Chapter 548: The Talespinner of Cordu

I’m a failure. I barely notice whether the sun is shining or not because I simply don’t have the time.

My parents can’t support me, I don’t have much of an education, and I’m on my own in the city searching for a better future.

I’ve applied for one job after another but never got hired. Maybe nobody likes someone who’s not good at talking, keeps to himself, and doesn’t seem all that capable.

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I survived three whole days on just two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. Luckily, I’d paid a month’s rent in advance so I could keep living in that dark basement instead of facing the bone-chilling winter wind outside.

At last, I landed a job—on night watch at the hospital, guarding the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I expected. The corridor wall lamps weren’t on, plunging everything into gloom. I could only see my feet thanks to the faint light seeping out from the rooms.

The smell in there was awful. Every now and then, another corpse would arrive zipped up in a body bag, and we’d help carry it into the morgue.

It’s not a great job, but at least it lets me afford some bread. The quiet nights give me time to study, since almost no one comes near the morgue unless they’re dropping off or removing a body for cremation. Of course, I still don’t have the money to buy any books, and I can’t see myself saving up for them any time soon.

I owe my predecessor a thank-you. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I probably wouldn’t have landed even this gig.

I dream of working day shifts instead. Right now I sleep when the sun comes up and wake after dark. The schedule’s wearing me thin, and sometimes my head throbs from it.

One day, the porters brought in a new body.

Word was, it belonged to my predecessor—the guy who’d left without warning.

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

He was an old man, his face ghostly pale and blue, wrinkled all over. In that dim light, the sight of him was genuinely unsettling.

He had little hair left, most strands snowy white. All his clothes had been stripped away—not so much as a scrap left to cover him.

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I saw a strange mark on his chest, dark and greenish-blue. I can’t quite describe what it looked like—the lights were far too dim.

I reached out and touched the mark, but nothing felt unusual.

Looking at him made me wonder—if I kept living like this, would I end up old and lonely the same way he had?

I told him I’d accompany him to the crematorium the next day, personally take his ashes to the nearest free cemetery, just in case the staff got lazy and decided to toss him in some river or onto a random patch of wasteland.

It meant losing a morning’s sleep, but I figured it was fine—Sunday was right around the corner and I could catch up then.

After saying my piece, I zipped up the body bag and slid it back into the cold storage drawer.

The room seemed even darker after that…

Ever since that night, I always dreamed of thick fog whenever I slept.

I could sense something was coming, that soon I’d cross paths with something not quite human. Of course, no one believed me. They figured that sort of job in that sort of place had finally broken my mind, that I needed to see a doctor…

Seated at the bar, a male patron glanced over at the storyteller, who’d suddenly fallen silent:

“And then?”

This man looked to be in his thirties. He wore a brown tweed jacket and pale yellow trousers, his hair pressed flat beneath a battered dark bowler hat.

He seemed perfectly ordinary, much like the rest of the tavern crowd—black hair, light blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly, nothing to really set him apart.

From his perspective, the storyteller was a young man around eighteen or nineteen. He stood tall and slender, with short black hair and striking light blue eyes. Unlike the average, his features were sharply defined, an impression that caught the eye.

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

“And then?”

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“Then I quit and moved back to the countryside. Now I’m here, spinning yarns with you instead.”

As he quipped, a sly, playful smile flashed across his face.

The man at the bar blinked in surprise:

“Wait, you made all that up?”

“Ha!” Laughter erupted around the bar.

As the laughter faded, a gaunt middle-aged man looked over at the slightly embarrassed visitor and said:

“Outsider, you actually bought Lumian’s story? He tells a different one every day. Yesterday he was a poor guy dumped by his fiancée—today he’s working the night shift at the morgue!”

“Right! Next he’ll claim thirty years on the left bank of the Serrence River and thirty years on the right! He talks a mile a minute—and it’s all nonsense,” another regular chimed in.

They were both farmers from Cordu, this sprawling village. Like most here, they wore jackets in shades of black, gray, or brown.

The dark-haired youth—called Lumian—braced himself on the bar as he rose, grinning as he spoke:

“You all know I didn’t make these stories up. They’re from my sister—she’s the real storyteller! She even writes columns for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned sideways, flashing a brilliant smile at the outsider as he shrugged:

“Guess she’s really talented after all.

Sorry for tricking you.”

The man in the brown tweed jacket wasn’t offended by any of this. He casually stood as well, offering a friendly smile:

“It’s an entertaining story.”

“And you are?”

“Isn’t it basic manners to introduce yourself before asking for someone’s name first?” Lumian joked.

The out-of-towner nodded slightly:

“I’m Ryan Coste.

These two are my companions—Valentine and Leah.”

He gestured to the man and woman seated nearby.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, his blond hair powdered and his eyes a deep blue—not quite as bright as lakewater. He wore a white vest over a blue worsted jacket and black trousers. Clearly, he’d put some effort into his appearance before going out.

He maintained an icy expression, barely glancing at the crowd of local farmers and shepherds.

The woman seemed the youngest of the three, her pale gray hair done up in an intricate chignon, topped with a white veil doubling as a hat.

Her eyes mirrored her hair—a silvery-gray—and when she looked at Lumian, she didn’t bother hiding her amusement. The whole encounter seemed to thoroughly amuse her.

The light from the tavern’s gas lamps highlighted Leah’s striking features—she had a shapely nose and perfectly arched lips. By Cordu village standards, she was a genuine beauty.

She wore a white cashmere dress tailored snug without any pleats, topped by an off-white little jacket and a pair of Marcille boots. Both her veil and boots were adorned with silver bells, which jingled merrily as she’d entered the tavern, catching every eye. Several of the men couldn’t look away.

To them, this style belonged in a place like Bigo, the provincial capital, or Trier, the nation’s heart—hardly the norm for a rural village.

Lumian nodded to the three visitors:

“I’m Lumian Lee. Just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

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

Ryan Coste stepped in to explain for Leah:

“Your surname is enough to strike fear into some people. Just now, I nearly couldn’t control my voice.”

Seeing the local farmers and shepherds look puzzled, he explained further:

“Anyone who’s spent time among sailors or sea merchants knows this saying that goes around the Five Seas:

‘Better to cross paths with a pirate lord—maybe even a king—than with a man named Frank Lee.’

“His surname’s Lee, too.”

“Is he that terrifying?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head:

“I really couldn’t say. But when a rumor spreads that far, there’s gotta be something to it.”

He cut the topic short and turned back to Lumian:

“Thanks for your story. It earned you a drink—what’ll you have?”

“Absinthe—the Green Fairy,” Lumian answered without hesitation, retaking his seat.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly:

“The Green Fairy… Absinthe?

Let me warn you: wormwood can be harmful. Absinthe might give you hallucinations—it can mess with your mind.”

“Looks like Trier’s drinking craze has spread even here,” Leah said with a smile.

Lumian gave a casual “oh”:

“So folks in Trier drink Absinthe, too…

Life’s hard enough as it is. A little more damage won’t make much difference. At least the drink helps us relax.”

“Alright.” Ryan took his seat and nodded to the bartender. “One Green Fairy then, and make mine a Fiery Heart as well.”

Fiery Heart—that’s the infamous fruit brandy.

“Why not order a Green Fairy for me too? I was the one who pointed out the truth just now—plus, I can tell them everything about this rascal here! Outsiders, I can tell you’re still not sure whether that story was real!” The thin middle-aged man, the first to reveal Lumian’s tall tale, complained loudly.

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

Before Ryan decided, Lumian jumped in again:

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

“Because nobody knows if you’re telling the truth or not.” Pierre retorted, grinning smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ You know what they say: keep lying, lose everyone’s trust.”

“Fine.” Lumian shrugged, eyes on the bartender as a glass of pale green liquor slid his way.

Ryan turned to him, checking:

“Is that alright with you?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can cover the bill,” Lumian replied, breezy as ever.

“Then make that two Green Fairies,” Ryan said, nodding again.

Pierre instantly broke into a wide smile:

“You’re generous for an outsider. This kid’s the best prankster in the village—you should probably keep your distance.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back here. He never left again. Before that, he was only thirteen—there’s no way he could’ve been working night shifts at the hospital. By the way, the closest hospital is down in Daliege—it takes a whole afternoon just to walk there.”

“She brought him back?” Leah asked sharply.

She cocked her head, and the bells on her veil chimed softly.

Pierre nodded:

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“And that’s how he took Aurore’s surname—Lee. Even his name, Lumian, was chosen by Aurore.”

“I’ve already forgotten what my old name was,” Lumian said cheerfully, sipping his absinthe.

Evidently, he felt no shame or embarrassment about having his past laid bare.