Chapter 567: The Night Watcher’s Tall Tales

I’m a nobody. I hardly ever notice whether the sun is shining or not—life keeps me too busy for that.

My parents can’t support me and my education never took me far. I’m all alone, searching for some kind of future in this city.

I’ve tried for countless jobs but never got any. Maybe it’s because people don’t like someone who’s awkward, quiet, and doesn’t come off as capable.

To read the latest chapters, download the app. The website isn’t updated anymore—the newest content is on Xingwen Reading.

For three full days, I lived on just two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake through the nights. Thankfully, I’d paid a month’s rent up front, so at least I could hide in that dark basement and stay out of the biting winter wind.

Finally, I landed a job: night watchman at the hospital, guarding the morgue.

Nights at the hospital were colder than I’d imagined. The corridor lights never came on, so everywhere was dim. Only slivers of glow spilled out from behind closed doors, barely enough to see my own feet.

The stench was awful. Every so often, someone would wheel in another body zipped up in a bag, and we’d help move it into the morgue.

It’s not exactly great work, but at least it means I can afford bread. And the long, lonely hours at night leave me time to study. Hardly anyone wants to come to the morgue. Unless there’s a body to bring in or take out for cremation. Of course, I still can’t afford books, and honestly, there’s no hope of saving any money either.

I owe my thanks to my predecessor. If he hadn’t quit out of the blue, I wouldn’t even have gotten this job.

I dream about switching to the day shift. As it is, I sleep when the sun’s up and wake at night, which has left my body weak. My head throbs now and then, too.

One day, the porters brought in a new corpse.

People said it was my predecessor—the one who’d quit suddenly.

He made me curious. After everyone left, I slid open the drawer and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was old, his skin bluish and pale, covered in wrinkles. Under that dim light, he looked terrifying.

He didn’t have much hair left, and what remained had all turned white. They’d stripped him bare, not a thread of clothing left.

Website updates are slow. Download the app to read the latest chapters.

I saw a strange mark on his chest, dark and bluish, but I couldn’t make out the details—the light was just too poor at the time.

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

Looking at my predecessor, I wondered—if I kept going like this, would I end up just like him when I’m old?

I spoke to him, telling him I’d go with him to the crematorium tomorrow and personally take his ashes to the nearest public cemetery. Otherwise, those in charge might just dump him in some river or wasteland for convenience.

That means I’ll have to lose a morning of sleep, but it’s fine. Sunday’s coming, and I can catch up then.

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

The room seemed even darker somehow….

Ever since that day, whenever I sleep, I dream of thick fog.

I can’t shake the feeling that something’s going to happen soon. Maybe something not quite human will come looking for me. No one believes me, of course; they all think working in that place has made me lose my mind and that I need to see a doctor….

A man sitting at the bar looked up at the storyteller, who had suddenly gone quiet.

“And then?”

He looked to be in his thirties, brown tweed coat, pale yellow trousers. His hair was neatly pressed, and a shabby dark round hat sat on the counter beside him.

He seemed utterly ordinary, just like most folks in the tavern—black hair, pale blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly, nothing that stood out.

In his eyes, though, the storyteller was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, tall and lanky, with short black hair and clear blue eyes. But unlike the stranger, his features were sharp, striking, hard to look away from.

The young man gazed at his empty glass, sighed, and said:

“And then?”

Download the app to read the latest chapters.

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

As he spoke, a mischievous grin spread across his face.

The man at the bar stared in surprise.

“So you’re telling me all that was just a tall tale?”

That set off a round of laughter from everyone at the bar.

When the laughter died down, a skinny middle-aged man looked at the slightly embarrassed stranger and said:

“You’re not from around here, are you? Fancy believing Lumian’s stories! Every day, he comes up with something new—yesterday, he was some poor guy whose fiancée dumped him, today he’s guarding corpses!”

“Exactly! He goes on about thirty years living on the east side of the Serrence, thirty years on the right, always talking nonsense!” chimed in another regular.

They were all farmers from Cordu, a big village. Most had on black, gray, or brown short jackets.

The black-haired youth they called Lumian braced himself on the counter and stood up slowly, grinning:

“Hey, you know I didn’t make this up. My sister writes all the stories—she’s obsessed with it. She even has a column in the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned toward the outsider and spread his hands with a dazzling smile:

“Guess she’s a good writer after all.”

“Sorry for fooling you.”

The man in the brown coat and plain looks wasn’t upset at all. He stood as well, returning the smile.

“That was an entertaining story.”

“So, what should I call you?”

“Isn’t it only polite to introduce yourself before asking for someone’s name?” Lumian replied with a smile.

The visitor gave a small nod.

“My name’s 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 was dusted with powder, and his eyes were a shade deeper than lake blue. He wore a white vest, blue fine-wool jacket, and black trousers—a sharp dresser if ever there was one.

He carried himself coldly, barely acknowledging the local farmers and herders.

The woman was younger than either of the men, her long pale gray hair pinned into an elaborate updo. She wore a white veil as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and the way she watched Lumian left no doubt she found this all very entertaining.

With the gaslights casting a warm glow, Leah’s attractive nose and lovely lips were clear to see—by Cordu standards, she was a true beauty.

She wore a white, fitted cashmere dress without pleats, an ivory cropped jacket, and knee-high Marcille boots. Both her veil and boots had little silver bells. When she’d entered, those bells jingled with every step, turning more than a few heads.

In the eyes of the locals, that kind of style belonged in the provincial capital of Bigo or the metropolis of Trier—not in a rural village.

Lumian nodded to the three out-of-towners.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

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

Ryan Coste helped answer for Leah.

“That name’s terrifying. Just hearing it nearly made me slip up.”

Seeing the farmers and herders looking confused, he went on:

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

‘Better to cross paths with pirate lords and kings than to run into a Frank Lee.'”

“His last name is Lee, too.”

“Is he that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I’m not sure, but the fact that there’s such a rumor means it must be true.”

He let the topic drop, then said to Lumian:

“Thanks for the story. It deserves a drink. What would you like?”

“An Absinthe,” Lumian responded without hesitation, sliding back onto his seat.

Ryan’s brow furrowed.

“Absinthe? Wormwood spirit?”

“You should know that absinthe isn’t good for you. It can affect your mind—sometimes causes hallucinations.”

Leah smiled and added, “Didn’t think fashions from Trier would make it all the way out here.”

Lumian gave an “oh”:

“So even Trier folks like Absinthe. To us, life’s already tough enough—what’s a bit more risk? At least it helps us unwind.”

“Alright,” Ryan said, turning to the bartender. “One Absinthe, and another Fiery Heart for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a popular fruit spirit.

“Why aren’t you getting me an Absinthe too? I’m the one who spilled the truth. I’ll even tell your new friends everything about this rascal!” The skinny middle-aged man who first called out Lumian complained loudly. “You still don’t really trust that story, do you, strangers!”

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

Before Ryan could answer, Lumian went on:

“Why can’t I tell the tale myself? That way I’d score another Absinthe!”

“Because who knows if you’re telling the truth,” Pierre replied smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ If you keep telling lies, nobody’s going to believe you.”

“Fine,” Lumian shrugged, watching as the bartender slid a pale green drink his way.

Ryan looked at him and asked:

“Is that okay?”

“No problem—as long as you can afford it,” Lumian replied carelessly.

“Make it another Absinthe, then,” Ryan said, nodding.

Pierre broke into a broad grin:

“Generous strangers, I warn you—this kid’s the village’s worst prankster. You’d best steer clear.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him home and he’s never left since. Before then, he was only thirteen—no way he was working the morgue. The nearest hospital’s all the way down in Daliege. It’d take half a day to walk there.”

“She brought him back?” Leah asked sharply.

She tilted her head, making the silver bells chime softly.

Pierre nodded.

For the latest chapters, please download the app. The website is no longer updated.

“After that, he took his sister’s surname, Lee, and even his first name ‘Lumian’ was picked by Aurore.”

“I can’t even recall what I used to be called,” Lumian joked, taking a drink of absinthe with a cheeky grin.

He seemed completely unfazed—no shame at all in seeing his own past laid bare.