Chapter 572: A Night Shift in the Dark

I’m a failure. I barely even notice if the sun is shining or not. There just isn’t enough time.

My parents couldn’t support me, my education was lacking, and now I’m all alone in the city searching for a future.

I’ve applied to so many jobs, but none have hired me. Maybe nobody likes someone who can’t talk well, avoids socializing, and never really shows any real ability.

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For three whole days, I only ate two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake every night. I was lucky I’d already paid a month’s rent, so I could keep staying in that dark basement instead of braving the harsh winter wind outside.

Finally, I landed a job: night watch at the hospital—watching over the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I expected. The lights in the corridor stayed off, leaving everything dim. Only a bit of light from inside the rooms crept out, just enough to see my own feet.

It always smelled awful. Now and then, someone would bring in a corpse sealed in a body bag, and together we’d carry it into the morgue.

Not a great job, really, but at least it let me buy bread. The empty hours at night meant I could study—no one came to the morgue unless a corpse needed to be delivered or taken for cremation. Still, I didn’t have enough money for books, and saving up felt impossible.

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

I kept wishing I could switch to the day shift. For now though, I always slept through sunrise and only woke up when night fell. My body was weakening, and sometimes I’d get stabbing headaches.

One day, a porter delivered a new corpse.

Rumor was, it was my predecessor who’d suddenly resigned.

I was curious about him. After everyone left, I pulled out the drawer and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man. His face was bluish-white, deeply lined and wrinkled, looking truly frightening in the dim light.

He barely had any hair left and what remained had turned white. All his clothes were gone—not even a scrap of fabric left to cover him.

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I spotted a strange mark on his chest. It looked bluish-black. I couldn’t make out the details because the lighting was so bad.

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

Looking at my predecessor, I wondered—if I went on like this, by the time I grew old, would I end up just like him?

I told him that tomorrow, I’d take him to the crematorium myself. I’d be sure to bring his ashes to the nearest free cemetery, so the folks in charge wouldn’t just dump him in some river or random field out of convenience.

It’d cost me a morning of sleep, but thankfully Sunday was just around the corner. I’d catch up then.

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

The light in the room seemed to grow dimmer…

Ever since that night, whenever I slept, I’d always dream of dense fog.

I’ve got this feeling that something is going to happen—something, or maybe someone who isn’t even human, is coming for me. But no one believes me. They all say working that job in that place must’ve messed with my mind, that I ought to see a doctor…

A male patron sitting at the bar looked at the storyteller, whose tale had abruptly paused.

“And?”

This man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a coarse brown tweed jacket and light yellow trousers. His hair was slicked flat, and a battered dark round hat sat by his hand.

He seemed pretty ordinary, just like most people in the tavern—black hair, pale blue eyes, not exactly handsome, not ugly either, just nothing that stood out.

In his eyes, the storyteller was a young guy, about eighteen or nineteen, tall and well-proportioned, with the same short black hair and light blue eyes, but with striking features that caught the eye.

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

“And then?”

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“And then I quit and went back to the countryside. Now here I am, swapping tall tales with you.”

As he spoke, a sly grin tugged at his lips.

The male patron looked a bit stunned.

“So all that was just a story?”

“Ha!” Laughter burst out around the bar.

When things quieted down, a thin middle-aged man eyed the embarrassed patron and said:

“Stranger, you really bought Lumian’s story? He spins a new one every day. Yesterday, he was dumped by his fiancée because he was so poor. Today, he’s a morgue attendant!”

“Yeah! Yesterday it was ‘thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River, thirty years on the right’, just a bunch of nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

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

The young man, Lumian, propped himself up on the bar and slowly stood, grinning:

“You all know I don’t make this stuff up. My sister writes it. She’s obsessed with stories—she even has her own column in the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned sideways and shrugged at the visiting patron, giving him a dazzling smile:

“Guess she really does have a way with words.

“Sorry for the confusion.”

The man in the brown jacket didn’t get upset. He stood up too, smiling.

“That was an entertaining tale.”

“And your name?”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself first before asking someone else’s name?” Lumian replied, all smiles.

The outsider nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.

“These two are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He was referring to the man and woman sitting nearby.

The man looked around twenty-seven or twenty-eight, fair hair dusted with a bit of powder. His eyes, not large, were a deeper blue than lake water. He wore a white vest, a blue fine-wool jacket, black trousers. Clearly, he’d put effort into his appearance.

His expression was cold and he mostly ignored the farmers and herders around him.

The woman looked younger than the two men. Her long light-gray hair was twisted up into an elaborate bun, with a white veil wrapped on top as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair in color. She looked at Lumian with open amusement, clearly enjoying the scene.

Under the glow of the bar’s gas lamps, Leah’s delicate nose and graceful lips stood out—she was a true beauty in a countryside place like Cordu.

She wore a cream wool dress with no pleats, a pale ivory jacket and a pair of Maciel boots. Silver bells dangled on both her veil and boots. When she walked into the bar earlier, she jingled with every step, drawing admiring gazes from all the men.

To them, that was the kind of fashion you’d only see in Bigo, the provincial capital, or Trier, the capital city itself.

Lumian nodded to the three out-of-towners.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“Is there something wrong with my last name?” Lumian asked curiously.

Ryan Coste answered for Leah.

“Your surname is notorious. I almost couldn’t keep my voice steady just now.”

When the farmers and herders looked confused, he went on:

“Anyone who’s dealt with sailors or merchants on the Five Seas has heard this saying:

“Better to cross paths with all the pirate kings in the world than to meet a Frank Lee.

“His last name is also Lee.”

“Is he really that dangerous?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t know for sure, but with a reputation like that, he can’t be ordinary.”

He let the topic drop and turned back to Lumian.

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

“A glass of Absinthe,” Lumian didn’t hesitate, settling back onto his stool.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe? …You know that’s not good for you? Absinthe can be dangerous. It might even drive you mad or give you hallucinations.”

“Didn’t think fashion from Trier had reached this village,” Leah added with a laugh.

Lumian made a noise of surprise:

“So the folks in Trier like Absinthe too…

Life is hard enough for us already. No point worrying about one more risk—a drink that helps us unwind is worth it.”

“Alright then,” Ryan returned to his seat and nodded at the bartender. “One Absinthe, and another Fiery Heart for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a famous fruit spirit.

“Why not order me an Absinthe too? I’m the one who told you the truth, and I can lay out this brat’s whole backstory for you! You outsiders still don’t quite know if that story was made up!” complained the thin middle-aged man who’d spotted Lumian’s tales for what they were.

“Pierre, you’ll do anything for free booze!” Lumian shouted back.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian chimed in:

“Why can’t I tell my own story? That way, I could score another glass of Absinthe!”

“Because nobody can decide whether to believe your stories,” Pierre replied smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story for kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Keep telling lies and no one will trust you.”

“Alright, alright.” Lumian shrugged and watched as the bartender pushed a pale green drink toward him.

Ryan looked at him for confirmation.

“You sure?”

“It’s fine. As long as your wallet can handle the tab,” Lumian answered carelessly.

“Then make it another Absinthe,” Ryan said with a nod.

Pierre beamed at once.

“Generous stranger! This kid is the village’s top prankster. Best keep your distance.

“Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village and he’s never left since. Think about it—he was only thirteen back then. How could he have worked in a hospital morgue? The nearest hospital is way down the mountain in Daliege, a whole afternoon’s hike away.”

“She brought him back?” Leah asked, sharp as ever.

She tilted her head, the bells on her veil chiming.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took Aurore’s last name ‘Lee.’ Even his first name, ‘Lumian,’ was her idea.”

“I’ve forgotten what my real name was,” Lumian joked as he sipped his Absinthe, all smiles.

Clearly, he felt no shame at all about having his past revealed.