Chapter 547: Tales at the Bar: The Night Watcher’s Story

I’m a failure, barely noticing whether the sun shines or not. There’s simply no time.

My parents can’t support me. My education is lacking. Alone in the city, I search for my future.

I’ve applied for all sorts of jobs but never landed one. Maybe nobody wants someone who’s bad at talking, hates socializing, and never really shows much ability.

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I went three whole days on nothing but two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me up at night. At least I’d paid my rent a month in advance, so I could stay in that dark basement instead of braving the bitter winter winds outside.

At last, I found a job—night watchman at a hospital, guarding the morgue.

Nights at the hospital were even colder than I imagined. The wall lamps in the corridor stayed dark. Everywhere was dim, with only slivers of light from beneath doors showing me where to step.

The smell there was awful. Every so often, a corpse would arrive zipped in a body bag. We’d help haul it into the morgue.

It wasn’t a good job, but at least I could afford bread. The long nights were quiet enough to study—nobody wanted to come near the morgue unless they needed to drop off a body or take one to be cremated. Sadly, I couldn’t afford books yet, and there was no hope of saving up soon.

I owe this job to my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I wouldn’t have even landed this.

I dreamed of working the day shift someday. Right now, I always sleep when the sun comes up and wake up at night. My body’s grown weak, and sometimes my head throbs.

One day, a porter brought in a new corpse.

Word was, it belonged to my predecessor—the guy who’d quit suddenly.

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

He was an old man, his face pale-blue and wrinkled all over. In that faint, dingy light, he looked terrifying.

There wasn’t much hair left on his head, and most of it was white. His clothes had been stripped—all of them—not a single shred was left.

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On his chest was a strange mark—a dark, bluish black sigil I couldn’t quite make out with the poor lighting.

I reached out to touch that mark. Nothing special happened.

Looking at my old colleague, I wondered: if I kept living like this, would I end up just like him?

I told him that tomorrow, I’d take him to the crematorium myself and personally place his ashes in the nearest free cemetery. That way, the people in charge wouldn’t skip the hassle and just dump him in a river or the wilderness.

I’d lose a morning’s sleep for this, but it was nearly Sunday anyway. I could make it up later.

After that, I sealed the bag and slid him back into the drawer.

The light in the morgue seemed even dimmer after that…

Ever since that day, I’d dream of thick fog every time I slept.

I have this feeling something is going to happen soon. I sense that sooner or later, something—maybe something that barely counts as human—will come for me. Nobody believes me, though. They think working in that place, on that job, has messed with my head and that I need to see a doctor…

A man at the bar looked at the storyteller, who had suddenly stopped:

“And then?”

This man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a coarse brown overcoat and light yellow trousers. His hair was slicked down, and beside him sat a plain dark bowler hat.

He seemed ordinary—just like most people in the tavern. Black hair, pale blue eyes. Not handsome, not ugly. Nothing that stood out.

The storyteller in his eyes was around eighteen or nineteen, tall and slender, with short black hair and pale blue eyes. But he had sharp features that could catch anyone’s eye.

The young man stared at his empty glass and sighed:

“And then?”

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

As he spoke, a sly smile curled his lips.

The man at the bar was taken aback:

“So what you just told me—is all nonsense?”

Laughter erupted around the bar.

When it died down, a skinny middle-aged man turned to the embarrassed guest:

“Stranger, you really believed Lumian’s story? He tells something different every day. Yesterday he was a poor guy dumped by his fiancée, today he’s a morgue guard!”

“Yeah! First it’s thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River, then thirty years on the right. He just spouts whatever comes to mind!” chimed in another regular.

They were local farmers from the big village of Cordu, all dressed in short jackets—black, gray, or brown.

Lumian, the black-haired young man, pushed up from the bar with both hands and grinned at them:

“You know, I didn’t make any of this up. My sister writes all the stories. She loves storytelling, and she’s even a columnist for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned to the out-of-towner and spread his hands with a shining smile:

“Looks like her writing really is something.”

“Sorry for leading you on.”

The man in the brown coat didn’t mind. He stood up and returned the smile:

“Interesting story.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first before asking others? Isn’t that a rule?” Lumian chuckled.

The visitor nodded:

“My name is Ryan Coste.

These two are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman sitting beside him.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight, blond hair powdered lightly, his eyes deeper than lake blue. He wore a white vest, a blue fine-wool coat, and black trousers—clearly dressed with care.

He kept a cool and distant air, rarely glancing at the surrounding farmers and herders.

The woman looked a bit younger than the two men. Her pale grey hair was styled in an elaborate bun, topped with a white veil used as a cap.

Her eyes matched her hair, and she gazed at Lumian with obvious amusement—as if everything that just happened was purely entertaining.

Under the glow of the tavern’s gas lamps, Leah showed off a cute nose and smooth, graceful lips. Here in Cordu, she would easily be called a beauty.

She wore a white, fitted cashmere dress with a cream-colored jacket and a pair of Massir boots. Two silver bells dangled—one on her veil, one on her boots. When she walked into the bar earlier, their tinkling had turned many men’s heads.

To the locals, this was the kind of fashion only seen in Bigo, the provincial capital, or Trier, the capital city.

Lumian nodded politely to the three out-of-towners:

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s up? Something wrong with my last name?” Lumian asked curiously.

Ryan Coste explained for Leah:

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

Seeing the puzzled looks from the farmers and herders, he elaborated:

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

‘Better run into a pirate lord or even a king than cross paths with a man named Frank Lee.'”

“His last name is Lee, too.”

“Is he that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head:

“No idea—but if a legend’s stuck around this long, there must be something to it.”

He let the topic drop and turned to Lumian:

“Thanks for your story. It’s worth a drink. What’ll you have?”

“An Absinthe,” Lumian said without hesitation and sat back down.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly:

“Absinthe… wormwood liquor?”

“I should remind you, absinthe is harmful. It can mess with your head and cause hallucinations.”

“I didn’t expect the fashions from Trier to have reached this backwater,” Leah laughed teasingly.

“Oh,” Lumian replied.

“So folks from Trier drink Absinthe too… For us, life’s hard enough. A little more harm doesn’t matter. If it helps us unwind, that’s enough.”

“Alright,” Ryan said, turning to the bartender. “An Absinthe for him, and one Fiery Heart for me.”

Fiery Heart was a famous fruit spirit.

“Why not order me an Absinthe, too? I’m the one who told you the truth! I could tell you everything about this kid right down to the last detail!” The skinny, middle-aged man who had first exposed Lumian’s tall tales shouted. “Strangers, I can tell you’re still not sure if the story’s real!”

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

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian added:

“Why can’t I just tell the story again and earn myself another Absinthe?”

“Because they’re not sure what to believe from you,” Pierre said smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story for kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ People who tell lies for fun end up losing everyone’s trust.”

“Fine,” Lumian shrugged, watching as the bartender set a pale green drink before him.

Ryan glanced at him and checked:

“Is that alright with you?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can handle the bill,” Lumian replied easily.

“Then make it two Absinthes,” Ryan agreed.

Pierre’s face lit up with a huge grin:

“Generous guests! This kid’s the biggest prankster in the village. You’d best keep your distance.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back here and he hasn’t left since. Think about it—before that, he was only thirteen. How could he be working as a morgue guard in a hospital? The closest hospital is down the mountain in Daliege. It’s a whole afternoon’s walk.”

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

She tilted her head slightly, making the silver bells jingle.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took Aurore’s last name—Lee. Even his first name, Lumian, she gave him.”

“Whatever it was before, I can’t even remember,” Lumian said with a cheeky grin, taking a sip of absinthe.

He didn’t show a hint of embarrassment or shame about having his past exposed.