Chapter 536: Tales at the Bar: The Night Watchman’s Story

I’m a failure. I barely notice whether the sun is shining or not—there’s just no time for it.

My parents can’t support me and I don’t have much education. Alone in the city, I keep chasing some future.

I’ve tried all kinds of jobs, but never got hired. Maybe no one likes someone who isn’t good at talking, doesn’t mix well, or has nothing special to show.

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I once went three days with nothing but two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. Luckily, I had paid a month’s rent upfront, so at least I could keep living in that dark basement and didn’t have to brave the brutal cold winds outside every winter night.

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

Nights in the hospital were colder than I imagined. None of the corridor’s wall lamps were lit, it was dim everywhere, and the only light came seeping out from some of the rooms, just enough for me to watch my step.

The smell was terrible. Now and then, another corpse would be wheeled in a body bag. We’d help get it into the morgue.

It’s not the best job, sure, but at least it lets me buy bread. Plus, the quiet nights give me plenty of time to study. Hardly anybody visits the morgue unless there’s a body coming or going to be cremated. Of course, I can’t afford to buy many books right now, and saving up seems hopeless.

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

I dream of maybe switching to the day shift someday. But right now, I only sleep when the sun rises and get up at night. It’s leaving me weak and sometimes I get splitting headaches.

One day, the porters brought in a new body.

Word was, that corpse belonged to the coworker who’d abruptly left.

Curious, I waited until everyone else was gone, then slid open the drawer and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man, his face pale and almost blue, deeply lined with wrinkles. In the feeble light, he looked downright terrifying.

Hair was sparse, mostly white. Every stitch of clothing had been removed. Not even a scrap was left to cover him.

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I saw a weird mark on his chest, blue-black, but with the lighting so dim I couldn’t really make out the shape.

Curious, I reached out to touch the mark. Nothing special happened.

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

I told him I’d accompany him to the crematorium tomorrow and take his ashes to the closest free cemetery myself. That way, the folks in charge wouldn’t dump him in a river or on a random patch of wasteland just to save themselves the trouble.

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

After talking to him, I fixed the body bag and slid it back in the drawer.

Somehow, the light in the room looked even dimmer…

After that night, every time I slept, I’d dream of thick fog.

I could feel something was coming. Sooner or later, something—though I wasn’t sure it was even human—would come looking for me. No one believed me, of course. They said working in a place like that would mess with your mind, that I needed a doctor…

At the bar, a male patron glanced at the storyteller who had suddenly gone silent.

“And then?”

This man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a coarse brown jacket over pale yellow pants. His hair was neatly flattened and beside him sat a plain dark round hat.

He seemed utterly ordinary—dark hair, light blue eyes—not handsome, not ugly, just unremarkable, like most folks here.

But to him, the storyteller was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, tall and limber, also with short black hair and eyes as blue as a summer lake, but striking features that caught the eye.

The young man stared down at his empty glass and sighed, “And then?”

“And then?”

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“Then I quit and moved back to the countryside. Ended up here, spinning tall tales with you.”

Even as he spoke, a sly grin spread across his face.

The man at the bar froze for a moment.

“So all that was just a story?”

A burst of laughter erupted from the cluster of locals around the bar.

When the laughter died down, a gaunt middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed outsider and said,

“Stranger, you really bought Lumian’s story? He tells a new one every night. Yesterday he claimed his fiancée dumped him because he was broke, and today he’s a night watchman!”

“That’s right! Next he’ll say he spent thirty years on one bank of the Serrence and thirty years on the other. The stuff he comes up with—total rubbish!” another regular chimed in.

They were all Cordu’s farmers, wearing short jackets in black, gray, or brown.

The young man with black hair—Lumian—propped himself up with both hands on the bar, got up slowly, and grinned.

“You all know these aren’t my stories—I got them from my sister. She loves writing and is even a columnist for Weekly Novel Magazine.”

Then he half turned to the visiting guest, spreading his hands as he flashed a brilliant smile.

“Guess her writing really is convincing, huh?”

“Sorry for leading you on.”

The man in the brown jacket, unfazed, stood up and offered a smile right back.

“That was a fascinating tale.”

“How should I address you?”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself first?” Lumian replied with a laugh.

The guest nodded.

“My name’s Ryan Coste.

These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He nodded at the man and woman sitting just beside him.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight, blond hair dusted with powder, his deep blue eyes darker than lake water. Dressed in a white vest, fine blue jacket and black trousers, he was clearly well put together.

He wore a distant look and barely spared a glance for the local farmers and herders.

The woman looked younger than both men, her long pale-gray hair woven into an elaborate updo, topped with a white veil for a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and the way she looked at Lumian was openly amused—the whole episode seemed to delight her.

In the glow of the gas lamp, Leah’s straight nose and gracefully curved lips stood out. In a rural place like Cordu, she was a true beauty.

She wore a fitted white cashmere dress without pleats, cream jacket, and Masier boots. Silver bells dangled from her veil and boots, jingling as she entered the bar and drawing every man’s gaze.

In their eyes, this was the kind of fashionable look you’d find only in big cities like Bigo or the capital, Trier.

Lumian nodded at the three visitors.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What, is there a problem with my last name?” Lumian asked, curious.

Ryan Coste helped explain for Leah.

“Your surname is enough to send chills down anyone’s spine. I almost lost my composure just now.”

Seeing the locals puzzled, he went on.

“Anyone who’s spent time among sailors and traders on the Five Seas knows the saying:

‘Better to face pirate lords or kings themselves than cross a man named Frank Lee.’

That man’s last name was Lee, too.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I couldn’t say. But with that kind of reputation, he’s probably not someone you’d want to meet.”

He let the topic drop and turned back to Lumian.

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

“An Absinthe,” Lumian shot back, not missing a beat as he sat down again.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… the ‘Green Fairy’?”

“Let me warn you, absinthe is harmful—it can cause hallucinations and even lead to madness.”

“Didn’t realize Trier’s drink trends had made it all the way out here,” Leah added with a playful smile.

Lumian let out a little “oh”:

“So even people in Trier like the Green Fairy… For us, life’s already tough enough. A little harm doesn’t matter if the drink helps us unwind.”

“Fair point,” Ryan replied, glancing at the bartender. “One Green Fairy—and a Fiery Heart for me.”

Fiery Heart was a well-known fruit brandy.

“Why not order a Green Fairy for me, too? I’m the one who told you the real story! I could tell you everything about that kid right here!” The skinny middle-aged man protested noisily. “Stranger, I can tell you’re still wondering if that story’s true!”

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

Before Ryan could answer, Lumian added:

“Why can’t I tell the story again myself and score another Green Fairy?”

“Because nobody knows if you’re telling the truth,” Pierre replied smugly. “Your sister always told the story of ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’—a liar loses everyone’s trust in the end.”

“Fair enough.” Lumian shrugged and watched as the bartender slid a glass of pale green liquor in front of him.

Ryan looked at him, as if asking for permission.

“Is that okay?”

“No problem—as long as you’re footing the bill,” Lumian quipped.

“Alright, another Green Fairy it is,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre broke into a grin.

“Generous stranger! That kid is Cordu’s biggest prankster—you’d best keep your distance.

Five years back, his sister Aurore brought him home, and he hasn’t left the village since. At thirteen, no less! How could he ever have worked in a hospital? Besides, the nearest one is in Daliege, a half-day’s walk down the mountain.”

“Brought him home?” Leah asked keenly, tilting her head so her bells jingled.

Pierre nodded.

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“Since then, he’s gone by his sister’s surname, Lee. Even ‘Lumian’ was a name Aurore picked for him.”

“I can’t even remember what my old name was,” Lumian said cheerfully, sipping his absinthe.

He didn’t seem at all embarrassed or ashamed by these old secrets coming to light.