Chapter 571: The Night Watchman’s Tale

I’ve always been something of a nobody, barely noticing whether the sun is shining or not—there’s just never enough time.

My parents couldn’t support me and my education didn’t take me far, so I’ve been left to wander the city alone, searching for a future.

I’ve tried for countless jobs, but nobody wants someone awkward, quiet, and apparently without much skill.

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For three straight days, I only had two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me up at night, but at least I’d paid my rent a month in advance. I could still stay in that pitch-black basement, safe from the biting winter wind outside.

At last, I landed a job—an overnight gig at the hospital, keeping watch in the morgue.

Nights at the hospital were even colder than I imagined. The corridor lamps stayed off, leaving everything dim. I could only rely on a faint glow leaking out from the rooms to see where I was stepping.

The smell in there was awful. Every so often, someone brought in another body zipped up in a bag, and we’d move it into the morgue together.

It wasn’t a great job, not by a long shot, but at least it meant I could still afford bread. The long, empty nights gave me a chance to study, too. No one ever came to the morgue unless there was a body to deliver or take away for cremation. Of course, I didn’t have enough to buy books, and honestly, saving up felt like a distant dream.

I owed this job to my predecessor—if not for him quitting out of the blue, I doubt anyone would have hired me.

I kept dreaming about covering day shifts. These days, I slept whenever the sun came up and only rose after dark. It was making me weak, and sometimes my head would start to pound.

One day, the movers brought in a new corpse.

I heard someone say it was the guy I replaced—the one who’d quit so suddenly.

I was curious, so after everyone left, I quietly pulled out the drawer and unzipped the body bag.

An old man stared back at me, his face a pale bluish white, wrinkled all over. Under that dim, eerie light, he looked downright terrifying.

He didn’t have much hair left, most of it white, and he’d been stripped completely—he wasn’t even left with a scrap of clothing.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest—a dark, bluish thing, though I couldn’t really make out the shape with lighting that bad.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing happened.

Staring at him, I wondered—if I kept living like this, would I end up just like him one day…?

I told him that tomorrow I’d take him to the crematorium myself and make sure his ashes were buried at the nearest free cemetery. That way, the people in charge wouldn’t just toss him in some river or wasteland out of sheer laziness.

I’d have to give up a morning’s sleep, but since Sunday was just around the corner, I could always catch up later.

After saying that, I zipped the bag closed and slid him back inside the drawer.

The lights in the room seemed even dimmer than before…

Ever since that night, every time I slept I dreamed about thick fog.

I’ve had a gut feeling that something would happen soon. I sensed that something—maybe not even human—would come for me. But no one believed me; they just thought that job was making me lose my mind and that I really ought to see a doctor…

Seated at the bar, a male patron glanced at the storyteller, who had suddenly stopped talking.

“And then?”

This man looked to be in his thirties, dressed in a rough brown wool coat and light yellow trousers. His hair was combed flat, and he had a plain, dark round hat next to him.

He seemed pretty ordinary—same dark hair and pale blue eyes as most of the people here—not especially good-looking or ugly, not really standing out at all.

But the storyteller he was watching was a tall youth, probably eighteen or nineteen, long-limbed and upright. He too had short black hair and pale blue eyes, but his features were much sharper, the kind that stuck in your mind.

The young man stared into his empty glass and let out a sigh.

“And then?”

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

He flashed a mischievous grin as he finished.

The male guest seemed a little stunned.

“What—you just made that all up?”

“Ha!” Laughter broke out all around the bar.

When things finally settled, a thin middle-aged man glanced at the embarrassed guest and said,

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He changes it up every day. Yesterday he was some poor guy dumped by his fiancée, and today he’s a night watchman!”

“Yeah, next it’ll be thirty years to the east of the Serrence, thirty years to the right. He only knows how to spin nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu village, dressed in short jackets of black, gray, or brown.

Lumian, the black-haired youth, pushed up from the bar, grinning as he spoke.

“You know I’m not making any of this up! My sister writes all these stories. She’s always scribbling something—she even has a column in the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned, spreading his hands toward the visiting guest with a radiant smile.

“Guess she’s really good at her job.

Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

The plain-looking man in the brown coat didn’t seem upset. He stood up and smiled back.

“That was quite the story.”

“How should I address you?”

“Isn’t it polite to introduce yourself first?” Lumian shot back, still smiling.

The outsider nodded.

“Ryan Coste.

These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman sitting nearby.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight, blond hair dusted with powder, his eyes darker than lake blue. He wore a white vest, a finely tailored blue coat, and black pants, clearly dressing up to go out.

He looked rather aloof, barely glancing at the farmers and herders around them.

The woman looked younger than either man. Her long, light-gray hair was done up in an elaborate knot, topped by a white veil serving as a hat.

Her eyes and hair matched in color. She looked at Lumian with a frank, amused smile, clearly finding the whole scene entertaining.

The gaslight caught Leah’s face, highlighting her lovely nose and graceful lips. In a rustic village like Cordu, she definitely stood out as a beauty.

She wore a form-fitting, pleatless white cashmere dress, an off-white little jacket, and a pair of Maciel boots. She’d even tied little silver bells on her veil and boots—they jangled brightly as she walked into the bar, turning quite a few heads.

To the locals, that sort of stylish outfit seemed like something out of the provincial capital Bigo or the true metropolis of Trier.

Lumian nodded to the three newcomers.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“Why, is there something wrong with my family name?” Lumian asked, genuinely puzzled.

Ryan Coste explained for Leah.

“Your surname gives people chills. I almost couldn’t control my voice when you said it.”

Seeing the farmers and herders still looked lost, he continued,

“Anyone who’s spent time with sailors or merchants knows this bit of gossip from the Five Seas:

‘Better to cross paths with pirate generals or even kings than to tangle with a man named Frank Lee.’

“That Lee was just as infamous.”

“Was he really that bad?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t really know, but with a legend that big, he can’t be simple.”

He changed the subject, turning back to Lumian.

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

“An Absinthe.” Lumian replied without hesitation, settling back onto his stool.

Ryan Coste frowned.

“Absinthe… that’s ‘the Green Fairy,’ right?

Just so you know, it’s bad for your health. It can mess with your head—make you hallucinate and all that.”

“Didn’t expect Trier’s trends to make it all the way out here,” Leah added with a smile.

Lumian let out an “Oh”:

“So Trier folks like Absinthe, too… As far as we’re concerned, life’s hard enough. No point worrying about a little more damage when that drink helps us relax.”

“Alright.” Ryan sat back down and called to the bartender, “One Absinthe, and add a Fiery Heart for me.”

‘Fiery Heart’ was a strong, fruit-flavored spirit.

“Why not get me an Absinthe, too? I’m the one who revealed the truth. I could even tell these folks all about this kid!” The thin middle-aged man who first called out Lumian grumbled, “Strangers, I can tell you’re not sure if his story was real or not!”

“Oh please, Pierre! You’ll do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back, raising his voice.

Before Ryan could respond, Lumian piped up again.

“Why not let me tell the story again? That way, I’d get another Absinthe.”

“But if you tell it, who’s to say they’ll believe you?” Pierre grinned. “Your sister’s favorite story is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Keep lying, and people are bound to stop trusting you.”

“Fine.” Lumian shrugged as the bartender slid a glass of pale green liquor his way.

Ryan looked at him and double-checked.

“Is that alright?”

“No problem—as long as your wallet can handle it,” Lumian replied, completely unfazed.

“Then make it two Absinthe.” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face lit up.

“You’re too generous, stranger! This guy is the village’s worst prankster. You’d better keep an eye on him.

His sister Aurore brought him back to the village five years ago, and he’s never left since. Think about it—he was only thirteen then! How could he have worked as a morgue attendant? The nearest hospital is all the way down in Daliege, a walk that takes all afternoon.”

“Brought him back?” Leah asked, her curiosity piqued.

She turned her head slightly, setting her silver bells jingling.

Pierre nodded.

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“That’s when he took Aurore’s last name. She even picked out the name ‘Lumian.'”

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

He didn’t seem at all embarrassed or ashamed to have his past laid bare like that.