Chapter 576: A Night Shift Tale in Cordu

I’m a loser. Sunshine or not, I hardly notice—there’s just no time for that.

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

I’ve tried for job after job but never got hired. Maybe nobody likes someone who’s bad at talking, avoids people, and never seems quite capable enough.

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I went three whole days eating nothing but two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me up at night. At least I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could keep living in that dark basement, safe from the bitter winter wind outside.

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

The hospital is much colder at night than I expected. The hallway lamps stay off and everything’s cloaked in shadow. Only the thin slivers of light leaking from nearby rooms help me see where I’m going.

The place smells awful. Now and then, another corpse arrives, zipped up tight in a body bag. We help carry them into the morgue.

It’s not a great job, but at least it pays for bread. At night, when it gets quiet, I can study a little—if only I could afford books. Not that I see much hope of saving any money soon.

I owe my thanks to the guy who used to work here. If he hadn’t quit so suddenly, I probably wouldn’t have gotten the job at all.

I dream of getting switched to the day shift, but for now I sleep when the sun’s up and wake as night falls. It’s left my body weak and I get these sharp headaches every so often.

One day, a porter brought in a new corpse.

Rumor had it, it was my sudden ex-coworker.

Curiosity got the better of me. When everyone left, I slid the drawer open and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man. His face was pale and mottled, wrinkles everywhere, and in that dim light he looked downright scary.

He didn’t have much hair left, and what was there had turned white. Every scrap of clothing had been removed—not even a piece of cloth left behind.

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I saw a strange mark on his chest, bluish-black. I can’t really describe it. The light was just too dim then.

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

Looking at my ex-coworker, I found myself wondering: If I keep going like this, will I end up just like him when I’m old…?

I told him I’d accompany him to the crematorium tomorrow, personally taking his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. That way, the folks in charge wouldn’t just dump him in some river or empty field out of laziness.

That’ll cost me a morning’s sleep, but it’s okay. Sunday’s just around the corner—I can catch up then.

After saying that, I zipped the bag shut and slid it back into the drawer.

The light in the room seemed to dim even more…

Since that day, every time I sleep, I dream about thick fog.

I have a bad feeling something’s about to happen. Sooner or later, something not quite human will come looking for me. Only nobody believes me. They think spending too much time in that job has made me weird—that I should go see a doctor…

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

“And then?”

This man looked to be in his thirties. He wore a coarse brown jacket and pale yellow trousers, his hair pressed flat. A battered dark round hat sat nearby.

He seemed utterly ordinary, just like most of the bar’s patrons—black hair, pale blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly, no features that stood out.

To him, the storyteller was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, tall with long limbs, also with short black hair and pale blue eyes. But his features were striking, the kind that makes people do a double take.

The young man stared at his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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“And then I quit, went back to the countryside, and now I’m here spouting tall tales with you.”

He broke into a grin as he spoke, his smile laced with a mischievous glint.

The man at the bar looked a bit startled.

“So you were just making all that up?”

“Haha.” Laughter erupted from the bar.

When the laughter faded a bit, a gaunt middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed guest and said,

“Outsider, you really believed Lumian’s story? He spins a new one every day. Yesterday he was a poor fool dumped by his fiancée; today he’s a corpse watcher!”

“Yeah, always going on about thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River, thirty years on the right bank. All he does is talk nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

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

The young man called Lumian braced himself against the bar and stood up slowly, grinning widely.

“You all know it—I don’t make these stories up. My sister writes them. She loves writing stories, you know, even has her own column in the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

With that, he turned to the outsider and spread his hands, flashing a bright smile.

“Looks like she’s got real talent.

Sorry for misleading you.”

The man in the coarse brown jacket, the plainly dressed outsider, didn’t seem upset. He stood up, smiling back.

“That was a fun story.”

“What should I call you?”

“Isn’t it basic manners to introduce yourself before asking someone else’s name?” Lumian replied with a smile.

The outsider 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 twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Yellow-blonde hair dusted with powder, smallish eyes a shade deeper than lake blue. He wore a white vest, navy tweed coat, and black trousers. Clearly, he’d made a real effort getting ready to go out.

He carried himself with an air of aloofness, barely glancing at the other farmers or herders.

The woman looked younger than the men. Her long pale gray hair was twisted into an intricate braid and wrapped in a white shawl that doubled as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair. When she looked at Lumian, she didn’t bother to hide her delight, like she found the whole situation amusing.

Under the glow of the bar’s gas wall lamps, Leah’s sharp nose and gracefully curved lips stood out. In a rural place like Cordu, she was absolutely stunning.

She wore a white, form-fitting cashmere dress and an off-white little jacket, completed with a pair of Maciel Boots. Two tiny silver bells dangled—one on her veil, one on her boots. When she’d walked into the bar, they jingled all the way, catching the eye of every man there.

In their eyes, that kind of style belonged in big cities like the provincial capital Bigo or the national capital Trier.

Lumian nodded at the three strangers.

“I’m Lumian Lee. You can just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

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

Ryan Coste explained for Leah.

“Your surname is notorious. I almost couldn’t control my reaction just now.”

Seeing the puzzled looks on the farmers and herdsmen around them, he elaborated.

“Anyone who’s dealt with sailors or sea traders knows the saying on the Five Seas:

‘Better to cross paths with a pirate admiral—or even a king—than with a man named Frank Lee.’

That man’s surname is Lee, too.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t know. But with a legend like that, it can’t be far wrong.”

He let the topic drop and turned to Lumian.

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

“A glass of Absinthe,” Lumian said, not the least bit shy as he sat down again.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… the ‘Green Fairy’?”

“Just so you know, absinthe can be harmful. It might cause mental confusion—even hallucinations.”

“I didn’t expect trends from Trier to catch on here,” Leah added with a playful smile.

Lumian let out an ‘oh’.

“So, even folks from Trier like Absinthe…

Honestly, life here is tough enough. A little extra damage is nothing if it helps us unwind.”

“All right.” Ryan sat back down and looked at the bartender. “One Absinthe for him, and another ‘Fiery Heart’ for me.”

‘Fiery Heart’ was a well-known fruit spirit.

“Why not pour me an Absinthe too? I’m the one who told you the truth. I could spill everything about this kid if you want! Outsider, I can tell you’re still not convinced about his story!” The gaunt middle-aged man who exposed Lumian’s tall tales raised his voice. ”

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

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian added,

“Why can’t I just tell the story myself? That way I could have another Absinthe!”

“Because nobody knows if your stories are true.” Pierre grinned triumphantly. “Your sister’s favorite tale for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ If you keep lying, you lose everyone’s trust.”

“Fine.” Lumian shrugged, watching the bartender slide a pale green drink over.

Ryan looked at him, confirming,

“Is that okay?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can cover it,” Lumian said breezily.

“Then pour another Absinthe,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre broke into a huge grin.

“Such a generous outsider! This kid is the village’s biggest prankster. You should 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 nights at a hospital morgue? Our nearest hospital is all the way down in Daliege—it’d take half a day just to walk there.”

“Brought back to the village?” Leah asked, sharp as ever.

She tilted her head, making her silver bells chime.

Pierre nodded.

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“And from then on, he took Aurore’s surname ‘Lee.’ Even ‘Lumian’ was a name she picked for him.”

“I don’t even remember what my old name was,” Lumian said with a cheeky smile, taking a sip of absinthe.

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