Chapter 553: The Night Watcher’s Tale

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

My parents can’t support me and I don’t have much education, so I’m all alone in this city chasing after a future.

I’ve applied for countless jobs, but no one hired me. Maybe it’s because nobody likes someone who’s bad at talking, hates socializing, and doesn’t seem very capable.

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There was a stretch of three days when I only ate two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. Luckily, I paid my rent a month in advance, so I could keep staying in that dark basement and didn’t have to brave the harsh winter winds outside.

At last, I finally found a job—keeping watch at a hospital, serving as a night guard for the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I imagined. The corridor lights stayed off, and it was so dim I could only rely on a faint glow leaking from the rooms to see where I stepped.

The smell there was awful. Every so often a corpse, zipped up in a body bag, would be wheeled in. We had to help carry it into the morgue.

It wasn’t a great job, but at least it meant I could afford bread. Plus, there was plenty of free time at night to study—after all, nobody wanted to visit the morgue unless they were delivering a body or picking one up for cremation. Of course, I didn’t have money for books yet, and saving up seemed out of reach.

I owe thanks to the guy who worked before me. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I might not have even landed this job.

I dreamt of someday shifting to the day shift. For now, I always slept when the sun was out and woke when the night came. My body was growing frail and, sometimes, my head would throb.

One day, the movers wheeled in a new corpse.

Rumor had it, it was the very colleague who quit without warning.

I was a bit curious about him. Once everyone left, I quietly slid out the drawer, unzipping the body bag in secret.

He was an old man. His face was a ghostly mix of blue and white, covered in wrinkles, making him look terrifying under the weak lights.

Only a few wisps of white hair were left on his scalp and he was completely naked—not even a scrap of cloth left.

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There was a strange mark on his chest, dark greenish-black. I couldn’t quite make out the shape with how dim it was.

I reached out and touched the mark, but nothing happened. It felt no different from the rest.

Looking at my predecessor, I wondered—if I kept on this path, would I end up just like him when I got old…

I told him, tomorrow I’d accompany him to the crematorium myself and see his ashes placed properly in the nearest free cemetery, so the folks in charge couldn’t just throw him in a river or some remote wasteland out of convenience.

It would cost me a morning’s sleep, but that was fine. Sunday was just around the corner and I could catch up then.

After saying that, I zipped up the bag and slid him back into the drawer.

Somehow, the light in that room seemed to grow even dimmer…

After that night, every time I slept I dreamed of a heavy fog.

I have this feeling that something is going to happen soon, that sooner or later, something not quite human will come looking for me. But nobody believes me—they just think working in a morgue has twisted my mind and that I ought to see a doctor…

Seated at the bar, a male patron looked over at the storyteller who had suddenly gone quiet:

“And then?”

The man was in his thirties, dressed in a rough brown wool jacket and light yellow trousers. His hair was neatly pressed, and he had a plain, dark round hat beside him.

He looked completely ordinary, just like most folks in the bar—black hair, pale blue eyes. He wasn’t handsome, but not ugly either. No features stood out.

To him, the storyteller was a young man, eighteen or nineteen, tall and lanky, also with short black hair and pale blue eyes, but strikingly chiseled features that made him stand out.

The young man stared at his empty glass, let out a sigh, and said:

“And then?”

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

As he spoke, a sly smile crept across his face.

The male patron looked startled:

“You were making all that up?”

“Haha.” Laughter erupted around the bar.

Once the laughter quieted, a gaunt middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed patron and said:

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He tells a new one every day! Yesterday he was a jilted lover dumped for being poor, today suddenly he’s a night watchman at the morgue!”

“Yeah, and he’s always spinning nonsense—one day thirty years east of the Serrence River, the next thirty years on the west!” another bar regular added.

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

The young man called Lumian propped himself up on the bar with both hands, then stood up slowly, a bright smile on his face:

“You know this isn’t my own story—I’m just repeating my sister’s. She loves making up tales and she’s a columnist for some ‘Weekly Novel Magazine.'”

He turned to the stranger, spread his hands, and offered a dazzling grin:

“Guess she really does have a talent for writing.

“Sorry for tricking you.”

The plain-looking man in the brown jacket wasn’t offended. He rose too, smiling back:

“It was an entertaining story.”

“Mind if I ask your name?”

“Isn’t it polite to introduce yourself first before asking someone else’s name?” Lumian grinned.

The traveling patron nodded:

“I’m Ryan Coste.

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He nodded toward the man and woman seated next to him.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Chalk-dusted blonde hair, slightly narrow eyes a shade darker than lake-blue, wearing a white vest, blue fine-wool coat, and black trousers—clearly dressed up carefully before heading out.

His expression was cold, and he mostly ignored the local farmers and herders.

The woman seemed younger than the two men, with long light gray hair twisted into an elaborate bun and a white veil worn as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair. She looked at Lumian with unveiled amusement, apparently finding the whole situation nothing but funny.

Under the glow of the tavern gas lamps, the woman called Leah showed off a pert nose and beautifully shaped lips—by Cordu village standards, she was stunning.

She wore a white cashmere dress with no pleats, an off-white little jacket, and a pair of Macier boots. Two tiny silver bells, one on her veil and one on her boots, jingled every step she took into the tavern, drawing the attention of every man around.

To them, this kind of style belonged in big cities like Bigo, the provincial capital, or Trier, the imperial metropolis.

Lumian nodded to all three visitors:

“I’m Lumian Lee. Feel free to just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong? Is there something wrong with my last name?” Lumian asked, curious.

Ryan Coste explained for Leah:

“That surname is famous, and a little frightening. I almost couldn’t keep my voice steady when I heard it.”

Seeing the local farmers’ puzzled looks, he went on:

“Anyone who’s met sailors or sea traders knows an old saying that goes around the Five Seas:

“You’d rather face a pirate captain or even a king than cross paths with someone named Frank Lee.

“His surname is Lee too.”

“Is he scary?” Lumian wondered.

Ryan shook his head:

“I’m not sure. But with that kind of reputation hanging over him, it can’t be good.”

He ended the subject and said to Lumian:

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

“An Absinthe,” Lumian answered without hesitation, taking a seat again.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly:

“Absinthe… you mean ‘Green Fairy’?”

“Let me give you a word of warning—absinthe isn’t good for your health. It can cause hallucinations, even drive people over the edge.”

“Looks like the Trier trends have reached all the way here,” Leah added, smiling.

Lumian let out an ‘oh’:

“So Trier folks drink ‘Green Fairy’ too… For us, life’s already tough enough. No point worrying over a little more harm. At least the stuff helps us unwind.”

“Alright,” Ryan said as he sat down, gesturing to the bartender. “One Absinthe, and add a Fiery Heart for me.”

‘Fiery Heart’ was a famous fruit brandy.

“Why’m I not getting an Absinthe? I told you the real story. I could out the kid’s secrets for you right now!” The gaunt middle-aged man was quick to protest. “Strangers, I tell you, you can’t honestly believe that tale, can you?”

“Pierre, you’d do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back loud enough for the whole bar.

Before Ryan could answer, Lumian piped up again:

“Why can’t I just tell my own story? That way I’d get another Absinthe!”

“Because nobody knows if what you say is true.” Pierre smirked. “Your sister’s favorite bedtime story for kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Everyone knows what happens when you lie too much—you lose all your credit.”

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

Ryan glanced over, seeking Lumian’s approval:

“Is that alright?”

“Sure, as long as your wallet can handle the tab!” Lumian said breezily.

“Then let’s have another Absinthe.” Ryan nodded.

Pierre immediately grinned from ear to ear:

“Such generosity, outsider! This kid is the most notorious prankster in the village. You better steer clear of him.

“Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village and he never left again. You think—he was just thirteen then. How could he have worked as a night watchman at a hospital? The nearest hospital’s down in Daliege, at least an afternoon’s walk away.”

“Brought back?” Leah asked sharply.

She turned her head slightly and the silver bell rang.

Pierre nodded:

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“Ever since then, he’s been Aurore’s little brother Lee. Even the name ‘Lumian’ was given by Aurore.”

“I can’t even remember what I was called before,” Lumian said with a grin, sipping his absinthe.

He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed or self-conscious about having his past exposed.