. The corridor wall lamps stayed unlit, leaving everything dim. I relied on the faint glow leaking from neighboring rooms just to see my feet.

The smell there was foul. Every so often, another body would be wheeled in, zipped inside a bag, and we’d help move it into the morgue.

It’s not a great job, but it at least lets me afford bread. The nights are quiet enough for study—nobody comes to the morgue unless there’s a body to bring or burn. Of course, I can’t afford books yet, and saving up feels impossible.

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

I dream of being put on day shifts. Right now, I sleep with the sunrise and wake with nightfall. It’s left me weak, and sometimes my head throbs out of nowhere.

One day, the movers brought in a new corpse.

I heard from others—it was my colleague who’d quit unannounced.

Curiosity got the better of me. When everyone had left, I pulled open the morgue drawer and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man, his face mottled blue and pale, wrinkles etched everywhere. Under that dim light, he looked downright terrifying.

Most of his hair had gone white and thin. He wore nothing, not a scrap of cloth.

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I spotted a strange mark on his chest. It was dark greenish-black, but I couldn’t make out the pattern—the light was just too poor.

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

Looking at my former coworker, I found myself wondering—if I keep living like this, will I end up the same way in old age?

I told him, “Tomorrow, I’ll go with you to the crematorium. I’ll make sure your ashes reach the nearest free cemetery myself. Otherwise, the folks in charge might toss you in a river or some deserted lot, just to save trouble.”

That means giving up a whole morning of sleep, but it’s all right. Sunday is coming up, and I can catch up then.

After speaking, I zipped him up again and slid the drawer back in place.

For some reason, the light in the room seemed to grow even dimmer…

After that day, every time I tried to sleep, I found myself dreaming of thick, endless fog.

I have a feeling something’s about to happen. I feel like something—or someone—that can’t really be called human is coming for me. But no one believes me. They just think working those nights in that place messed with my head, and I ought to see a doctor…

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

“And then what happened?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a brown tweed jacket with pale yellow trousers, his hair slicked flat and a plain dark bowler hat resting nearby.

He looked utterly ordinary—just like most folks in the tavern. Black hair, pale blue eyes, nothing remarkable, neither handsome nor ugly.

The storyteller in his eyes was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, tall with long limbs, the same black short hair and pale blue eyes—but with striking features that made him stand out.

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

“And then?”

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“Then I quit, went back to the countryside, and came here just to swap tall tales with you.”

As he spoke, a sly grin crept over his face.

The man at the bar was momentarily surprised:

“So all that was just a story?”

Laughter bubbled up around the bar.

As the laughter faded, a skinny middle-aged man looked at the now-slightly-awkward visitor and said:

“Stranger, you really believed Lumian’s stories? He’s got a new one every day. Yesterday he was a poor soul dumped by his fiancée, now he’s a night watchman for the dead!”

“Yeah! One day he’s thirty years east of the Serrence River, the next he’s thirty years west—always making stuff up!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, the big village, dressed in dark or brown short coats.

Lumian, the black-haired youth, propped himself up on the bar, rising with a smile:

“You know, I didn’t make up that story. My sister wrote it all. She’s obsessed with writing tales—and even has a column in the ‘Weekly Novel Magazine.'”

He turned, flashed a dazzling smile at the out-of-towner, and spread his hands:

“Guess she’s pretty good at it, huh?”

“Sorry to mislead you.”

The bland-looking stranger in brown tweed didn’t mind. He stood up, smiling back:

“That was quite an entertaining story.”

“Mind if I ask your name?”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first before asking others?” Lumian replied with a grin.

The guest nodded:

“I’m Ryan Coste.

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He motioned to the man and woman seated nearby.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Blonde hair dusted with powder, eyes a shade deeper than lake blue, dressed in a white vest, blue fine-wool coat, and black trousers—clearly dressed with care.

He looked rather aloof, hardly glancing at the farmers or herdsmen around him.

The woman seemed younger than the two men. Her long pale-gray hair was styled into an elaborate bun, topped with a white veil as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and as she looked at Lumian there was open amusement—clearly, she found the earlier exchange fun.

In the gaslight of the bar, Leah’s delicate nose and beautifully curved lips stood out. In a place like Cordu, she was gorgeous beyond compare.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, paired with a cream-colored jacket and high Machir boots. Silver bells hung from her veil and boots, so when she entered, they jingled brightly, drawing the eyes of every man.

To the locals, her outfit looked like something straight from the provincial capital Bigo or the metropolis Trier—far too stylish for the countryside.

Lumian nodded to the three strangers:

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong? Is there something weird about my last name?” Lumian asked, curious.

Ryan Coste explained for her:

“That surname gives people chills. I nearly lost my composure myself.”

The farmers and herdsmen nearby looked confused, so he went on:

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

‘You’d rather run into any pirate lord, even a king—just don’t cross a Frank Lee.'”

“That’s his surname too.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head:

“I’m not sure, but a legend like that can’t be nothing.”

He let the subject drop and said to Lumian:

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

“A glass of ‘Absinthe,'” Lumian replied without hesitation, settling back down.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly:

“Absinthe… Wormwood liquor?

“I should warn you—it’s harmful. That stuff can mess with your mind, cause hallucinations.”

“I didn’t realize Trier’s taste in drinks had caught on here too,” Leah added, smiling.

Lumian made a small sound of surprise:

“So people in Trier like ‘Absinthe’ as well…

“Life’s hard enough as it is around here. A little more harm doesn’t matter—a drink like that lets us relax a bit more.”

“All right.” Ryan sat back down and nodded at the bartender. “One Absinthe. And add a Fiery Heart for me.”

‘Fiery Heart’ was a famous fruit brandy.

“What about me? Why not get me an Absinthe too? I was the one who told you the real story and I can fill you in about this kid right down to every last detail!” The skinny middle-aged farmer who’d exposed Lumian’s story protested. “You outsiders still look suspicious to me!”

“Pierre, you’ll do anything for a free drink!” Lumian called back with a laugh.

Before Ryan could respond, Lumian added:

“Why can’t I just tell the story myself? That way I could score two Absinthe!”

“Because nobody knows if your stories are true or not,” Pierre replied smugly. “Your sister’s favorite tale for the local kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Keep spinning yarns and nobody will believe a word you say.”

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

Ryan looked at him and asked:

“Is that okay?”

“No problem—as long as your wallet can cover the bill,” Lumian said easily.

“Fine, another Absinthe,” Ryan agreed.

Pierre’s face lit up:

“Generous outsiders! This kid loves nothing more than a prank. You’d better steer clear.

“Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village. He’s never left since—and look, before that he was only thirteen. No way he was working morgue nights in a hospital. The closest one’s all the way down in Daliege—a whole afternoon’s hike.”

“Brought him back?” Leah asked sharply.

She turned her head just slightly, and her bells jingled brightly.

Pierre nodded:

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

“Can’t even remember what I was called before,” Lumian said, grinning as he sipped his Absinthe.

If anything, he seemed amused—not one bit ashamed—at his past being laid bare.