Chapter 532: Tales Over Absinthe in the Village Bar

I’m a failure. I rarely notice if the sun is shining or not—there’s just no time.

My parents can’t support me and I don’t have much education. Alone in the city, I’m searching for a future.

I went for countless jobs, but never got hired. Maybe it’s because no one likes someone who’s bad at talking, hates socializing, and shows no real skill.

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For three whole days, I survived on just two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. Luckily, I’d paid my rent a month in advance, so I could stay in that gloomy basement where I didn’t have to face the bitter cold winds of winter outside.

At last, I landed a job—a night watch at the hospital, guarding the morgue.

Nights were colder than I imagined. The hallway lamps were off, so it was dim everywhere, and I could only see by the faint light spilling from nearby rooms.

The smell there was awful. Every so often, they’d wheel in a body zipped up in a bag. We’d help carry it into the morgue.

It’s not a great job, but at least I can afford some bread. Plus, those empty nights let me study—there’s almost never anyone hanging around the morgue unless it’s to deliver or remove a corpse for cremation. Not that I have the money for books yet. Honestly, I don’t see any hope of saving up.

I have to thank my predecessor—if he hadn’t quit so suddenly, I wouldn’t even have this job.

I dream of working the day shift. For now, I sleep when the sun’s out and wake when night falls. My body’s getting weak and sometimes my head throbs.

One day, the porters brought in a new body.

From what I heard, that was the very colleague who quit so suddenly.

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

He was an old man, his face pale-blue and wrinkled. He looked terrifying in that dim light.

There wasn’t much hair left on his head and what little there was had turned white. They’d stripped off all his clothes—not even a scrap left.

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On his chest was an odd mark, dark blue-black, but I couldn’t make out the shape. The light was just too poor.

I reached out and touched the mark, but nothing happened.

Looking at this former colleague, I wondered—if I keep living like this, will I end up like him when I’m old…?

I whispered to him, “Tomorrow I’ll go with you to the crematorium myself. I’ll bring your ashes to the nearest free cemetery, so the people in charge don’t just toss you in a river or an empty field out of laziness.”

That’d cost me a morning’s sleep, but hey, it’d be Sunday soon. I could catch up then.

With that, I zipped up the bag and slid it back into the drawer.

The room felt even darker than before…

After that day, every time I closed my eyes I dreamed of thick mist.

I just know—something’s about to happen soon. I’m sure something’s coming for me, something that might not even be called human. But no one believes me. They say working there must be making me lose my mind and I ought to see a doctor…”

A man sitting at the bar glanced over at the storyteller, who’d suddenly stopped talking.

“And then?”

This man looked thirty-something, dressed in a brown tweed coat and pale yellow trousers. His hair was slicked flat, and a battered dark round hat rested beside his hand.

He seemed completely ordinary, just like most people in the bar—black hair, pale blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly, lacking any striking features.

From his perspective, the storyteller was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, tall and lean, also with black short hair and pale blue eyes. But those sharp features made him remarkably striking.

This young man stared at his empty glass and let out a sigh:

“And then?”

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“Then I quit and moved back to the countryside. Came here to shoot the breeze with you.”

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

The man at the bar hesitated for a moment:

“Wait, were you just making all that up?”

“Haha.” Laughter erupted around the bar.

When the laughter ebbed, a thin middle-aged man looked at the now slightly embarrassed guest and said:

“Outsider, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He spins a new tale every day! Yesterday he was a heartbroken loser dumped by his fiancée, today he’s a corpse watcher!”

“Yeah, something about thirty years on the right side of the Serrence River, thirty years on the left—never anything but nonsense!” added another bar regular.

They were all farmers from the big village of Cordu, wearing short jackets in black, grey, or brown.

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

“You know these aren’t my stories. My sister writes them—she loves writing tales. She’s even a columnist for some ‘Weekly Novel Magazine.’”

He turned to the out-of-town guest, spread his hands and flashed a dazzling smile:

“Looks like she’s got real talent.”

“Sorry for the confusion.”

The man in the brown tweed coat—so ordinary in looks—didn’t seem offended. He stood up too, smiling back:

“It was an entertaining story.”

“What should I call you?”

“Isn’t it polite to introduce yourself first before asking someone else?” Lumian replied with a grin.

The visitor nodded:

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He indicated the man and woman sitting nearby.

The man appeared twenty-seven or twenty-eight, blond hair dusted with powder, not big eyes but deeper blue than the lake, dressed in a white vest, blue fine-wool coat, and black trousers—obviously he’d dressed with care.

He looked rather aloof, barely acknowledging the local farmers and herders around him.

The woman seemed younger than both. Her long pale gray hair was styled into an intricate updo, topped with a white veil she wore like a hat.

Her eyes matched the color of her hair. She watched Lumian with open amusement, clearly delighted by the whole conversation.

Under the glow of the bar’s gaslights, Leah’s upturned nose and elegantly curved lips stood out—here in Cordu, she was the very picture of a beauty.

She wore a fitted white cashmere dress, a cream-colored short coat, and a pair of Massier boots. Both her veil and boots had little silver bells attached, jingling all the way in and drawing plenty of long looks from the men.

To them, only a city like Provincial Capital Bigo or national capital Trier would see someone dressed this fashionably.

Lumian acknowledged the three newcomers:

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

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

Ryan Coste answered for Leah:

“That name gives people chills. I nearly lost my voice just now.”

Seeing the puzzled faces around, he explained further:

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

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

“He has the same surname—Lee.”

“Is he really that dangerous?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head:

“I don’t know for sure, but with that kind of legend, he must be.”

He dropped the subject and turned back to Lumian:

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

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

Ryan Coste frowned a little:

“Absinthe… Wormwood liquor?”

“I should warn you—wormwood’s bad for you. Absinthe can mess with your head, make you hallucinate.”

“Who would’ve thought Trier’s trends even reached here?” Leah chimed in with a smile.

Lumian gave an “oh”:

“So Trier folks like Absinthe too… Well, life’s hard enough as it is. A little more harm won’t make a difference if it helps us feel more relaxed.”

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

Fiery Heart was a well-known fruit spirit.

“Why not order me an Absinthe, too? I’m the one who told you the truth! I could spill everything about this kid!” The first man who’d exposed Lumian’s daily tales yelled, “Outsider, I can tell you’re still not sure if any of that story was real!”

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

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian added:

“Why can’t I just tell my own story? Then I’d get another Absinthe out of it!”

“Because nobody knows if you’re telling the truth.” Pierre grinned, “Your sister’s favorite story for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Someone who always lies loses all their credibility.”

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

Ryan glanced at him and asked:

“Is that alright?”

“No problem—as long as your wallet can handle all these drinks.” Lumian said, totally unconcerned.

“Then another Absinthe, please.” Ryan nodded.

Pierre grinned from ear to ear:

“Generous stranger, this kid’s the biggest prankster in the village. You’d best keep your distance.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village and he hasn’t left since. Before that? He was thirteen—no way he could’ve been a corpse watcher in a hospital! The nearest hospital is down in Daliege, a whole afternoon’s walk from here.”

“Brought him back?” Leah probed, her head tilting and bells chiming.

Pierre nodded.

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“Since then, he’s used Aurore’s surname ‘Lee’—even the name ‘Lumian’ was chosen by her.”

“I don’t remember what I was called before,” Lumian said with a mischievous grin, sipping his Absinthe.

He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed about his past being revealed like this.