Chapter 544: Tales at the Bar: The Night Watcher’s Story

I’m a failure. I hardly ever notice whether the sun is shining because there’s just no time for that.

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

I’ve tried for plenty of jobs but never got hired. Maybe nobody likes someone who’s awkward, hates talking and doesn’t show any real skills.

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There were three full days when all I ate were two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. At least I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could still stay in that dark basement, safe from the bone-chilling winter wind outside.

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

Nights at the hospital were even colder than I expected. The corridor lights stayed off, so everything was dim, and I had to rely on the slivers of light leaking from rooms just to see my feet.

The place always smelled bad. Now and then, dead bodies arrived zipped up in body bags. We’d help carry them into the morgue.

Not a great job, but it meant I could at least afford bread. Plus, the long nights were quiet, most people avoided the morgue unless a new body came in or one needed to be taken out for cremation. Of course, I still couldn’t afford books and didn’t see a chance of saving up anytime soon.

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

I dream of getting put on the day shift but right now, I always sleep through the day and get up at night. It’s made me a little weak, sometimes I get these sharp headaches.

One day, a porter brought in a new corpse.

Rumor had it, it was the same colleague who quit so suddenly.

Curious, after everyone left, I pulled out the drawer and quietly opened the body bag.

He was an old man, face pale and bluish, covered in wrinkles. Under those dim lights, he looked downright frightening.

He didn’t have much hair left and what he did was almost all white. They’d stripped him bare, not even a scrap of cloth left.

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I saw a strange mark on his chest, dark green and blue. I can’t really describe what it looked like—the lighting was just too dim.

I reached out and touched the mark. There was nothing special about it.

Looking at my former coworker, I wondered—if things kept going like this for me, would I end up just like him when I’m old…

I told him I’d go with him to the crematorium tomorrow, make sure to bring his ashes personally to the nearest free cemetery. If I didn’t, the people in charge might just toss him into a river or dump him somewhere out of convenience.

That would cost me a morning’s sleep, but whatever. Sunday was coming, and I’d make up for it.

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

Somehow, the room felt even darker then…

After that, every time I slept, I dreamed of a dense fog.

I had a feeling something would happen soon. I sensed that eventually, something not quite human would come for me. Of course, nobody believed me. They thought that working in a place like that had messed with my head and figured I should see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar looked over at the storyteller, who’d just stopped talking.

“And then?”

The man looked thirty-something, dressed in a brown tweed jacket and light yellow trousers. His hair was pressed flat. By his side sat a battered dark round hat.

He looked ordinary, blending in with most of the bar’s crowd—black hair, pale blue eyes, nothing ugly but nothing special either.

And the storyteller in his eyes was a young man, eighteen or nineteen, tall and slim, also with short black hair and pale blue eyes, but with striking features that made him stand out.

The young man stared at his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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“Then I quit and went back to the countryside. Now I’m here spinning you a tall tale.”

As he spoke, he grinned, a mischievous smile lighting up his face.

The man at the bar was momentarily stunned.

“All that was just a story?”

Laughter burst out from around the bar.

As the laughter faded, a skinny middle-aged man looked at the flustered out-of-towner.

“Stranger, do you really believe Lumian’s stories? He changes them every day! Yesterday, he was just a poor soul who got dumped by his fiancée. Today, he’s taken up guarding the dead!”

“Yeah! Thirty years on the east side of the Serrence River, thirty years on the right. It’s all nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

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

Lumian, the black-haired youth, planted his hands on the bar, stood up slowly, beaming.

“You all know I’m not making these up—they’re all my sister’s stories. She loves writing and even has a column in something called the ‘Weekly Novel Magazine.'”

He turned to the out-of-towner, shrugging, with a dazzling smile.

“Looks like she really knows how to tell a tale.”

“Sorry if I fooled you.”

The man in the brown tweed jacket, nothing remarkable about his looks, didn’t seem upset. He stood and offered a friendly smile.

“That was a fun story.”

“What’s your name?”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first before asking others?” Lumian replied with a grin.

The stranger nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He was referring to the man and woman sitting nearby.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight, yellow hair powdered up, blue eyes darker than lake water, dressed in a white vest, blue tweed coat, and black trousers. Clearly, he’d dressed with care before stepping out.

He looked remote, barely glancing at the surrounding farmers and herdsmen.

The woman appeared younger than the two men. Her long pale gray hair was twisted into an elaborate bun, wrapped with a white veil that doubled as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair—a pale gray. When she looked at Lumian, there was a clear, amused smile on her face. The whole scene seemed no more than playful to her.

With gaslight shining from the bar, Leah’s pretty nose and shapely lips stood out—she could easily be called a beauty here in Cordu.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress paired with a cream-colored jacket and a pair of Marsir long boots. Silver bells were tied to her veil and boots, so when she walked in, the jingling followed her, capturing the eyes of many men.

All of this screamed fashion from Bigo, the provincial capital, or even the great city of Trier.

Lumian nodded at the three strangers.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted.

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

Ryan Coste explained for her.

“That surname is trouble. I almost couldn’t keep my voice steady when I heard it.”

Seeing the local farmers looked confused, he went on.

“Anyone who’s spent time with sailors or merchants on the Five Seas knows a saying:

‘It’s better to face pirate lords or even kings than run into someone named Frank Lee.'”

“That guy’s last name is also Lee.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t know, but if there’s a story like that, it’s not without reason.”

He changed the subject and turned to Lumian.

“Thanks for the story. That deserves a drink. What will you have?”

“An Absinthe,” Lumian answered without hesitation, settling back onto his stool.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… That green fairy?”

“I should warn you—absinthe’s bad for you. It might drive you mad or make you hallucinate.”

“Didn’t expect a Trier trend to make its way out here,” Leah added with a smile.

Lumian let out an ‘oh.’

“So even people in Trier drink absinthe… For us, life’s already hard enough. Who cares about a little more risk if it helps us unwind?”

“Fair enough.” Ryan sat back down and called to the bartender, “One Absinthe. And a Fiery Heart for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a local fruit liquor.

“Why not get me an Absinthe, too? I’m the one who told you the truth and I can tell you everything about this kid!” The skinny middle-aged man who’d exposed Lumian complained loudly. “Strangers, you can’t seriously believe that story!”

“Pierre, you’d do anything for a free drink!” Lumian called back, raising his voice.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian chimed in again.

“Why can’t I tell my own story? That way I’d get another Absinthe.”

“Cause nobody knows whether to believe you or not,” Pierre replied, grinning. “Your sister’s favorite tale for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Keep lying and you lose all trust.”

“Whatever,” Lumian shrugged and watched as the bartender slid a pale green drink in front of him.

Ryan looked at him, checking if it was alright.

“Is that okay?”

“No problem, as long as you’ve got the cash to cover the bill,” Lumian replied breezily.

“Make it another Absinthe, then,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre broke into a wide grin.

“Generous stranger, this kid’s the worst prankster in the village. Better watch out for him! Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village and he never left again. He was only thirteen; how’d he become a morgue watchman? Closest hospital’s down the mountain in Daliege, and that’s a whole afternoon away.”

“Brought him back?” Leah asked sharply.

She tilted her head slightly, making her bells chime.

Pierre nodded.

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“So, he took Aurore’s last name ‘Lee’ and even his first name ‘Lumian’ was chosen by her.”

“I don’t even remember what I was originally called,” Lumian said with a cheeky grin, taking a sip of his absinthe.

He didn’t seem embarrassed or ashamed in the least about his past being laid bare.