Chapter 556: Tales Over Absinthe

I’m a failure. I barely notice if the sun is shining or not—there’s just no time for that.

My parents can’t support me, I never had much schooling, and here I am, all alone in this city, searching for a future.

I’ve applied for countless jobs, but never got hired. Maybe no one likes someone who can’t talk well, hates socializing, and shows no real skills.

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For three whole days, I survived on just two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me tossing all night, but at least I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could keep living in that dark basement and didn’t have to brave the biting winter wind outside.

Finally, I landed a job as a night watchman at the hospital, guarding the morgue.

The hospital at night is colder than I imagined. The corridor lamps aren’t on, everything’s dim, so I rely on the thin beams of light leaking from the rooms to see my feet.

The place smells awful. Every so often, someone shoves a corpse in a body bag through the doors. We’re there to help load them into the morgue.

It’s not a good job, but at least I can afford bread. The nights are quiet, giving me time to study—no one’s coming down here unless they have a body for the morgue or need to haul one out for the crematorium. Not that I can even afford books right now. Honestly, saving money feels hopeless.

I owe this to my predecessor. If he hadn’t quit all of a sudden, I wouldn’t even have this job.

I dream of someday working the day shift. Right now, I sleep when the sun rises and wake up at night. It’s wearing me down. My body feels weak, and my head throbs sometimes.

One day, the porters brought in a new corpse.

They said it was my predecessor—the one who left out of the blue.

I was curious, so after everyone left, I slid open the drawer and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man, skin both bluish and pale, deep wrinkles everywhere. In the dim light, he looked downright terrifying.

Most of his hair was gone, and what remained had turned white. They’d stripped him of everything—not a single scrap of clothing left.

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I saw a strange mark on his chest, dark blue-black, but I couldn’t really make out what it was—the light was just too dim.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing happened.

Looking at him, I wondered: if I keep going like this, will I end up just like him when I’m old…?

I told him I’d go with him to the crematorium tomorrow, personally take his ashes to the nearest free cemetery, so the folks in charge wouldn’t just dump him in a river or on some patch of wasteland out of convenience.

It’d cost me a morning of sleep, but it was almost Sunday anyway—there’d be time to catch up.

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

The room somehow felt even darker…

Since that night, whenever I sleep, all I dream about is thick fog.

I can sense something is coming. I just know it—sooner or later, something not quite human will come to me. But no one believes me. They think my mind’s snapped after working there so long—that I need to see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar glanced at the storyteller, who’d suddenly stopped speaking.

“And then?”

This man was in his thirties, dressed in a coarse brown jacket and light yellow trousers. His hair was slicked flat, and beside his hand sat a battered dark round hat.

There was nothing remarkable about his looks—black hair, pale blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly—he blended in perfectly with most of the tavern crowd.

From his perspective, the storyteller was a tall, lanky young man not more than eighteen or nineteen. He too had short black hair, light blue eyes, but his features were sharply defined, striking in their own way.

The young man gazed down into his empty glass, sighing softly.

“And then?”

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“And then I quit and came back to the country. Here I am, sharing tall tales with you.”

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

The man at the bar paused, startled.

“You mean that whole story was just a tall tale?”

Laughter exploded from everyone around the bar.

When the laughter died down, a lean middle-aged man turned to the embarrassed visitor.

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He spins a new yarn every day. Yesterday he was some poor sap jilted by his fiancée because he was broke—today he’s a night watchman for the dead!”

“That’s right. One day it’s thirty years on the east side of the Serrence River, the next it’s the right bank—nothing but nonsense!” another village regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, a big village, dressed in short jackets of black, grey, or brown.

Lumian, the dark-haired youth, leaned both hands on the bar and slowly stood up, grinning.

“You know, I don’t make these stories up. My sister writes them. She loves telling tales, and she’s a columnist for ‘Weekly Novel Magazine.'”

He turned sideways, showing empty hands to the outsider and flashed a bright smile.

“Guess her writing really is convincing.

Sorry for misleading you.”

The ordinary-looking man in the brown jacket wasn’t offended. He stood as well, returning a smile.

“Entertaining story.”

“And you are?”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself before asking someone else’s name?” Lumian quipped.

The out-of-towner nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.

These two are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman seated on either side of him.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight. His yellow hair was dusted with powder, and his not-very-large eyes were a shade deeper than lake blue. He wore a white vest, a blue fine-wool coat, and black trousers. Clearly, he’d taken care to look presentable before coming out.

His face was cool, a little aloof—he barely glanced at the nearby farmers and herders.

The woman looked younger than the two men, with a head of long pale-gray hair worked into an elaborate bun and a white veil as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair. She gazed at Lumian with open amusement, clearly finding the whole exchange funny.

Under the tavern’s gas lamps, Leah’s upturned nose and gracefully curved lips stood out. In a country place like Cordu, she was strikingly beautiful.

She wore a white cashmere dress, snug and unpleated, with a cream jacket and a pair of Marcille boots. Tiny silver bells dangled from her veil and boots; as she’d walked in, every step had jingled, drawing plenty of stares from the local men.

To most of them, her look belonged in big cities like Bigo or the capital, Trier.

Lumian nodded in greeting to the three outsiders.

“I’m Lumian Lee. You can just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

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

Ryan Coste helped Leah explain.

“That surname’s chilling. I nearly slipped up myself just now.”

Seeing the puzzled looks from the farmers and herders, he elaborated.

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

“You’d rather run into a pirate admiral… even a king, than cross paths with a man named Frank Lee.”

“His last name’s Lee, too.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I have no idea, but with a reputation like that, it can’t be just rumors.”

Then he dropped the subject and turned to Lumian.

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

“An Absinthe,” Lumian said with zero hesitation, sinking back onto his stool.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… That’s wormwood liquor, right?

Just a heads-up: wormwood’s bad for you. That stuff can mess with your head—cause hallucinations.”

“Looks like Trier’s latest trends have made it all the way out here,” Leah chimed in with a smile.

Lumian let out an ‘oh’:

“So Trier folks like absinthe too…

Life’s tough enough as it is. Who cares about a little extra harm? At least it helps you relax.”

“Alright.” Ryan sat back and looked at the bartender. “One Absinthe. And a Fiery Heart for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a famous fruit liqueur.

“Why not order me an Absinthe too? I’m the one who clued you in—I could give you the real scoop on this kid!” The lean middle-aged man who exposed Lumian earlier shouted, “Stranger, I can tell you’re not sure what’s true in that story!”

“Pierre, you’ll do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back, raising his voice.

Before Ryan could answer, Lumian added,

“Why can’t I just tell a second story myself? That way, I’d get another Absinthe!”

“Because no one knows whether to believe you.” Pierre grinned. “Wasn’t your sister’s favorite story to tell the children ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’? Keep lying and no one believes you anymore.”

“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 our tab,” Lumian replied carelessly.

“Then another Absinthe,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre lit up, all smiles.

“Generous stranger—this kid’s the worst prankster in the village. Stay away from him if you know what’s good for you.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him here from outside. He’s never left since. Think about it—he was only thirteen at the time. How could he work at a hospital morgue? The closest hospital’s all the way down the mountain in Daliege—it’s a whole afternoon’s walk.”

“Brought here?” Leah picked up immediately.

She turned a bit, and the bells on her veil tinkled.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took his sister’s surname, Lee. Even ‘Lumian’ was a name Aurore picked for him.”

“I’ve forgotten what I was called before,” Lumian said with a grin, taking a sip of absinthe.

He didn’t look ashamed at having his past exposed, not even a little embarrassed.