Chapter 575: The Storyteller of Cordu

I’m a failure. Sunshine, rain—none of it matters to me because I never have the time to care.

My parents can’t support me, I don’t have much of an education, and here I am searching for my future in the city all alone.

I tried for countless jobs, but no one wanted to hire someone who struggles with words, avoids people, and can’t seem to prove himself.

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For three whole days, I only ate two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me up all night. Luckily, I’d already paid a month’s rent, so I could stay in that dark basement instead of freezing through the brutal winter outside.

At long last, I landed a job: night duty at the hospital, guarding the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I’d imagined. Hallway lights didn’t work, so everything was dim. Only the faint glow seeping from the rooms helped me see where I stepped.

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

It wasn’t a great job. Still, it meant I could afford bread and had plenty of downtime at night to study—after all, barely anyone ever came to the morgue unless a body needed to come in or leave for the crematorium. Of course, I didn’t have enough money to buy any books yet, and saving up seemed hopeless.

I owe my thanks to my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I probably wouldn’t have even gotten this job.

I dreamed of being switched to the day shift. Right now, I always sleep when the sun’s out and wake when night falls. My health isn’t great anymore, and sometimes my head just splits with pain.

One day, a mover rolled in a new body.

Someone said it was my predecessor—the one who’d suddenly left.

Curiosity got the better of me. After everyone left, I pulled out the drawer and quietly unzipped the bag.

He was an old man, face splotchy blue and white, wrinkles everywhere, looking downright terrifying under the faint lights.

His hair was thinning and mostly white, and they’d stripped off all his clothes—there wasn’t even a rag left for modesty.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest. It was bluish-black, though I couldn’t make out the shape—the light was just too dim.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing happened.

Looking at my former coworker, I wondered: if I kept at this, would I end up like him when I grew old…?

I told him I’d go with him to the crematorium tomorrow and make sure to bring his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. Otherwise, the people in charge might get lazy and dump him in a river or some deserted field.

It’d cost me a morning’s sleep, but whatever. Sunday was coming, and I could catch up then.

Finished talking, I zipped him back up and slid him into the drawer.

The room seemed even darker after that…

Ever since that night, I keep dreaming of a world shrouded in mist.

I’ve got a feeling something’s coming. Things I’m not even sure you could call human. But nobody believes me. They all think this kind of job is messing with my head and that I need to see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar looked at the storyteller, who had suddenly fallen silent.

“And then?”

This man was in his thirties, wore a brown tweed jacket and pale yellow trousers, kept his hair neatly pressed, and had a simple dark bowler hat beside his hand.

He looked utterly ordinary—just like most of the patrons, black hair, light blue eyes, neither attractive nor ugly, nothing extraordinary.

The storyteller in his eyes was a young man of about eighteen or nineteen, tall and slender. He had the same black hair and blue eyes but such sharply defined features that you couldn’t help but notice him.

The young man stared at his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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“And then I quit and went back to the countryside. Came here to spin tall tales with you instead.”

A sly grin spread across his face as he spoke.

The man at the bar blinked.

“So you were just making that up?”

Laughter burst out around the bar.

As the laughter died down, a thin middle-aged man glanced at the embarrassed out-of-towner.

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He tells a different one every day. Yesterday he was a poor bloke dumped by his fiancée, and now he’s a corpse-watcher!”

“That’s right! It’s always thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence, thirty years on the right bank—just pure nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, this big village. Their jackets were black, gray, or brown.

The black-haired young man—Lumian—leaned on the bar and stood up slowly, smiling brightly.

“You all know these aren’t stories I made up. My sister wrote them. She loves writing and even pens a column for that Weekly Novel Magazine.”

Then he turned to the out-of-towner, spread his hands, and flashed a dazzling grin.

“Looks like she’s really got talent.

Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

Instead of being annoyed, the man in brown tweed got up and smiled back.

“That was quite the story.”

“What should I call you?”

“Isn’t it basic manners to introduce yourself before asking someone else?” Lumian quipped.

The visitor nodded.

“My name’s Ryan Coste.

These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman sitting nearby.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He’d dusted his blonde hair with powder, his eyes were a deeper blue than the lake, and he wore a white vest, blue fine-wool jacket, and black trousers—he’d clearly dressed with care before heading out.

He carried himself with a cold air and barely looked at the villagers and herdsmen around him.

The woman looked younger than the two men. Her long light gray hair was styled in an elaborate bun, and a white scarf doubled as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and her gaze at Lumian held open amusement—she clearly found the whole thing funny.

Under the flickering gas lamps, Leah’s delicate nose and gracefully curved lips stood out. She was a real beauty by Cordu village standards.

She wore a white, unpleated cashmere dress, a cream jacket, and Maciel boots. Both her scarf and boots had silver bells attached, which jingled all the way in, catching the eyes of nearly every man in the bar.

To them, that was the height of fashion—something you’d only see in Bigo, the provincial capital, or the grand city Trier.

Lumian nodded to the trio.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What, is there something wrong with my surname?” Lumian asked, curious.

Ryan Coste stepped in to explain.

“Your surname strikes fear into people. I almost couldn’t keep my tone steady a moment ago.”

Noticing the blank looks from the villagers, he continued.

“Anyone who’s met sailors or sea traders knows a saying from the Five Seas.

They’d rather face pirate lords or even kings at sea than cross paths with a Frank Lee.

His last name’s Lee, too.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t know. But if there’s a legend like that, there’s probably truth to it.”

He let the topic drop and turned back to Lumian.

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

“Absinthe,” Lumian shot back, settling back into his seat.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… ‘the Green Fairy’?

Let me warn you—absinthe is bad for you. It can mess with your mind, cause hallucinations.”

“Didn’t think Trier’s trends had reached all the way out here,” Leah added with a soft smile.

Lumian gave an ‘oh.’

“So Trier folks like absinthe too…

For us, life’s already hard enough. A little more damage isn’t a big deal. This drink helps us unwind better.”

“All right.” Ryan returned to his seat and nodded at the bartender. “One absinthe, then add a ‘Fiery Heart’ for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a popular fruit brandy.

“Why not order me an absinthe too? I’m the one who exposed him! I could tell you all about this kid’s history from start to finish. You out-of-towners still don’t buy his story!” The first man to out Lumian—Pierre—called out, undeterred. “You know I can see you’re still doubtful!”

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

Before Ryan could reply, Lumian added,

“Why can’t I tell my own story? That’d get me another absinthe!”

“Because nobody knows whether you’re telling the truth,” Pierre replied smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Sooner or later, a liar loses their credibility.”

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

Ryan looked over and asked,

“Is that all right?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can cover it!” Lumian grinned, unconcerned.

“Then another absinthe as well,” Ryan decided.

Pierre’s grin stretched wide.

“Generous stranger! Let me tell you, this kid’s the village’s top prankster—so steer clear.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back here, and he’s never left since. Back then, he was just thirteen—no way he was working at the hospital morgue! The nearest hospital’s all the way down the mountain in Daliege, takes an entire afternoon to walk there.”

“Brought him back?” Leah interjected, sharp-eyed.

She tilted her head just enough that her bells jingled.

Pierre nodded.

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“He’s taken his sister’s surname ever since. Even ‘Lumian’ was a name Aurore picked for him.”

“I can’t even remember what I used to be called,” Lumian said, grinning and sipping his absinthe.

He didn’t seem self-conscious or ashamed at all when his past got aired out.