Chapter 546: The Night Watcher’s Tale

I’m a failure. Whether the sun shines or not has never really mattered to me—I just don’t have the time to notice.

My parents can’t support me, my education isn’t much to speak of, and I’m on my own searching for a future in this city.

I’ve tried for job after job, but no one ever hires me. Maybe it’s because nobody likes someone who struggles to speak, avoids people, and doesn’t seem capable enough.

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I went three whole days on just two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me up at night. At least I’d paid a month’s rent up front, so I could still stay in that dark basement—no need to brave the freezing winter winds outside.

Finally, I found a job—night watch at the hospital, looking after the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I’d imagined. The corridor’s sconces stayed dark and the place felt suffocatingly dim. I could only make out the floor thanks to the faint light spilling from a nearby room.

The place smelled awful. Every now and then, they’d wheel in a dead body zipped up in a bag. We’d help carry it into the morgue together.

It wasn’t a good job by any stretch, but at least it let me buy bread. At night, I had free time to study—nobody ever visited the morgue unless they were bringing in a body or hauling one off for cremation. Still, I couldn’t afford books yet, and saving up felt impossible.

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

I dream of working days instead. Right now, I sleep when the sun’s up and get up after dark. It’s taken a toll on me, left my body weak, and sometimes my head throbs with pain.

One day, the porters brought in a new body.

Someone said it was my predecessor, the one who quit so abruptly.

Curiosity got the better of me. After everyone left, I slid out the drawer, quietly opened the body bag.

He was an old man—skin bluish and pale, wrinkles everywhere. In that dim light, his face looked especially unsettling.

There wasn’t much hair left on his head. Most of it had turned white. They’d stripped his clothes, not even a scrap of fabric was left for him.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest, dark blue and black. I can’t describe exactly what it looked like—there just wasn’t enough light.

I reached out and touched the mark. There was nothing special about it.

Looking at my old coworker, I wondered: If I keep on like this, will I end up just like him when I’m old…?

I whispered to him that I’d take him to the crematorium tomorrow and personally see his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. That way, the people in charge wouldn’t just dump him in a river or an empty field out of laziness.

I’d lose a morning of sleep for this, but that’s okay—Sunday’s coming and I can catch up then.

When I finished, I zipped up the body bag and slid him back into the drawer.

It felt like the light in the room grew even dimmer…

After that night, I started dreaming of thick fog every time I slept.

I had a feeling something would happen soon. I felt like something—not quite human—was eventually going to find me. No one believes me, though. They just say working in a place like that is messing with my head and I should see a doctor…

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

“So what happened next?”

This man was in his thirties, dressed in a brown coarse-wool coat with light-yellow trousers. His hair was neatly pressed down, and there was a battered dark bowler hat near his hand.

He looked utterly ordinary, just like most people in the tavern—black hair, light blue eyes, not attractive but not ugly either, lacking any striking features.

To him, the storyteller was a young man around eighteen or nineteen, tall and lean, with the same black short hair and light blue eyes. But this young man had sharp features that would make anyone take notice.

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

“What happened next?”

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“Well, I quit my job, moved back to the countryside, and came here to spin tales with you.”

A sly smile crept across his face as he spoke.

The man at the bar looked surprised.

“So all that was just you making stuff up?”

A burst of laughter erupted around the bar.

When the laughter died down a bit, a gaunt middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed visitor and said:

“You outsider, did you really believe Lumian’s story? He tells a different one every day! Yesterday he was a jilted lover too poor to keep his fiancée. Today, he’s a corpse watcher!”

“Right! One day it’s thirty years east of the Serrence River, the next it’s thirty years west. He just babbles nonsense!” another tavern regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, a big village. They wore jackets in shades of black, grey, or brown.

Lumian, the black-haired young man, pushed himself up from the bar, grinning broadly.

“You know I’m not making these stories up—they’re all written by my sister. She loves writing! She’s even a columnist for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned to the out-of-towner, spreading his hands with a dazzling smile.

“Guess she really knows how to spin a tale. Xingwen Reading App.”

“Sorry for the confusion,” he added.

The ordinary-looking man in the brown coat didn’t seem mad at all. He stood and replied with a smile:

“It was a great story.”

“May I have your name?”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first, if you want to know about others?” Lumian grinned.

The visitor nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He nodded toward the man and woman seated next to him.

The man looked to be about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He’d dusted powder onto his blond hair, and his dark blue eyes were deeper than any lake. He wore a white waistcoat, a blue fine-wool coat, and black trousers—clearly, he took great care with his appearance before coming out.

He looked cold and aloof, barely glancing at the local farmers and herders.

The woman looked younger than both men. Her long pale gray hair was twisted into an intricate updo, topped with a white veil in place of a hat.

Her eyes matched the color of her hair. She gazed at Lumian with open amusement, clearly entertained by all that had just happened.

Under the glow of the tavern’s gas lights, Leah’s pert nose and gracefully curved lips stood out. In a countryside village like Cordu, she was undeniably a beauty.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, a cream jacket, and a pair of Marsil boots. There were two silver bells tied to her veil and her boots, and when she’d come into the tavern earlier, their jingling had caught every man’s attention.

To the locals, this was fashion straight out of big cities like Bigo or the capital Trier.

Lumian nodded at the three outsiders.

“My name’s Lumian Lee. Just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong? Is there something odd about my surname?” Lumian asked curiously.

Ryan Coste explained for Leah.

“Your last name is infamous. I nearly lost my nerve just now.”

Seeing the locals’ confusion, he added:

“Anyone who’s dealt with sailors or sea traders knows the saying that goes around the Five Seas:

‘Better to face pirate lords or even kings than run into a Frank Lee.’

“His last name was Lee too.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t know, but if there’s a legend like that, he must be something else.”

He dropped the subject and turned back to Lumian.

“Thanks for your story. It deserves a drink. What would you like?”

“A glass of Absinthe,” Lumian shot back, making himself comfortable again.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… The Green Fairy?”

“I ought to warn you—absinthe’s harmful to your body. That drink can make you hallucinate or lose your grip on reality.”

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

Lumian made an acknowledging sound.

“So Trier folks like Absinthe too, huh?… For us, life’s already tough enough. A little more damage doesn’t matter. At least it helps us unwind.”

“Alright,” Ryan sat back down and motioned to the bartender. “One Absinthe, please, and a Fiery Heart for me.”

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

“Why not get me an Absinthe too? I’m the one who clued you in! I could even tell you all about this rascal’s real story!” The gaunt middle-aged man who’d first outed Lumian protested loudly. “Outsider, I can tell you’re still unsure if the story was true!”

“Pierre, you’ll do anything for a free drink!” Lumian yelled.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian chimed in,

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

“Because nobody knows whether you’re telling the truth,” Pierre said smugly. “Your sister’s favorite tale for children is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ You keep lying, people stop trusting you.”

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

Ryan looked at him and asked,

“Is that alright with you?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can keep up with our tab,” Lumian replied easily.

“Then let’s have another Absinthe,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face lit up.

“You’re a generous guest! That kid’s the village prankster—stay on your guard around him.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him home to the village and he never left again. Before that, he was only thirteen—no way was he working night shifts in a hospital morgue! The nearest hospital is all the way down in Daliege, a full afternoon’s walk away.”

“Brought home?” Leah picked up on the detail.

She tilted her head and the bells jingled brightly.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took Aurore’s surname, Lee. Even the name ‘Lumian’ was picked by her.”

“I don’t even remember what my old name was,” Lumian said with a laugh, sipping his absinthe.

He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed by having his past exposed like that.