Chapter 543: The Night Watcher’s Tale

I’m a failure, the kind of person who barely notices whether the sun’s shining or not. I just don’t have the time.

My parents can’t support me. I never made it far in school. Alone in the city, I’m still searching for a future.

I’ve tried to land so many jobs, but no one would hire me. Maybe it’s because I’m awkward, don’t talk much, and never seem to stand out.

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There was a stretch when I went three whole days on nothing but two pieces of bread. The hunger kept me from sleeping through the night. Luckily, I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I still had somewhere to sleep—a pitch-black basement room, but at least I was safe from the bite of the winter wind.

At last, I landed a job—night shift at the hospital, keeping watch over the morgue.

The hospital at night is colder than I ever imagined. The corridor wall lamps are dark, leaving only a faint thread of light leaking from the rooms to guide my steps.

The smell in that place is awful. Every now and then, someone wheels in a corpse zipped up in a body bag, and we help carry it into the morgue.

It’s not exactly a dream job, but at least I can afford bread. Plus, there’s plenty of downtime at night to study—nobody comes to the morgue unless there’s a body to be brought in or taken for cremation. Of course, books are still out of reach. I don’t see myself saving any money anytime soon.

I owe it to the colleague who quit out of the blue—if not for him, I wouldn’t even have this job.

I dream about rotating to daytime shifts. Right now, I sleep when the sun comes up and wake after night falls. It’s taken a toll on my body—sometimes my head throbs for no reason.

One day, the orderlies brought in another body.

Rumor had it, this was the very coworker who’d quit so suddenly.

I couldn’t help my curiosity. When everyone left, I pulled out the drawer, quietly unzipped the bag.

It was an old man. His face was mottled blue and white, heavily wrinkled and, under the dim light, honestly pretty terrifying.

He hardly had any hair left, most of it snowy white. They’d stripped him of everything—not a scrap of clothing left behind.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest, dark blue-black, but I couldn’t make out the shape in that weak light.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing happened. It felt no different from regular skin.

Staring at my predecessor, I wondered: If I keep living like this, will I end up the same way?

I told him that tomorrow I’d escort him to the crematorium myself, and then take his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. That way, the folks in charge wouldn’t just toss him in a random river or dump him in an empty lot.

It’d cost me a morning’s sleep, but that was fine—Sunday was coming, I could make it up.

After I said that, I zipped up the bag and slid him back into the drawer.

The room felt even darker than before…

From that night on, whenever I slept, I dreamed of a thick fog.

I had a nagging feeling something was coming. Maybe something not quite human would come looking for me. But nobody believed me—they just said working in that place was making me lose my mind and that I should see a doctor.

A man sitting at the bar turned to the storyteller, whose tale had ended so abruptly:

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a brown rough-tweed coat and light yellow trousers. His hair was slicked flat, a battered dark bowler hat at his side.

He seemed perfectly ordinary—like most in the tavern. Black hair, pale blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly. No features that stood out.

To him, the storyteller looked about eighteen or nineteen. Tall, long-limbed, with short black hair and the same pale blue eyes. But his sharp features made him instantly memorable.

The young man glanced at his empty glass and sighed:

“And then?”

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“And then I quit my job, moved back to the countryside, and now I’m here spinning tales with you.”

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

The man at the bar paused, taken aback:

“So all that was just a tall tale?”

“Ha!” Laughter erupted around the bar.

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

“Outsider, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He spins a new one every day. Yesterday, he got dumped by his fiancée because he was poor. Today, he’s a corpse watcher!”

“Yeah! Thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River, thirty on the right—he’s always spouting nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, a big village, and wore short jackets in black, gray, or brown.

The black-haired young man called Lumian braced his hands on the bar, stood up with a grin:

“You all know the story wasn’t mine. My sister wrote it. She loves telling tales and even writes a column for the ‘Weekly Novel Magazine’.”

Then he turned toward the outsider with a beaming smile and open hands:

“Looks like she’s pretty good, huh?”

“Sorry for misleading you.”

The man in the brown tweed coat took it in stride, rising with a smile:

“It was an entertaining story.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Common courtesy says you should introduce yourself first,” Lumian replied with a smile.

The outsider nodded in agreement:

“I’m Ryan Coste.

These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He was talking about the man and woman sitting beside him.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight, his yellow hair powdered just so. His eyes were a shade deeper than lake blue. He wore a white waistcoat, a blue fine-wool jacket, and black trousers—clearly he’d dressed carefully before coming out.

He was distant, hardly glancing at the farmers and herders around him.

The woman seemed younger than both men. Her long, ashen-gray hair was woven into an elaborate updo, with a white veil doubling as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair. When she looked at Lumian, she couldn’t hold back a smile—the whole scene seemed to amuse her.

In the glow of the gas wall lamp, Leah’s pert nose and elegant lips caught the eye. For a rural place like Cordu, she was definitely a striking beauty.

She wore a fitted cream cashmere dress with a beige jacket and a pair of Massier long boots. Both her veil and boots were adorned with tiny silver bells that jingled as she walked into the tavern, drawing more than a few stares from the men inside.

In their minds, only fashionable cities like Bigo or the capital, Trier, would see such a trendy outfit.

Lumian nodded to the three newcomers:

“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 curiously.

Ryan Coste stepped in to explain:

“Your surname inspires fear. I almost lost my composure just now.”

Seeing the local farmers and herders looking confused, he clarified:

“Anyone who’s spent time among sailors and sea merchants knows a saying from the Five Seas:

‘You’d rather take your chances with pirate lords or kings than ever cross paths with someone named Frank Lee.’

“That person’s last name is also Lee.”

“Is he really that terrifying?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head:

“I don’t know the truth, but a legend like that doesn’t come from nothing.”

He dropped the subject and turned back to Lumian:

“Thanks for the story. It deserves a drink. What’ll it be?”

“One Absinthe, please.” Lumian didn’t hesitate, settling back onto his seat.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly:

“Absinthe? That’s the ‘Green Fairy’, right?

Just a word of warning—Absinthe is bad for your health. It could drive you mad or make you hallucinate.”

“Didn’t expect Trier’s trends to reach all the way out here,” Leah added with a knowing smile.

Lumian gave an ‘oh’ of surprise:

“So even people in Trier drink the ‘Green Fairy’… For us, life’s hard enough already. A little more damage is nothing. The drink helps us relax.”

“Alright,” Ryan took his seat again and turned to the bartender. “One Absinthe for him. And get me a Fiery Heart.”

The ‘Fiery Heart’ was a famous fruit spirit.

“Why not get me a Green Fairy, too? I was the one who told you the truth. I can tell you all about this brat, down to the last detail!” The skinny middle-aged man who’d exposed Lumian’s stories protested. “Outsider, I can tell you’re still not sure what to make of him!”

“Pierre, you’ll do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back across the bar.

Before Ryan could reply, Lumian added:

“Why can’t I tell the story myself? That way, I’d get another Green Fairy!”

“Because nobody’s sure if you’re telling the truth.” Pierre said with a smug grin, “Your sister likes to tell ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’. Someone who lies all the time loses their credibility.”

“Fine,” Lumian shrugged as the bartender slid a pale green glass toward him.

Ryan turned to him and asked gently:

“Is that alright?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet’s up to it,” Lumian replied easily.

“Another Green Fairy, then.” Ryan nodded.

Pierre broke into a broad grin:

“Such generosity from an outsider! This kid’s the village’s top prankster, you ought to keep your distance.

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 in a hospital morgue? And the closest hospital’s down in Daliege—it’d take you a whole afternoon to walk there.”

“Brought him home?” Leah asked sharply.

She tilted her head and her silver bells chimed merrily.

Pierre nodded in response:

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“After that, he took his sister’s last name—Lee. Even his name, Lumian, was given by Aurore.”

“I can’t even remember what I used to be called,” Lumian said brightly, sipping his Absinthe.

It seemed he felt no shame or embarrassment having his past laid out in public.