Chapter 569: Mist and Lies at the Bar

I’m a failure. I barely notice whether the sun is shining or not—there just isn’t time to care.

My parents can’t support me, I don’t have much of an education, and here I am alone in the city chasing some kind of future.

I’ve tried for countless jobs, but never got hired. Maybe it’s because people don’t like someone who isn’t good with words, doesn’t like to talk, and never shows enough ability.

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I went three full days eating just two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me awake every night. At least I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could keep staying in that dark basement instead of braving the biting winter wind outside.

Finally, I found a job—night security, watching over the morgue at the hospital.

The hospital at night was colder than I ever imagined. The hallway wall lamps stayed off, leaving everything dim. I had to rely on slivers of light escaping from rooms just to see my own feet.

The smell down there was awful. Every so often, someone in a body bag would be wheeled in, and we’d help bring them into the morgue.

It’s not a great job, but at least I can buy bread with the pay. Plus, those empty hours at night are perfect for studying—nobody ever comes to the morgue unless there’s a body to bring in or take to the crematorium. Of course, I can’t afford to buy books yet, and honestly, there’s no hope of saving money right now.

I should thank my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I wouldn’t have even gotten this job.

I dream of switching to the day shift someday. For now, I sleep through the daylight, wake up at night, and it’s left me feeling weak. Sometimes my head throbs for no reason.

One day, a porter wheeled in a new body.

Word was, it was the coworker who suddenly resigned before me.

Curious, I waited till everyone left, slid out the locker, and quietly unzipped the body bag.

Inside was an old man, his face a mottled blue and white, wrinkles everywhere. In that pitiful light, he looked downright haunting.

There wasn’t much hair left on his head—most of it was white anyway. They’d stripped off all his clothes, not even a scrap of fabric left.

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Over his chest I noticed a strange mark, a bluish-black imprint. I couldn’t really make out the shape in such dim light.

I reached out and touched the mark, but nothing happened.

Looking at my predecessor, I wondered—if I keep living like this, will I end up just like him?

I told him, “Tomorrow I’ll go with you to the crematorium. I’ll personally take your ashes to the nearest free cemetery—so the people in charge can’t just toss you in any river or wasteland out of laziness.”

It meant giving up a morning’s sleep, but that was fine. Sunday was just around the corner—I could catch up then.

After those words, I sealed up the body bag and slid it back inside.

Somehow the room felt even darker…

From then on, every night when I slept, I started dreaming of thick fog.

I had this feeling something was going to happen soon—something… that might not even be human. Nobody believed me though. They said that working in a place like this was making me lose my mind, that I needed to see a doctor…

Sitting at the bar, a man turned to the storyteller, who’d just left his tale hanging:

“And then?”

This man looked around thirty, dressed in a brown wool jacket and light yellow pants. His hair was pressed flat, and a plain, dark round hat sat by his hand.

Nothing remarkable about his looks—just like most of the men in the tavern. He had black hair, pale blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly. Not a feature stood out.

But the storyteller? In his eyes, the young man looked about eighteen or nineteen, tall and lean-limbed, with short black hair and those same blue eyes—yet sharp, striking features that drew your gaze.

The young man sighed as he stared into his empty glass.

“And then?”

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“And then I quit and went home to the countryside. Ended up here, drinking and spinning tales with you.”

A smile slipped across his lips as he said it, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

The bar patron stared for a second.

“Wait, you made all that up?”

The bar erupted with laughter.

Once the laughter died down, a skinny middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed guest and grinned:

“You’re not from around here, are you? Can’t believe you fell for Lumian’s story. He makes up a new one every day. Yesterday he was a poor guy dumped by his fiancée, now he’s a morgue watcher!”

“Yeah! Next thing you know, he’ll say he spent thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River, then thirty years on the right. He talks more nonsense than sense!” chimed in another regular.

All of them were farmers from Cordu, this big village—wearing rough jackets in black, gray or brown.

The dark-haired young man they called Lumian pushed himself up from the bar, still grinning:

“You know, it’s not my fault. My sister writes all these stories. She loves it—even does a column for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned, flashing a brilliant smile at the visiting guest with a helpless shrug.

“Guess that means her stories are pretty good.”

“Sorry for making you believe them.”

Instead of being angry, the plain man in brown wool just stood up, smiling back:

“That was an interesting story.”

“Mind if I ask your name?”

“Normal manners say you should introduce yourself first, don’t they?” Lumian laughed.

The visitor nodded:

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He nodded toward the man and woman seated beside him.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. A hint of powder dusted his blond hair, and his eyes—darker than lakewater—held little warmth. He wore a white vest, a blue wool coat, and black trousers—clearly someone who put effort into his appearance.

He looked pretty cold, barely glancing at the local farmers and herders around him.

The woman seemed a bit younger than her two companions. Her pale gray hair was styled in an elaborate updo, with a white veil draped over it like a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and she looked at Lumian with open amusement—whatever just happened, she found it funny.

Under the tavern’s gas lamps, you could see Leah’s delicate nose and beautifully curved lips. In a rural place like Cordu, she was a rare beauty.

She wore a fitted white cashmere dress with a cream jacket and a pair of Maciel boots. A pair of small silver bells dangled from her veil and boots—they jingled the whole way into the bar, earning plenty of stares from the men.

To them, that sort of fashionable look belonged in grand cities like Bigo or the capital, Trier, not the countryside.

Lumian nodded at the three visitors.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What—something wrong with my last name?” Lumian asked, eyes curious.

Ryan Coste explained for Leah:

“That surname is… infamous. I almost couldn’t keep my voice steady just now.”

Seeing confusion on the farmers’ and herders’ faces, he added:

“Anyone who’s met sailors or merchant mariners knows the saying that goes around the Five Seas:

“Better to meet a pirate captain, even a king, than to run into a Frank Lee.”

“His family name is Lee too.”

“So, is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“No idea. But if legends like that stick, he must be something else.”

He let the topic drop and looked at Lumian:

“Thanks for the story. That’s worth a drink—what’ll you have?”

“Absinthe,” Lumian answered cheerfully, dropping back into his seat.

Ryan Coste frowned a little.

“Absinthe… the ‘Green Fairy’? You know, that stuff is bad for you. It can mess with your mind—cause hallucinations, even drive you crazy.”

“I didn’t realize things from Trier had spread this far,” Leah said with a teasing smile.

“Oh,” Lumian said in surprise.

“So Trier folks like ‘Green Fairy’ too… Well, life’s hard enough for us as it is. What’s a little more damage? At least the drink lets us relax for a while.”

“Alright then.” Ryan sat back and turned to the bartender, “One absinthe. And I’ll have a Fiery Heart as well.”

Fiery Heart was a well-known fruit spirits.

“Hey, why not order me an absinthe too? I was the one who told you the truth! I could tell you everything about this kid as well! You still seem unsure about his story, don’t you, stranger?” called the skinny middle-aged man who’d unmasked Lumian’s tales.

“Pierre, you’d do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back, raising his voice.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian chimed in again:

“Why can’t I tell my own story? That way I could have another absinthe!”

“Because nobody knows if your version’s true,” Pierre replied smugly. “Your sister always told us the story of ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’. A constant liar loses all trust.”

“Fine,” Lumian shrugged, watching as the bartender set a pale green drink in front of him.

Ryan glanced at him for confirmation:

“Is this alright with you?”

“No problem. As long as your wallet can cover it,” Lumian replied without a care.

“Better make that two absinthes,” Ryan said with a nod.

Pierre grinned ear to ear.

“You’re a generous outsider! That kid’s the biggest prankster in the village—be careful around him. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back here, and he’s never left since. He was only thirteen at the time—no way he could’ve been a morgue guard in Daliege. That hospital’s all the way at the foot of the mountain—it takes all afternoon to get there.”

“She brought him back?” Leah asked sharply.

Her slight head tilt sent her bells jingling.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took Aurore’s last name—Lee—even the name ‘Lumian’ was picked by her.”

“I can’t even remember what he was called before that,” Lumian said with a cheeky grin, downing another mouthful of absinthe.

He didn’t look the least bit embarrassed about his past being laid bare like that.