Chapter 552: Mist and Stories at the Bar

I’m a failure. Sunshine or rain never really register with me—I simply don’t have the time to notice.

My parents can’t offer support and I never made it far in school. Alone, I drift through this city searching for some kind of future.

I’ve hunted for job after job but no one ever seems to hire me. Maybe it’s because I’m bad at conversation, don’t like small talk and never manage to show much ability.

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For three whole days, all I ate were two meager pieces of bread. My empty stomach kept me up at night. Luckily, I’d paid rent a month in advance, letting me stay in that dark, damp basement without braving the biting winter wind outside.

Finally, I landed a job—night watch in a hospital, keeping vigil over the morgue.

Hospital nights were colder than I’d ever imagined. The corridor wall lamps stayed dark; every step lay shrouded in shadow, lit only by dim slivers of light leaking out from other rooms.

It smelled awful there. Every so often, someone wheeled in another body zipped up tight in a bag, and we had to push it into the morgue.

Not the best job, but it paid enough for bread. The long, quiet hours meant I could squeeze in some study time. Hardly anyone ever visited unless they needed to deliver or collect a body. Of course, I couldn’t afford new books, and saving up looked impossible.

I owe my thanks to the guy who worked there before me. If he hadn’t quit so suddenly, I wouldn’t have had a shot at this job at all.

I dream of working the daytime rotation. Now, I only sleep when the sun comes up and rise when night falls. It’s leaving me worn out and sometimes my head throbs for no reason.

One day, the orderlies brought in a new body.

Rumor had it, this cadaver belonged to my predecessor who’d quit out of the blue.

Curiosity got the better of me. After everyone left, I pulled out his drawer and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man with a face gone pale and bluish under the deep lines of age. In the faint glow, he looked downright scary.

His hair was thinning, almost all white. They’d stripped him bare, not even a scrap of cloth left to cover him.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest, a bruised, dark shape I couldn’t really make out. The lighting was just too dim.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing happened—no special sensation.

Staring at my former colleague, I couldn’t help but wonder. If I keep living like this, will I end up like him one day?

I told him I’d take him to the crematorium myself tomorrow, then carry his ashes to the nearest public cemetery to make sure the staff don’t get lazy and dump the remains in a river or empty field.

It’ll cost me a morning of sleep, but that’s fine—Sunday’s just around the corner anyway, so I can catch up then.

After saying that, I zipped the body bag closed and slid it back into its slot.

Somehow, the room seemed even darker than before…

From that day on, I started dreaming of thick fog every time I fell asleep.

I’ve got a feeling—like something big is about to happen. I sense that sooner or later, something that might not even be human will come looking for me. But no one believes me. They just think the job is messing with my head, that I need to see a doctor…

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

“So? What happened next?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, dressed in a brown tweed jacket and pale yellow trousers. His hair was flattened neatly and a battered dark round hat rested at his side.

He seemed completely ordinary—average looks, black hair and pale blue eyes, not handsome but not ugly, nothing that stood out.

To him, the storyteller was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, tall and slender with the same black hair and blue eyes, but with strikingly sharp features that made him instantly memorable.

The young man stared into his empty glass and sighed, saying:

“What happened next?”

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

A sly grin crept across his face, mischief twinkling in his eyes.

The man at the bar froze in surprise.

“So you made all that up?”

A burst of laughter exploded around the bar.

As the laughter died down, a skinny middle-aged man shot the embarrassed guest a look and said,

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He changes it every day. Yesterday, he was some poor sap dumped by his fiancée because of his debts; today, he’s a night watch at the morgue!”

“Yeah! Yesterday it was thirty years on the left bank of the Serrence, today it’s thirty years on the right—just a load of nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, wearing simple black, gray, or brown jackets.

The black-haired young man, called Lumian, propped himself up on the bar, stood up slowly and said with a beaming smile,

“You know these stories aren’t my invention—my sister writes them. She’s a columnist for that ‘Weekly Novel Magazine.'”

He turned, spread his hands to the out-of-town guest, and grinned brightly.

“Guess she’s got some real skill.”

“Sorry for the confusion.”

The guest in the brown tweed, still unbothered, stood up and answered with a smile:

“It was an entertaining tale.”

“What do I call you?”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself before asking someone else’s name?” Lumian replied, smiling.

The visitor nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He was referring to the man and woman seated beside him.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight, blond hair dusted with powder, his eyes a shade just deeper than lake blue. He wore a white vest, blue fine wool jacket and black trousers—clearly dressed with care before stepping out.

He wore a frosty expression and did little to acknowledge the surrounding farmers or shepherds.

The woman looked younger than the two men, with long ash-gray hair woven into an intricate chignon and a white scarf serving as a makeshift hat.

Her eyes matched the color of her hair. She gazed at Lumian with open amusement, clearly finding the exchange entertaining.

Beneath the gaslight, Leah’s features stood out—a sharp nose and gracefully curved lips. In a village like Cordu, she was strikingly beautiful.

She wore a form-fitting white cashmere dress with a pale cream jacket and long Marsil boots. Two silver bells, one on her scarf and one on her boots, jingled as she entered, turning many male heads.

People here figured only women from places like Bigo or the capital Trier dressed so fashionably.

Lumian nodded to the three newcomers.

“I’m Lumian Lee, but you can just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What, something wrong with my family name?” Lumian asked, curious.

Ryan Coste explained for Leah:

“That surname sends a chill up people’s spines. I nearly lost my composure when I heard it.”

Seeing confusion on the faces of the local farmers and shepherds, he elaborated,

“Anyone who’s ever dealt with sailors or merchants knows the saying across the Five Seas:

‘Better to meet a pirate admiral—or even a pirate king—than cross paths with a man called Frank Lee.’

“His surname’s Lee as well.”

“Is he that dangerous?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I really don’t know. But if stories like that float around, there’s probably a reason.”

He dropped the subject and turned back to Lumian.

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

“Absinthe,” Lumian answered without hesitation, settling back onto his stool.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… ‘Green Fairy’?”

“Just so you know, the stuff’s not good for you. Absinthe can harm your mind—cause hallucinations.”

“Guess Trier’s trends reach even here,” Leah added with an amused smile.

Lumian gave a little, “Oh,”

“So Triers drink absinthe too… For us, life’s hard enough as it is. One more little poison makes no difference, and it does help the mind relax.”

“Fine by me.” Ryan turned to the bartender. “One absinthe, and get me a ‘Fiery Heart’ as well.”

‘Fiery Heart’ was a well-known fruit brandy.

“How come I don’t get absinthe? I was the one who told you the truth! I can spill everything about this rascal too!” The skinny middle-aged man who first exposed Lumian complained loudly. “You strangers still aren’t sure whether that story was true, are you?”

“Pierre, you’ll do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back at full volume.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian added:

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

“Because people never know whether to believe you,” Pierre replied smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’—nobody trusts a habitual liar.”

“Alright then,” Lumian shrugged, watching the bartender slide a pale green drink his way.

Ryan glanced at him, checking:

“That okay?”

“No problem, just as long as your purse can cover the round,” Lumian replied, not minding at all.

“Another absinthe, then,” Ryan agreed.

Pierre immediately lit up.

“You’re a generous man, stranger! This kid’s the biggest prankster in the village—you’d best steer clear of him. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to Cordu and he hasn’t left since. Before that, he was only thirteen—how could he have worked as a morgue watch? The nearest hospital is down at Daliege, and it’s a full afternoon’s hike away.”

“Brought back?” Leah asked sharply.

She shifted slightly, the silver bells on her scarf chiming.

Pierre nodded.

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“Then he took Aurore’s surname—’Lee.’ Even his name, ‘Lumian,’ was one she picked.”

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

He looked completely unfazed about having his past dragged out in front of everyone.