Chapter 549: Tales at the Tavern

I’m a failure. I hardly pay attention to whether the sun is shining or not—there’s simply no time for that.

My parents couldn’t support me. I wasn’t highly educated either, so I’ve been wandering the city alone, searching for a future.

I’ve applied to countless jobs, but none would hire me. Maybe it’s because I’m not great at talking, not big on socializing, and I didn’t exactly impress anyone with my abilities.

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For three whole days, I survived on just two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake every night. Luckily, I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could still keep living in that dark basement. It meant I didn’t have to face the biting winter wind outside.

At last, I landed a job—night duty at the hospital, watching over the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I’d imagined. The corridor wall lamps were off, leaving everything shrouded in gloom. Only slivers of light from neighboring rooms helped me see where I was walking.

The place always smelled bad. Every so often, they’d bring in a corpse zipped up in a body bag and I’d help haul it into the morgue.

It wasn’t a good job, but at least I could afford some bread. The nights were slow enough for me to study, too—after all, hardly anyone came by unless they needed to deliver or collect a body for cremation. Of course, I didn’t have money for books yet, and I saw no hope of saving up.

I owe this job to the guy before me. If he hadn’t quit out of nowhere, I probably wouldn’t even have gotten this gig.

I keep dreaming of the day I can switch to the daytime shift. Right now, I sleep when the sun’s out and wake at night. It’s left me weak, with splitting headaches from time to time.

One day, a porter delivered a new corpse.

Someone said it was my predecessor—the one who’d quit so suddenly.

I couldn’t help being curious. After everyone left, I pulled out the drawer and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man—skin pale and bluish, wrinkled from head to toe. Under that dim light, his face was downright unsettling.

He didn’t have much hair; most of what was left had gone white. They’d stripped off all his clothes, not even a scrap left to cover him.

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On his chest there was this strange mark, a deep bluish-black. I couldn’t really make out the details—the lighting was just too poor.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing happened.

Looking at my former coworker, I started to wonder—if I kept going like this, would I end up just like him when I got old…

I told him, tomorrow I’d take him to the crematorium myself. I’d make sure to bring his ashes to the nearest free cemetery, so the folks in charge wouldn’t just dump him in a river or some field to save themselves the trouble.

I’d lose out on a morning’s sleep, but that was fine. It’d be Sunday soon, so I could catch up later.

After saying that, I zipped the bag and pushed the drawer back in.

The light in that room seemed to grow dimmer…

Ever since that day, every time I slept, I dreamed of thick fog.

I’ve got a feeling something’s coming. Sooner or later, something—not even sure if you could call it human—is going to find me. But no one believes me. They just think I’ve lost my mind working that job in that place, that I need to see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar looked over at the storyteller, who’d abruptly stopped:

“And then?”

The man was in his thirties, dressed in a rough brown overcoat and light yellow trousers. His hair was neatly flattened, and beside him sat a simple, dark round hat.

He looked completely ordinary, just like most people in the tavern—black hair, pale blue eyes, neither good-looking nor ugly, nothing stood out about him.

But to him, the storyteller was an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old young man, tall and slender, with the same black short hair and pale blue eyes. His features, though, were striking—handsome enough to turn heads.

The young man stared at his empty glass and sighed:

“And then?”

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

As he finished, his face lit up with a sly grin.

The man at the bar paused, caught off guard:

“Are you saying all that was made up?”

“Ha!” Laughter erupted around the bar.

Once the laughter died down, a thin, middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed stranger and said:

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He changes it up every day. Yesterday, he was dumped by his fiancée for being poor. Today he’s a morgue attendant!”

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

They were all farmers from Cordu, a large village. Their short jackets were black, gray, or brown.

The young man, called Lumian, braced himself on the bar and pushed to his feet, grinning:

“You all know I’m not making these stories up—they’re written by my sister. She loves writing and even has her own column in the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

With that, he turned to the out-of-towner and spread his hands, flashing a bright smile:

“Guess she’s actually pretty good at it.

Sorry for leading you on.”

The plain-looking man in the brown coat didn’t look offended. Instead, he stood up and smiled back:

“That was an entertaining story.”

“Mind telling me your name?”

“Isn’t it only polite to introduce yourself first?” Lumian shot back with a friendly grin.

The stranger nodded:

“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 blond hair lightly powdered. His eyes—darker than lake water—were narrowed. He wore a white vest, a blue wool coat, and black trousers. It was clear he’d carefully dressed for the occasion.

His expression was cold. He hardly glanced at the surrounding farmers and herders.

The woman looked younger than both men. Her long, pale gray hair was styled in an elaborate updo, wrapped in a white veil that doubled as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and when she looked at Lumian, her smile was completely open. It was clear she found the situation amusing.

In the glow of the tavern’s gas lights, Leah’s pretty nose and graceful lips were impossible to miss—in a village like Cordu, she was a rare beauty.

She wore a white, seamless cashmere dress that hugged her figure, topped with a cream-colored jacket and a pair of Massir knee-high boots. Silver bells dangled from her veil and boots, jingling all the way into the tavern—plenty of men had watched her walk in, unable to look away.

To them, this was the kind of fashion you’d only find in major cities like Bigo’s provincial capital or Trier, the capital.

Lumian gave the three visitors a nod:

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong? Something off about my surname?” Lumian asked, curious.

Ryan Coste explained for Leah:

“That surname gives people chills. Earlier, I nearly lost my nerve just from hearing it.”

Seeing the baffled looks on the farmers and herders, he went on:

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

‘Better face those pirate generals—even the pirate kings—than cross paths with a man named Frank Lee.’

“His surname is Lee, too.”

“Is he that dangerous?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head:

“I can’t say, but a rumor like that doesn’t spring up for nothing.”

He let the matter drop and turned back to Lumian:

“Thanks for the story. You’ve earned yourself a drink. What’ll you have?”

“An Absinthe,” Lumian answered without hesitation and took his seat again.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly:

“Absinthe… You mean the Green Fairy?

Just so you know, absinthe isn’t exactly good for you. It can mess with your mind, even cause hallucinations.”

“Looks like the trends in Trier have made it here too,” Leah added with a teasing smile.

Lumian replied with a casual “Oh”:

“So Trier folks are into Absinthe too…

For us, life’s hard enough already. A little extra harm isn’t worth worrying about—at least this drink helps you really unwind.”

“Alright,” Ryan settled back into his seat and nodded at the bartender. “One Absinthe and a Fiery Heart for me.”

Fiery Heart was a famous fruit brandy.

“Why not order me an Absinthe, too? I was the one who told you the truth—and I could tell you all about this guy’s background!” The thin, middle-aged man who’d called out Lumian earlier piped up indignantly. “Stranger, I can tell you’re still not sure if that story’s true!”

“Pierre, you’d do anything for a free drink!” Lumian called out.

Before Ryan could respond, Lumian added:

“Why can’t I be the one telling the story? Then I’d get another Absinthe!”

“Because no one knows if what you say is true,” Pierre replied smugly, “Your sister’s favorite story to tell the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ A liar always loses their credibility in the end.”

“Fair enough.” Lumian shrugged and watched as the bartender slid a pale green drink toward him.

Ryan looked his way and asked:

“That alright with you?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can cover the tab,” Lumian said with a carefree smile.

“Better make that two Absinthe,” Ryan agreed.

Pierre’s face lit up:

“Generous stranger! This kid’s the village’s biggest troublemaker—you’d best keep your distance.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back here and he’s never left since. Think about it—he was only thirteen before that, how could he have worked at a hospital morgue? The nearest hospital is in Daliege, a whole afternoon’s walk away.”

“Brought him back?” Leah asked sharply.

She turned her head, making her silver bells jingle.

Pierre nodded:

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“Afterward, he took Aurore’s last name—Lee. Even his first name, Lumian, was picked by her.”

“I don’t even remember what I used to be called,” Lumian said with a cheeky grin as he sipped the absinthe.

If anything, he seemed completely unfazed about having his past spilled in front of everyone.