Chapter 577: The Tales Spun at Cordu’s Bar

I’m a failure. Sunshine or clouds—it hardly matters, I just never have the time.

My parents couldn’t support me. I didn’t have much of an education. Alone in the city, I kept searching for my future.

I tried so many jobs, but no one hired me. Maybe no one likes someone awkward, quiet, and not very skilled.

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I survived three whole days on just two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. Thankfully, I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could stay in that dark basement and not face the brutal winter winds outside.

At last, I found a job. Night shifts at the hospital. Watching over the morgue.

Nights at the hospital were even colder than I’d expected. The corridor wall lamps were off, leaving everything dim. I had to rely on stray bits of light drifting out from the rooms just to see my own feet.

The place smelled terrible. Every now and then, a corpse would arrive zipped inside a body bag. We’d team up to move it into the storage room.

It wasn’t a great job, but at least I could afford bread. Night shifts left me enough free time to study—nobody came to the morgue unless they had to bring in a body or collect one for cremation. Of course, I couldn’t afford books yet. Saving any money felt hopeless.

I owed thanks to my predecessor. If he hadn’t quit so suddenly, I wouldn’t have landed even this job.

I dreamed of working the daytime shifts. As it was, I slept at sunrise and got up at night—it wore at my body and sometimes set my head throbbing.

One day, a porter delivered a new corpse.

I heard it was my predecessor—the one who quit so abruptly.

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

He was an old man, his face bluish-pale and deeply wrinkled. Under the faintest light, he looked almost terrifying.

His hair was thin and nearly all white. They’d stripped him entirely—didn’t even leave a scrap of cloth behind.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest—a dark greenish-black spot. I couldn’t describe its exact shape. The light was just too dim.

I reached out and touched the mark, but felt nothing unusual.

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

I told him I’d take him to the crematorium tomorrow and personally bring his ashes to the nearest public cemetery. Otherwise, the folks in charge would probably dump him in a river or wasteland just to save trouble.

It’d cost me a morning’s sleep, but with Sunday coming up, I could catch up later.

After I said goodbye, I zipped up the body bag and slid it back inside the drawer.

Somehow, the room felt even darker.

After that night, every time I slept I dreamed of thick fog.

I had this feeling—something was about to happen. Soon, something not quite human might come looking for me. But nobody believed me. They thought the job and environment had made me lose my mind and I should see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar glanced over at the storyteller as he suddenly fell silent.

“So, what happened next?”

He looked to be in his thirties, wore a coarse brown tweed jacket and light yellow trousers. His hair was neatly flattened, and beside him sat a shabby dark round hat.

There was nothing special about him—just an average man like most others in the tavern. Black hair, pale blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly. Nothing distinct to remember.

In his eyes, the storyteller was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, straight-backed with long limbs. He also had short black hair and blue eyes, but his sharply defined features were striking.

That young man stared into his empty glass, sighed softly and replied,

“Then what?”

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“Then I quit and went back to the countryside, just to sit here and swap tales with you.”

As he spoke, a sly grin spread across his face.

The man at the bar blinked in surprise.

“So, you were making all that up?”

The bar erupted into laughter.

Once the laughter died down, a thin middle-aged man looked at the slightly embarrassed guest and said,

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He changes it every day. Yesterday he was dumped by his fiancée for being poor, and today he’s a morgue attendant!”

“Yeah! Next he’ll say thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence, thirty on the right—he just loves spinning tall tales!” another regular chimed in.

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

The young man known as Lumian pushed off the bar and stood up with a grin.

“You know, I didn’t make up any of those stories. My sister wrote them all. She loves storytelling—she even writes a column for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned to the stranger, opened his hands, and flashed a dazzling smile.

“Guess her writing’s pretty good.”

“Sorry for leading you on.”

The stranger in the brown tweed jacket didn’t get angry. He stood up as well, smiling as he replied,

“Interesting story.”

“How should I address you?”

“Isn’t it basic manners to introduce yourself first before asking someone else’s name?” Lumian chuckled.

The outsider nodded.

“My name’s Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions—Valentine and Leah.”

He nodded at the man and woman sitting beside him.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. His blond hair had a hint of powder, his eyes a blue deeper than any lake, and he was dressed in a white vest, blue fine-wool coat, and black trousers. Clearly, he’d taken care getting ready.

His expression was cold, hardly glancing at the farmers and herdsmen all around.

The woman seemed even younger than the two men. Her long pale gray hair was twisted into an elaborate bun and topped with a white scarf serving as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and her gaze danced with open amusement—she seemed to have found the whole episode great fun.

Under the glow of the tavern’s gas lamp, Leah’s pretty nose and perfectly curved lips stood out. For a village like Cordu, she was a rare beauty.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, an off-white jacket, and a pair of Maciel boots. Little silver bells dangled from her scarf and boots—so when she entered, they jingled with every step and drew plenty of stares from the local men.

To them, this was city fashion—something you’d expect in Bigo or Trier, not out here.

Lumian nodded to the three outsiders.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong—is there something off about my family name?” Lumian asked, curious.

Ryan Coste stepped in to explain.

“That surname’s infamous. I almost lost my composure when I heard it.”

The nearby farmers and herdsmen looked puzzled, so he went on.

“Anyone who’s rubbed shoulders with sailors or sea merchants knows there’s an old saying on the Five Seas:

‘You’d sooner face a pirate lord or a king than ever cross paths with a Frank Lee.'”

“That guy’s surname is Lee as well.”

“Is he that terrifying?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“No idea. But when legends like that float around, it’s never for nothing.”

He let the topic drop and looked back at Lumian.

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

“An absinthe,” Lumian replied, settling into his seat.

Ryan frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… Wormwood liquor?

Just so you know, absinthe isn’t good for you. It can mess with your mind—cause hallucinations and drive you crazy.”

“Didn’t think Trier’s drinks had made it all the way out here,” Leah added, smiling.

Lumian let out an ‘oh’ of surprise.

“So, people in Trier drink absinthe too… For us, life’s already hard enough. A little harm doesn’t matter. This drink helps us relax, that’s all.”

Ryan didn’t press it—he just turned to the bartender,

“One absinthe, and a Fiery Heart for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a famous fruit brandy.

“Why not get me an absinthe as well? I’m the one who outed this rascal. I could lay out his whole life story for you! Outsider, I can tell you’re still wondering whether that tale was true!” The thin middle-aged man who’d first exposed Lumian couldn’t help protesting.

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

Before Ryan could respond, Lumian added,

“Why can’t I just tell the story myself? Then I could have two absinthes!”

“Because no one knows if you’re telling the truth or not,” Pierre replied triumphantly. “And wasn’t your sister’s favorite story for the kids ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’? Keep lying and nobody will believe you.”

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

Ryan turned to him and asked politely,

“Is that alright?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can handle it.” Lumian grinned.

“Make it two absinthes then,” Ryan said.

Pierre broke out in a huge grin.

“Generous outsider! This rascal’s the king of pranks in the village—you’d better keep your distance.

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

“She brought him back?” Leah asked keenly.

She tilted her head just enough for the silver bells to chime.

Pierre nodded.

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“Then, he started using Aurore’s surname, Lee. The name Lumian was something she gave him too.”

“I’ve forgotten what I used to be called,” Lumian said with a mischievous grin, sipping his absinthe.

He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed by his past being exposed like this.