Chapter 561: When Night Falls on Cordu

I’m a failure. Sunshine or no sunshine, I barely notice; life just leaves me no time.

My parents can’t support me. My education is lacking. Alone in this city, I’m searching for a future.

I tried for job after job but got rejected every time. Maybe no one likes hiring someone who’s quiet, awkward, and not particularly gifted.

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For three straight days, I survived on just two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me tossing at night. At least I’d already paid a month’s rent, so I could keep living in that dark basement, safe from the brutally cold winter wind outside.

Finally, I landed a job—night watch at the hospital, looking after the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I expected. The corridor’s wall lamps stayed off, leaving everything in heavy shadow. Only faint slivers of light leaking out from the rooms let me see my own feet.

The smell was awful. Every so often, bodies would arrive stuffed into rubber bags, and we’d help move them into the morgue.

It wasn’t a good job by any means. Still, it let me afford bread, and the empty nights were free for studying. No one came near the morgue unless a body needed to be brought in or hauled out for cremation. I couldn’t afford books yet though, and honestly, saving up felt like a pipe dream.

I owe this job to my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, even this kind of work would’ve been out of reach for me.

I dreamed of switching to the day shift. For now, I slept when the sun came up and woke when darkness fell. It left my body weak, and my head would throb now and then.

One day, some movers brought in a new body.

Turns out, it was my former coworker—the one who’d quit so suddenly.

Curiosity got the better of me. Once everyone left, I slid open the drawer and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man, face mottled blue and white, deep wrinkles everywhere, downright frightening in the dim light.

What hair he had left was all white, thin and patchy. All his clothes were gone. They hadn’t left him so much as a scrap to wear.

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I spotted a weird mark on his chest, a bluish-black thing. I couldn’t really make out the shape—the lights were just too dim.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing unusual.

Staring at my predecessor, I wondered—if I kept living like this, would I end up like him when I got old…

I told him, I’d go with him to the crematorium tomorrow, and personally carry his ashes to the free cemetery nearby. That way, the people in charge wouldn’t just dump him in some river or field out of laziness.

I’d be giving up a morning’s sleep, but whatever. Sunday was right around the corner; I could catch up then.

After saying that, I put the body back in the bag and slid the drawer closed.

The room seemed even darker than before…

After that night, every time I slept, I’d dream of a thick, endless fog.

I felt sure something was coming. Sooner or later, something I’d struggle to call human would come looking for me. But nobody believed me. They just thought my mind was going after too long in a job like that—that I ought to see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar glanced over at the storyteller, who’d suddenly stopped mid-sentence.

“And then?”

The man was in his thirties, wearing a rough brown coat and pale yellow trousers. His black hair was neat and pressed down, and a battered dark bowler hat sat nearby.

He looked utterly average, just another face in the tavern—black hair, pale blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly, nothing that stood out.

To him, the storyteller looked eighteen or nineteen—tall, lanky, also black-haired with light blue eyes, but striking in his features, memorable at first glance.

The young man stared into his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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“Then I quit, went back to the countryside, and ended up here swapping tall tales with you.”

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

The man at the bar hesitated.

“So that story was just made up?”

Laughter erupted around the bar.

When the noise died down, a skinny middle-aged man looked at the bewildered guest.

“Stranger, you really believed Lumian’s story? He tells a different one every day. Just yesterday, he claimed his fiancée broke off their engagement because he was dirt poor. Today he’s a night watchman in a morgue!”

“Yeah! Next thing, he’s babbling about thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence, thirty years on the right bank. Always making up nonsense!” added another regular.

They were all farmers from Cordu, dressed in plain black, gray, or brown jackets.

The young man called Lumian propped himself up on the bar and stood slowly, still grinning.

“You know, I don’t make up these stories. My sister writes them. She loves writing stories—she’s even a columnist for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

With that, he turned to the outsider, hands spread, flashing a bright, cheeky smile.

“Guess she’s got real talent.”

“Sorry to have fooled you.”

The man in the brown coat didn’t look offended. He stood and smiled in return.

“That was a great story.”

“What should I call you?”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself first?” Lumian grinned.

The visiting stranger nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

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

He motioned toward the man and woman at his side.

The man was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, yellow-blond hair powdered at the crown, deep blue eyes a bit darker than lake water, wearing a white vest, blue wool jacket, and black trousers—obviously dressed with care.

He looked cold and aloof, barely glancing at the farmers and herders in the tavern.

The woman looked a bit younger than the men, her pale gray hair styled in a complicated updo and wrapped with a white veil for a makeshift hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, with a smile she made no effort to hide. The whole thing seemed more amusing than anything else.

In the glow of the gas wall lamps, Leah’s delicate nose and gracefully curved lips stood out. In a rural village like Cordu, she definitely qualified as a local beauty.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, a cream-colored jacket, and a pair of Marsiel boots. Both her veil and boots jingled with two little silver bells each. When she’d walked in, they rang with every step, catching the eye of every man in the place.

To the locals, that was the kind of fashion you only saw in big cities like Bigo or the capital, Trier.

Lumian nodded to the three strangers.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong with my family name?” Lumian asked curiously.

Ryan Coste explained for her.

“That name… it makes people uneasy. I almost lost my composure when I heard it.”

When the farmers and herders exchanged confused looks, he clarified.

“Anyone who’s spent time with sailors or merchants knows the saying among those who brave the Five Seas:

‘Better to run into a pirate, a general, or even a king than cross paths with a man named Frank Lee.’

He’s got the same family name as you.”

“Is he really that dangerous?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t know, but when legends like that circulate, they’re probably not baseless.”

He let the subject drop and turned to Lumian.

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

“An Absinthe,” Lumian said brightly, taking back his seat.

Ryan Coste’s brow wrinkled.

“Absinthe… That stuff?”

“I should warn you—absinthe is harmful. It can mess with your mind, even cause hallucinations.”

“Looks like Trier’s trends have spread even this far,” Leah remarked with a smile.

Lumian let out a short “oh.”

“So people in Trier like absinthe, too… For us, life’s already hard enough. What’s a little more damage? At least this way, our spirits can finally unwind.”

“Fair enough.” Ryan sat back down and turned to the bartender. “One Absinthe. And make it a Fiery Heart for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a famous fruit spirit.

“Why not order me an Absinthe, too? I’m the one who told you the truth! I can spill this rascal’s secrets for free!” the skinny middle-aged man from before shouted, “Strangers, I can tell you still aren’t sure if his story is real!”

“Pierre, for a free drink, you’d pull any stunt!” Lumian shot back just as loudly.

Before Ryan could say a word, Lumian added,

“Or I could just tell my own story and get another Absinthe out of it.”

“They don’t know whether to trust your version,” Pierre replied smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Keep lying and nobody will ever believe you again.”

“Alright, alright.” Lumian shrugged as the bartender slid him a pale green drink.

Ryan glanced at him and checked,

“That alright?”

“No problem—as long as you can cover the bill.” Lumian had no worries.

“Another Absinthe, then,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face lit up instantly.

“Generous stranger! This one’s the village’s top prankster—you better watch out! Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him home, and he’s been here ever since. Before that, he was only thirteen—no way he worked as a night watchman at the hospital! The nearest one’s down the mountain in Daliege. It’s a half-day walk from here.”

“She brought him home?” Leah asked sharply.

As she tilted her head, her bells chimed.

Pierre nodded.

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“Since then, he’s gone by Aurore’s surname—Lee. Even his first name, Lumian, was her idea.”

“Can’t even remember what I was called before that,” Lumian said with a grin, taking a sip of absinthe.

He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed or ashamed that his past had just been laid bare.