Chapter 559: Tales Over Absinthe

“I’m a failure. I hardly bother to notice if the sun’s out or not—there’s just never any time.”

“My parents can’t support me, my education’s not impressive, and I’m all alone in this city, searching for some kind of future.”

“I’ve applied to so many jobs, but no one wanted me. Maybe no one likes a person who can’t talk smoothly, hates socializing, and never really proved themselves capable.”

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“I went three whole days eating just two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me up at night, but thankfully, I’d paid rent a month in advance so I could still live in that dark basement without having to face the freezing winds of winter outside.”

“At last, I found work—watching over the morgue at night in a hospital.”

“The hospital at night was even colder than I’d imagined. The hallway wall lamps never came on. Everything was dim, and I could only see my steps thanks to a small spill of light coming from a nearby room.”

“The smell there was awful. From time to time, they’d bring in another corpse, zipped inside a body bag, and we’d help carry it into the morgue.”

“It’s not a great job, but at least I could afford bread now. The quiet nights gave me time to study—though, since nobody wants to come to the morgue unless they’re dropping someone off or taking a body to be cremated, I still can’t afford books, and it feels impossible to save up.”

“I owe it to my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I might not even have landed this job.”

“I daydreamed about switching to the day shift. These days, I sleep when the sun’s up and wake after nightfall. My body feels weak—sometimes my head aches too.”

“One day, some workers brought in a new corpse.”

“I heard it was my predecessor—the guy who quit so suddenly.”

“Curious, I waited until everyone left, slid open the drawer, and quietly unzipped the body bag.”

“He was old. His face was blotchy, blue and pale, wrinkled all over. Under that dim light, he looked terrifying.”

“He didn’t have much hair, most of it was white. All his clothes had been stripped away—not even a scrap was left for him.”

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“I spotted a strange mark on his chest—bluish-black, but I can’t really describe the shape. The light was much too dark.”

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

“Looking at my former coworker, I wondered—if I keep living like this, when I’m old, will I end up just like him?”

“I told him, tomorrow I’ll go with him to the crematorium myself, take his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. Otherwise, those people who handle such things might toss him in some river or empty lot, just to save themselves the trouble.”

“I’ll lose a morning of sleep, but it’s fine. Sunday is coming, and I can catch up then.”

“After that, I zipped up the bag and slid it back in the drawer.”

“The lights in the room felt even dimmer…”

“Ever since that night, whenever I sleep, I keep dreaming of a thick fog.”

“I’ve got this feeling something’s about to happen. Sooner or later, something—not even sure if it’d count as a person—is coming for me. No one believes me. They think after working in that place, my mind’s gone strange and that I should see a doctor…”

A man sitting at the bar turned to the storyteller, who had trailed off:

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a brown rough wool jacket and pale yellow trousers. His hair was slicked flat, and a simple dark round hat rested on the bar beside him.

He looked utterly ordinary—just like most in the tavern. Black hair, light blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly, barely memorable.

The storyteller, in contrast, was a tall, slim youth of about eighteen or nineteen, with cropped black hair and striking light blue eyes. His chiseled features made him hard to forget.

The young man stared into his empty glass and let out a sigh:

“And then?”

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“Then I quit and went back to the countryside. Now I’m here, swapping tall tales with you.”

A sly smile crept across his face as he spoke, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The man at the bar stared in surprise:

“Wait, so you made all that up?”

A burst of laughter erupted around the bar.

As the laughter died down, a thin middle-aged man turned to the guest, who was now looking a bit embarrassed:

“Outsider, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He tells a different one every day! Yesterday, he was some poor guy dumped by his fiancée, and today—he’s a morgue worker!”

“Yeah, he’s always going on about ‘thirty years east of the Serrence River, thirty years to the west’—just pure nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, sporting rough shirts in shades of black, grey, or brown.

Lumian, the dark-haired young man, braced himself on the bar and stood up slowly, grinning as he replied:

“You all know I’m not making these up—my sister writes them. She loves telling stories. She’s even a columnist for the ‘Weekly Novel Magazine.'”

Then he turned to the visitor, palms up, and smiled brilliantly:

“Guess she’s a pretty good writer, huh?”

“Sorry to lead you on.”

The man in the rough brown jacket—plain as they come—wasn’t offended. He rose with a friendly smile and replied:

“It was a fun story.”

“What should I call you?”

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

The out-of-towner nodded:

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

“These two are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman sitting nearby.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, his blond hair dusted with powder. His eyes were a shade deeper than lake blue, not large but striking. He wore a white vest, a blue fine wool jacket, and black trousers—clearly, he’d dressed up before heading out.

His expression was cold, and he barely glanced at the village farmers and herders around him.

The woman seemed younger than both men. Her long, pale gray hair was styled into a complex updo, topped with a white veil that doubled as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair—a soft, almost silvery hue. She looked at Lumian with open amusement, as if she had only found the story entertaining.

In the warm glow of the tavern’s gas lamp, Leah’s elegant nose and beautifully curved lips caught the light. In a place like Cordu, she was definitely a beauty.

She wore a fitted white cashmere dress with no pleats, a cream-colored short jacket, and a pair of Massir boots. Silver bells dangled from her veil and boots, so when she entered the tavern earlier, the sound of jingling bells had every man in the room turning to look.

To their eyes, that kind of style only belonged in the provincial capital Bigo or the big city of Trier.

Lumian nodded to the three newcomers:

“I’m Lumian Lee, but 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 explain for Leah:

“That name scares people. I nearly lost my composure when you said it.”

Seeing the farmers and herders look confused, he clarified:

“Anyone who’s dealt with sailors or merchants knows there’s a saying on the Five Seas:

‘You’d rather run into pirate lords or even kings than cross paths with someone named Frank Lee.’

“His last name is Lee too.”

“Is he that terrifying?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head:

“I don’t know. But with a reputation like that, there must be something to it.”

He dropped the topic and said to Lumian:

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

“An Absinthe,” Lumian answered right away, taking a seat again.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly:

“Absinthe… wormwood liquor?”

“You should know absinthe’s bad for you. It can cause hallucinations or make you lose your mind.”

“I didn’t realize Trier’s trendy drinks had reached out here,” Leah added with a grin.

Lumian made a little ‘oh’:

“So people in Trier drink Absinthe too… For us, life’s tough enough. Might as well chase a bit more relief—even if it isn’t healthy.”

“All right.” Ryan turned to the bartender. “An Absinthe for him, and get me a Fiery Heart as well.”

Fiery Heart was a famous fruit spirit.

“Why can’t I get an Absinthe too? I’m the one who told you the truth. I could spill everything about this kid!” The thin middle-aged man who first revealed Lumian’s storytelling protested loudly. “Outsider, I can tell you’re still not sure about that story!”

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

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian added:

“Why can’t I tell the story myself? Then I’d get another Absinthe out of it!”

“Because no one knows whether to believe you!” Pierre smirked. “Your sister loves telling ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’—everyone knows the liar loses all trust.”

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

Ryan glanced his way, checking:

“Is it all right?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can cover all these drinks,” Lumian said casually.

“Then I’ll have another Absinthe,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face lit up with a wide grin:

“Generous outsider! This kid’s the trickster of the village—you’d better steer clear of him. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back here. He’s never left since. Before that, he was thirteen—how could he have worked as a morgue attendant? The closest hospital is all the way down in Daliege. That’s a full afternoon’s walk.”

“Brought him back?” Leah asked sharply.

She tilted her head just a little, sending her bells jingling.

Pierre nodded:

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

“I can’t even remember what I was called before,” Lumian chuckled, taking a sip of absinthe.

He didn’t seem the least bit ashamed about his past being aired for all to hear.