Chapter 562: Tales Told Over Absinthe

“I’m a failure. I barely notice whether the sun is shining or not—there’s simply no time for things like that.”

“My parents can’t support me, my education doesn’t amount to much, and I’m all alone in the city searching for a future.”

“I’ve applied for countless jobs, but no one’s ever hired me. Maybe it’s because I’m not much of a talker, hate socializing, and never seem to prove I’m good at anything.”

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“For three whole days, I survived on just two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. Luckily, I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could keep living in that dark basement a bit longer, sheltered from the biting winter wind.”

“Finally, I landed a job—night watch at the hospital. I was to keep watch over the morgue.”

“The hospital at night was colder than I ever imagined. The corridor lights were always off, leaving everything in gloom. Only the faintest light from open doors let me see where I was going.”

“The place reeked. Every so often, bodies would show up zipped in body bags. We’d have to help carry them inside the morgue.”

“It’s not a good job, but at least I could afford bread. I’d use the long nights to try and study—no one ever came by unless a corpse needed delivering or picking up for cremation. Of course, I couldn’t afford books yet. Saving money felt hopeless.”

“I owe it to my predecessor. If he hadn’t quit so suddenly, I wouldn’t even have managed to get this job.”

“I dreamed of switching to the day shift, but right now, I always sleep when the sun comes up and wake when night falls. It’s running my body down. Sometimes my head hurts out of nowhere.”

“One day, the orderlies brought in a new corpse.”

“Rumor was, it was my predecessor—the one who left abruptly.”

“Curious about him, I waited until the others left. Then I slipped open a cabinet and quietly unzipped the body bag.”

“He was an old man, his face pale and bluish, wrinkled everywhere. Under that dim light, he looked terrifying.”

“He had just a few white hairs left. All his clothes had been taken off—not even a scrap was left to cover him.”

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“On his chest, I saw a strange mark—a bluish-black spot. I couldn’t quite make out its shape since the light was so poor.”

“I reached out and touched the mark. Didn’t feel anything special.”

“Staring at my predecessor, I wondered—if I keep on like this, will I turn out just like him when I’m old…?”

“I told him, ‘Tomorrow I’ll go with you to the crematorium. I’ll make sure to take your ashes to the nearest free cemetery myself, so the people in charge don’t just toss you in a river or some empty lot.'”

“It’ll cost me a morning’s sleep, but that’s all right. Sunday is coming and I can catch up.”

Once I’d finished talking, I fixed the body bag and shoved it back into the cabinet.

“The room seemed even darker now…”

“After that night, whenever I slept, I kept dreaming of thick fog.”

“I had a feeling something was coming for me—something that might not even be human. No one believed me, though. They figured working in a place like that had made me lose my mind, said I needed to see a doctor…”

A man at the bar glanced at the storyteller who’d suddenly gone quiet.

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a coarse brown tweed jacket and pale yellow trousers. His hair was slicked flat, and a simple dark round hat sat on the bar next to him.

He looked perfectly ordinary—just like most folks in the tavern. Black hair, pale blue eyes, not handsome or ugly, nothing that stood out.

To him, the storyteller was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, tall and slim, also with short black hair and pale blue eyes. But his features were striking—he had the kind of face you couldn’t help but notice.

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 stories with you.”

As he finished, a mischievous grin crept onto his face.

The man at the bar was taken aback.

“So everything you just said was made up?”

“Ha!” Laughter broke out around the bar.

When the noise died down, a lean middle-aged man eyed the embarrassed visitor.

“Outsider, you really believed Lumian’s story? He tells a new one every day! Yesterday, he was a poor guy dumped by his fiancée, and today he’s guarding corpses!”

“Yeah! One day it’s thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River, next day thirty years on the right bank. He never stops spinning yarns!” chimed in another tavern regular.

They were all farmers from Cordu, this large village, sporting short jackets in black, grey, or brown.

The young man called Lumian rested both hands on the bar and slowly stood up, grinning.

“You all know I’m not the one making up these stories. My sister writes them. She loves storytelling—she’s even got a column in the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned to the outsider and gave an exaggerated shrug with a brilliant smile.

“Guess she’s pretty good at it.”

“Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

The man in the brown tweed, perfectly average in every way, didn’t seem upset. He stood too, smiling back.

“It’s an entertaining story.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself before asking someone else’s name?” Lumian shot back with a smile.

The outsider nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He nodded toward the man and woman sitting beside him.

The man appeared to be twenty-seven or twenty-eight, blond hair dusted with powder, his eyes a shade deeper than lake blue. He wore a white vest, a blue wool jacket, and black trousers—all meticulously chosen.

He looked rather aloof, rarely glancing at the local farmers or herders.

The woman looked even younger than the two men. Her long ash-gray hair was twisted into an intricate braid, wrapped in a white veil like a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and she watched Lumian with open amusement, clearly enjoying the scene.

Bathed in gaslamp light, Leah’s pert nose and gracefully curved lips stood out. Around Cordu, she’d be considered a true beauty.

She wore a white, seamless cashmere dress with a cream jacket and high Masyir boots. Both her veil and boots jingled with tiny silver bells, so when she entered the tavern, every man stared as she passed.

To them, this was fashion fit for cities like Bigo, the provincial capital, or even Trier itself.

Lumian nodded politely to the three outsiders.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong? Is there something odd about my family name?” Lumian asked, curious.

Ryan Coste answered for Leah.

“That surname gives people the chills. I almost lost my composure when I heard it.”

Seeing the farmers and herders looking puzzled, he went on.

“Anyone who’s dealt with sailors or merchants has heard the saying that spreads across the Five Seas:

‘You’d rather face pirate lords and even kings at sea than run into a man named Frank Lee.’

“He has the same last name.”

“Is he that dangerous?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“No idea. But if a legend like that exists, there must be something to it.”

He dropped the subject and turned to Lumian.

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

“Absinthe,” Lumian replied cheerfully, settling back in his seat.

Ryan Coste frowned a bit.

“Absinthe… That stuff?”

“Just so you know, absinthe can be dangerous. It might mess with your mind, even cause hallucinations.”

“Didn’t expect Trier’s latest craze to reach even here,” Leah added with a smile.

Lumian let out an ‘oh.’

“So even people in Trier are drinking absinthe… Well, life’s hard enough for us. A little more damage doesn’t matter. This stuff helps us unwind.”

“All right,” Ryan sat back down and turned to the bartender, “One absinthe for him, and a Fiery Heart for me.”

Fiery Heart was a famous fruit spirit.

“Hey, why not get me an absinthe too? I was the one who told you the real story just now! I can spill everything about this rascal if you want! Outsiders, I can tell you still aren’t sure if his story was real!” grumbled the skinny middle-aged man who’d exposed Lumian as a storyteller.

“Pierre, you’d do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shouted right back.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian added,

“Why not let me tell another? That’d earn me another absinthe, wouldn’t it?”

“Because no one knows if you’re telling the truth or not,” Pierre said smugly, “Your sister’s favorite story for the local kids was ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ A liar always ends up losing trust.”

“Fine,” Lumian shrugged, grinning as the bartender slid a pale green drink over.

Ryan looked over and checked.

“Is that all right?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can handle the bill,” Lumian said without a care.

“Then another absinthe.” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face lit up with a wide grin.

“Such generosity, outsider. This brat is the prankster of the village—you best keep away from him. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back here, and he hasn’t left since. Before that, he was only thirteen—how could he have worked the night shift at a hospital? And the nearest hospital is down the mountain in Daliege—it’s a whole afternoon’s walk!”

“Brought him back?” Leah asked sharply.

She tilted her head slightly, making her silver bells jingle.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took Aurore’s family name, Lee. Even ‘Lumian’ was the name she gave him.”

“Can’t remember what he was called before,” Lumian said with a cheeky grin, knocking back his absinthe.

It seemed that having his past laid bare didn’t embarrass or shame him one bit.