Chapter 565: Tales in the Lamplight

I’m a failure. Sunshine or gloom—none of it matters much to me since I never have the time to care.

My parents couldn’t support me, and I never got far in school. Alone in the city, I drift from job to job, chasing my future.

I tried for countless positions but never got hired. Maybe it’s because I’m bad at talking, don’t like chatting, or just never showed enough skill.

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I spent three whole days living on just two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. Luckily, I’d prepaid a month’s rent, so at least I wasn’t out in the winter winds but holed up in that dark basement.

At last, I found a job—a night watch at the hospital, guarding the morgue.

The hospital at night was colder than I’d imagined. Hallway lamps were unlit, throwing everything into shadows. Only slivers of light from the rooms let me see my own feet.

The smell there was awful. Every so often, another corpse would arrive zipped up in a body bag, and we’d help carry it into the morgue.

It wasn’t a great job, but it let me afford bread. The quiet nights gave me time to study, after all, no one comes to the morgue unless they’re dropping off or taking away a body for cremation. Of course, I can’t afford books right now, and saving up feels impossible.

I owe it to my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I wouldn’t have gotten this job at all.

I dream of switching to day shifts. Now I sleep when the sun comes up and get up when darkness falls. My body’s gotten weak, and sometimes my head aches with sharp pains.

One day, the movers brought in another new corpse.

Word was, it was my predecessor who’d quit so suddenly.

I was curious about him, so after everyone left, I slid out the drawer and quietly unzipped the bag.

He was an old man—skin pale, almost bluish, wrinkled everywhere and, in the dim light, he looked almost terrifying.

He barely had any hair left, and what remained was white. They’d stripped him completely, leaving not a single scrap of clothing.

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On his chest, I noticed a strange mark—dark blue-black, impossible to describe. The light was just too dim.

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

Gazing at him, I couldn’t help wondering—if I kept going like this, would I end up just like him someday…

I told him I’d accompany him to the crematorium tomorrow and take his ashes to the nearest free cemetery myself. Otherwise, I worried the people in charge would just dump them in some river or wasteland out of laziness.

It’d cost me a morning’s sleep, but that’s fine—Sunday’s almost here, I can catch up then.

After speaking, I sealed him back in the bag and slid it into its drawer.

The room seemed even darker after that…

From that night on, every time I slept, I dreamed of thick fog.

I’ve got this feeling—something’s coming. Something I’m not sure I can even call human. But no one believes me. They all say working that job in that place has messed with my head, that I need a doctor…

At the bar, a man sitting at the counter turned to the storyteller who’d abruptly paused.

“And then?”

He looked like any guy in his thirties—a rough brown jacket, pale yellow trousers, hair slicked flat, a battered dark bowler hat set aside.

His face was unremarkable, just like most folks in the tavern—black hair, pale blue eyes, neither attractive nor homely, nothing that made him stand out.

The storyteller, though, was different—a young man, probably eighteen or nineteen, tall and slender, short black hair, deep blue eyes, striking features.

He stared at his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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“And then I quit and returned to the countryside—came here just to swap stories with you.”

He grinned as he spoke, a sly glint in his eyes.

The man at the bar blinked in surprise.

“That whole story you told me—was that a tall tale?”

Laughter broke out all around the bar.

As the noise died down, a skinny middle-aged man glanced at the embarrassed stranger and said,

“You must be new if you believe Lumian’s stories. He spins a new tale every day! Yesterday, he was a poor soul dumped by his fiancée. Today, he’s a morgue attendant!”

“Yeah! Sometimes it’s thirty years on this side of the Serrence River, thirty years on the other—he makes up nonsense every time!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, a big village, dressed in short black, gray, or brown coats.

Lumian propped himself up on the bar, stood up slowly and smiled, eyes sparkling.

“You know these stories aren’t mine. My sister writes them. She’s crazy about storytelling—she’s even got a regular column in the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

With that, he turned to the stranger and spread his hands, beaming.

“Looks like she’s got real talent.

Sorry for misleading you.”

The man in the brown jacket and average looks just smiled and stood up as well.

“It was a fun story.”

“How should I address you?”

“Isn’t it only fair to introduce yourself first when asking someone’s name?” Lumian grinned.

The out-of-towner nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.

These two are my companions—Valentine and Leah.”

He glanced at the man and woman seated beside him as he spoke.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, blond hair powdered lightly, eyes a shade deeper than lakewater blue, dressed in a white vest, blue jacket, and black trousers. He’d clearly made a special effort that morning.

He wore a chill expression and barely glanced at the village farmers or herders.

The woman looked a little younger—her long ash-gray hair twisted into an elaborate bun, tucked beneath a white veil pinned as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and her gaze on Lumian was openly amused as if she’d found the whole story entertaining.

Under the tavern’s gaslights, Leah’s pretty nose and graceful lips stood out—a true beauty by Cordu’s country standards.

She wore a white, close-fitting cashmere dress with a cream jacket and a pair of Mahsill boots. Both her veil and boots jingled with a pair of delicate silver bells. When she’d come in, their cheerful chimes had turned every man’s head.

To the locals, her outfit belonged in a big city—Bigo, say, or the capital Trier—not a village like this.

Lumian nodded to the three strangers.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong? Is there some problem with my name?” Lumian asked curiously.

Ryan Coste answered for her.

“Your surname is a scary one. I nearly lost my composure just now hearing it.”

Seeing the confusion on the farmers’ and herders’ faces, he explained further.

“Anyone who’s spent time with sailors or sea traders knows this old saying passed across the Five Seas:

‘Better cross swords with a pirate general or a king than run into a man called Frank Lee.’

“His surname’s Lee too.”

“Is he that terrifying?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“Couldn’t say. But when legends grow like that, there has to be something behind them.”

He let the subject drop, then said to Lumian,

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

“Absinthe,” Lumian said, not the least bit shy, sitting right back down.

Ryan frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… You mean Green Fairy?”

“I should warn you—absinthe’s bad for you. It might make you hallucinate, or even lose your mind.”

“Didn’t think fashion in Trier had reached all the way here,” Leah added with a smirk.

Lumian just shrugged.

“So Triers drink Green Fairy too…

Life’s already tough enough for us. What’s a little extra risk from a drink, if it helps take the edge off your nerves?”

“All right,” Ryan settled back in his seat and glanced at the bartender. “One Absinthe. I’ll have a Fiery Heart too.”

Fiery Heart was a famous fruit-flavored spirit.

“Hey, why not get me a Green Fairy as well? I’m the one who spilled the beans and can tell these folks everything about Lumian! Outsider, you still aren’t sure if any of that story was true!” protested the thin middle-aged man who’d exposed Lumian’s routine.

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

Before Ryan could respond, Lumian chimed in,

“Or I could just keep telling my stories and get another Absinthe out of it!”

“How could they trust you after all the tall tales you tell?” Pierre grinned in triumph. “Your sister’s favorite story for kids is The Boy Who Cried Wolf—liars never keep anyone’s trust.”

“Fine,” Lumian shrugged, watching the bartender slide a pale green glass across to him.

Ryan glanced at him for confirmation.

“Is that all right?”

“No problem. As long as your wallet can cover everyone’s drinks,” Lumian replied, unconcerned.

“Another Absinthe, then,” Ryan agreed with a nod.

Pierre instantly beamed.

“Generous outsider! Watch out for this kid—he’s a troublemaker. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village and he’s been here ever since. He was only thirteen at the time—no way he ever worked in a hospital morgue! The nearest hospital’s down the mountain in Daliege, and that takes half a day on foot.”

“Brought him back?” Leah asked sharply.

She turned her head slightly, bells tinkling.

Pierre nodded.

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“So he just took his sister Aurore’s surname—Lee. Even ‘Lumian’ is a name she gave him.”

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

And it seemed he had no shame at all in having his past aired out like that.