Chapter 566: The Night Watcher’s Tale

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

My parents can’t support me, my education isn’t great, and I’m on my own in the city searching for a future.

I’ve applied for countless jobs but haven’t been hired. Maybe nobody wants someone who’s awkward, doesn’t like to talk, and never seems to show enough skill.

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I went three whole days eating nothing but two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night, but at least I prepaid a month’s rent, so I could keep living in that dark basement and didn’t have to brave the bitter winter winds outside.

At last, I landed a job: overnight shift at the hospital, watching over the mortuary.

Nights in the hospital were even colder than I’d imagined. The hallway wall lamps stayed dark so the place was gloomy, and I could only see where I was stepping thanks to bits of light spilling from the rooms.

It stank in there. Every so often, a corpse would arrive zipped in a body bag, and we’d lug it into the mortuary together.

It’s not exactly a great job, but at least it lets me afford bread. Plus, I get the nights free to study—hardly anyone wants to come to the mortuary unless they’re dropping off or collecting a body for cremation. Of course, I still can’t afford books, and saving up feels like a distant dream.

I owe it all to my predecessor. If he hadn’t quit so suddenly, I wouldn’t have even landed this gig.

I used to dream of working daytime shifts, but for now, I sleep when the sun rises and get up at night. It’s left me kind of weak, and I get the occasional throbbing headache.

One day, the movers brought in a new body.

People told me it was my predecessor—the guy who had quit out of the blue.

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

He was an old man, face mottled with blue and white, wrinkles everywhere. Under the dim, eerie light he looked downright frightening.

His hair was sparse and mostly white. They’d stripped off all his clothes—didn’t even leave him with a single scrap.

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I saw a strange mark on his chest, a bruise-green color. I can’t really describe it—there just wasn’t enough light.

I touched the mark. Nothing happened. Nothing special at all.

Looking at my former coworker, I wondered if I would end up just like him, if nothing changed in my life…

I told him out loud that I’d take him to the crematorium tomorrow and personally bring his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. Otherwise, those in charge would probably toss him in a river or dump him in some field just to save trouble.

It’d cost me a morning’s sleep, but no big deal. Sunday’s coming up, so I can catch up then.

After that, I zipped the bag back up and slid the drawer shut.

The light in the room seemed even dimmer now…

Ever since that night, I dream of thick fog every time I sleep.

I’ve got this feeling something’s going to happen soon, that something—maybe not even human—will come for me. Nobody believes me; they figure the job’s made me lose it and that I should go see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar looked over at the storyteller, who’d suddenly stopped.

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, dressed in a rough brown wool coat and pale yellow trousers, his hair pressed flat. Beside him sat a worn, dark round hat.

He looked entirely ordinary, just like most in the bar: black hair, pale blue eyes—neither handsome nor ugly, nothing to set him apart.

As for the storyteller in his eyes: in his late teens, tall with long limbs, also sporting short black hair and pale blue eyes, but with striking features that made him stand out.

The young man stared into his empty wine glass, let out a sigh, and said,

“And then?”

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“Then I quit, went back to the countryside, and ended up here spinning tales for you.”

As he spoke, a sly smile played across his lips.

The man at the bar hesitated for a moment.

“So you were just making things up?”

Laughter burst out from all around the bar.

After the laughter died down, a gaunt middle-aged man looked at the slightly embarrassed guest and said,

“You’re not from around here, are you? You actually believed Lumian’s story? He tells something different every day. Yesterday he claimed he got dumped by his fiancée because he was poor. Now he’s a corpse watcher!”

“Yeah, and yesterday he said, ‘Thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River, thirty years on the right.’ Just spouting nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

They were all Cordu’s farmers, dressed in either black, gray, or brown short jackets.

The black-haired young man—Lumian—pushed himself up from the bar with both hands, grinning.

“You know, I’m not making up these stories. My sister wrote every single one. She loves writing and even has a regular column in the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned and gave a flashy smile to the man from out of town, spreading his hands.

“Guess she’s a pretty good writer.”

“Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

The man in the brown wool coat wasn’t offended. He stood up too, giving a polite smile.

“An entertaining story.”

“May I ask your name?”

“You know, it’s only proper to introduce yourself before asking for someone else’s name,” Lumian replied with a grin.

The out-of-towner nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.

These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He gestured to the man and woman seated beside him.

The man, probably twenty-seven or twenty-eight, had hair dusted with powder and eyes darker than lake water. He wore a white vest, a blue fine-wool coat, and black trousers—a carefully styled look before coming out.

He kept a chilly distance, not sparing the local farmers and herdsmen a glance.

The woman looked younger than the two men, her light gray hair twisted into an elaborate updo with a white veil serving as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and they sparkled with open amusement at Lumian. Clearly, she found the whole exchange entertaining.

In the glow of the bar’s gas lamps, Leah’s delicate nose and graceful lips stood out—by Cordu standards, she was practically a beauty.

She wore a white cashmere dress, cream-colored jacket, and a pair of Massier boots. Two tiny silver bells were tied to her veil and boots, so she jingled all the way in, turning plenty of male heads.

To the locals, this was the sort of fashion you’d only find in a big city like Bigo or the capital Trier.

Lumian nodded at the three strangers.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted.

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

Ryan Coste helped Leah out,

“Your last name is infamous. I could hardly keep my voice steady just hearing it.”

Seeing that the locals were puzzled, he explained further.

“Anyone who’s dealt with sailors or merchants knows—out on the Five Seas, there’s an old saying:

“Better to face a pirate admiral or even a king than cross paths with someone named Frank Lee.”

“He shares your last name.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“No idea. But since there are stories like that, he can’t be ordinary.”

He let the subject drop and turned to Lumian.

“Thanks for the story. It deserves a drink. What’ll it be?”

“An Absinthe,” Lumian said without hesitation, sitting down again.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe? …Wormwood liquor?”

“Just so you know, absinthe isn’t good for you. It can mess with your mind and make you hallucinate.”

“I didn’t expect the fashion trends from Trier to reach a place like this,” Leah added with a smile.

Lumian let out a sound of surprise.

“So Trier folks drink absinthe too… For us, life’s already tough enough. A little extra damage doesn’t matter. If a drink helps us unwind, that’s good enough.”

“Fine.” Ryan sat back and looked at the bartender. “One absinthe, and get me a Fiery Heart as well.”

Fiery Heart was a famous fruit liquor.

“Why not order an absinthe for me too? I was the one who exposed the truth! I could tell them exactly what’s up with this kid!” The gaunt middle-aged man who’d outed Lumian earlier shouted, “Outsiders, I can see you still doubt whether that story was real!”

“Pierre, what won’t you do for a free drink!” Lumian shot back, raising his voice.

Before Ryan could answer, Lumian added,

“Why can’t I tell the story myself? That way I could get another absinthe out of it!”

“Because nobody knows whether you can be trusted,” Pierre said smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story for the local kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ People who lie all the time lose credibility.”

“Alright then,” Lumian shrugged, watching as the bartender slid a pale green drink in front of him.

Ryan glanced at him, seeking confirmation.

“It’s fine, as long as your wallet can handle the bill,” Lumian replied breezily.

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

Pierre beamed.

“Generous outsider! This kid’s the worst prankster in the village. Stay clear of him.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him to the village, and he hasn’t left since. Think about it: back then he was only thirteen—there’s no way he worked in a hospital morgue! The closest hospital is down the mountain in Daliege—it takes all afternoon to walk there.”

“Brought him back to the village?” Leah asked sharply.

She tipped her head slightly, setting her bells jingling.

Pierre nodded.

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“And after that, he took Aurore’s surname—Lee. Even ‘Lumian’ was a name she gave him.”

“I’ve already forgotten what I used to be called,” Lumian said with another sip of absinthe, grinning.

He seemed completely unfazed or embarrassed by having his past laid bare.