Chapter 550: The Trickster of Cordu

“I’m a failure. I hardly notice whether the sun shines or not, because there’s just no time in my life for that.”

“My parents can’t support me, my education isn’t great, and I’m alone in this city, searching for a future.”

“I’ve tried for so many jobs, but I can’t get hired. Maybe nobody likes someone awkward, who doesn’t talk much and never manages to show they’re capable.”

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“For three whole days, I only had two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me up at night. Thankfully, I’d paid my rent early for the month, so I could still stay in that dark basement instead of braving the brutal winter winds outside.”

“Finally, I found a job. Night watch—working the night shift at the hospital, watching over the morgue.”

“The hospital at night was even colder than I’d imagined. The corridor wall lamps weren’t lit; everything was shrouded in darkness. I could only rely on the faint bit of light that leaked from the rooms to see where I was stepping.”

“The smell was terrible. From time to time, they’d wheel in another body, zipped up in a bag, and we’d help move it into the morgue.”

“Not exactly a great job, but at least I could afford food. I had free nights to study too—nobody wanted to come near the morgue unless a body needed to come in or go out for cremation. Of course, I still couldn’t afford books, and saving up seemed hopeless.”

“I owe it to my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I wouldn’t have gotten the job at all.”

“I dream of getting assigned to the daytime shift someday. For now, the sun comes up just as I go to bed, and I only wake when night falls. It’s wearing me down—my body feels weak, and sometimes my head just throbs.”

“One day, the porters brought in a new body.”

“I overheard it belonged to my predecessor—the one who’d quit so suddenly.”

“I was a little curious. After everyone left, I slid out the locker, quietly unzipped the bag.”

“He was an old man, skin pale and tinged blue, wrinkles everywhere. Under the dim light, he looked almost terrifying.”

“There wasn’t much hair left. Most of it was white. Even his clothes were gone—not a scrap left to cover him.”

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“On his chest, I noticed a strange mark, bluish-black. I couldn’t really make out the shape since the light was so dim.”

“I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing special happened.”

“Looking at my predecessor, I wondered—if I just kept living like this, would I end up like him when I’m old?”

“I told him that tomorrow, I’d accompany him to the crematorium myself and make sure his ashes reached the nearest free public cemetery. That way, the folks handling it wouldn’t just dump him by some random river or wasteland out of convenience.”

“It’d cost me a morning’s sleep, but that’s alright. Sunday is coming, and I’ll catch up then.”

“After saying all that, I zipped the bag back up and slid it into the locker.”

“The room seemed even darker now…”

“After that night, I started dreaming about thick fog every time I went to sleep.”

“I had a feeling something was coming—something I wasn’t sure you could even call human. Trouble was, nobody believed me. They all figured my mind was going a bit off from working in that place and told me I ought to see a doctor…”

A man sitting at the bar glanced toward the storyteller who’d suddenly gone silent.

“And then?”

This man looked to be in his thirties, wore a brown tweed coat and light yellow trousers, his hair pressed flat with a rough, dark bowler hat beside him.

He looked perfectly ordinary—just like most in the tavern. Black hair, pale blue eyes, not handsome but not ugly, nothing that stood out.

But in his eyes, the storyteller was a young man of about eighteen or nineteen, tall and slender, with short black hair and striking blue eyes. His features were sharp, leaving a memorable impression.

The young man gazed at his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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

As he spoke, a sly grin spread across his face.

The man at the bar was momentarily stunned.

“So all that was just a tall tale?”

A chorus of laughter erupted around the bar.

As the laughter faded, a thin middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed out-of-towner and said:

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumian’s story? The tale changes every day! Yesterday, he was dumped by his fiancée because he was broke. Today, he’s a morgue watcher!”

“Yeah! Last time it was thirty years to the east of the Serrence River, now thirty years on the right—he’s always spinning nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, this big village, clad in jackets of black, gray, or brown.

The black-haired youth called Lumian leaned on the bar, slowly stood up with a beaming smile.

“You all 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.”

With that, he turned, spread his hands apologetically to the stranger, flashing a brilliant smile.

“She must be a pretty good writer.”

“Sorry to have misled you.”

The ordinary-looking stranger in the tweed jacket wasn’t offended. He stood and smiled back.

“That was an interesting story.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Isn’t it only polite to introduce yourself first?” Lumian replied with a smile.

The out-of-town guest nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman seated nearby.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Yellow hair dusted with powder, eyes deeper blue than the lake, dressed in a white vest, blue fine wool jacket, and black trousers—clearly he’d dressed up before coming out.

He looked rather cold, ignoring most of the farmers and herdsmen.

The woman appeared younger than both men, her pale gray hair twisted in an elaborate bun, a white veil draped as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair color. She looked at Lumian with an open, amused smile, clearly entertained by what had just happened.

Bathed in the glow of the tavern gas lamp, Leah’s delicate nose and beautifully curved lips stood out. In a rural place like Cordu, she was stunning.

She wore a white, seamless cashmere dress, an off-white jacket, and a pair of Massil boots. Two small silver bells adorned her veil and boots, tinkling every step she took into the tavern, catching the eyes of several men.

To them, this was the kind of fashion you’d only see in places like Bigo, the provincial capital, or Trier, the nation’s heart.

Lumian nodded to the three newcomers.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What, is there something wrong with my surname?” Lumian asked curiously.

Ryan Coste explained on Leah’s behalf.

“Your surname is downright chilling. I almost couldn’t keep my voice steady just now.”

Noticing the confusion on the farmers’ faces, he went on:

“Anyone who knows sailors or sea traders will have heard this saying across the Five Seas:

‘Better to face a pirate lord or even a king at sea, than to cross paths with a Frank Lee.’

“He shares your surname.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I can’t say for sure. But if there’s a legend about it, it’s probably for good reason.”

He dropped the topic and turned to Lumian.

“Thanks for the story. It deserves a drink! What’ll you have?”

“Absinthe, please.” Lumian replied without hesitation, settling back in his seat.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… the ‘Green Fairy’?”

“I should warn you, absinthe’s dangerous. It can mess with your mind—cause hallucinations, even.”

“I didn’t expect Trier’s trends to reach this place already,” Leah put in with a laugh.

Lumian gave an ‘oh’ of surprise.

“So even folks in Trier are fond of absinthe… For us, life’s already harsh enough. Worrying about one more danger hardly matters. At least this drink lets us unwind a little.”

“Fine,” Ryan said, taking his seat and nodding to the bartender. “One absinthe. And give me a Fiery Heart as well.”

Fiery Heart was a well-known fruit spirit.

“Why not order me an absinthe too? I was the one who called out the truth earlier! I could lay out this kid’s whole story!” The first thin middle-aged man shouted, clearly unwilling to miss out on a free drink. “Come on, stranger! You must still be wondering what’s true in all that!”

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

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian piped up again.

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

“Because nobody knows whether to believe you or not,” Pierre replied smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story to tell kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ A liar’s always bound to lose trust.”

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

Ryan looked at him, checking:

“Is that alright?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can cover all these drinks,” Lumian said without a care.

“Another absinthe, then,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face lit up with glee.

“Generous stranger! This kid’s the biggest prankster in the village—stay clear of him if you know what’s good for you. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to Cordu, and he’s never left since. He was only thirteen back then—how could he possibly have worked in a hospital morgue? The nearest hospital’s all the way down in Daliege—it’d take a whole afternoon just to get there!”

“She brought him back to the village?” Leah asked sharply.

She tilted her head slightly, and the bells on her veil jingled.

Pierre nodded.

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

“I can’t even remember what his original name was,” Lumian grinned, taking a sip of his absinthe.

Oddly enough, he didn’t seem ashamed or self-conscious about having his past revealed like that.