Chapter 545: The Night Shift Storyteller

I’m a failure. I barely notice whether the sun shines bright or not – there’s just no time for that.

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

I’ve chased so many jobs, but none ever hired me. Maybe nobody likes someone who can’t talk smoothly, hates socializing and never seems good enough.

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I went three whole days living on just two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me awake through the cold nights. Luckily, I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could stay in my cramped, dark basement a little longer. At least I didn’t have to face the brutal winter wind outside.

Finally, I landed a job. The night shift at the hospital, looking after the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I imagined. The corridor’s wall lamps weren’t lit, leaving everything shadowy and dim. I had only the faint glow leaking from a nearby room to see my own feet.

It smelled terrible in there. Every so often, someone stuffed a corpse into a body bag and brought it in. We worked together to haul them into the morgue.

It’s not a great job, but at least it lets me buy bread. And I can use the empty nights for studying, since hardly anyone ever wants to visit the morgue except to deliver or burn a body. Of course, I don’t have spare money for books, and honestly I can’t see myself saving up anytime soon.

I should thank my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I doubt I’d have even landed this job.

I dream of one day switching to the daytime shift. As it is, I always sleep when the sun rises and wake when night falls. My body feels weak and my head throbs from time to time.

One day, a porter wheeled in a new body.

Word was, this was the very colleague who’d suddenly quit.

Curiosity got the better of me. Once everyone left, I pulled out the drawer and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man. His face looked both bluish and pale, deep wrinkles everywhere. Under that dim light, he was downright frightening.

He hardly had any hair left, and what little remained was white. All his clothing had been stripped away—not even a scrap to cover him.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest, blue-black in color. I can’t describe exactly what it looked like—the light was paltry in there.

I reached out and touched that mark. Nothing special happened.

Staring at my former coworker, I wondered—if I went on like this, would I end up just like him when I’m old…

I told him I’d accompany him to the crematorium tomorrow and personally take his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. That way, whoever’s in charge wouldn’t just toss him in some river or barren field out of laziness.

It’d cost me a morning of sleep, but not a big deal. Sunday was coming up, so I could catch up on rest.

After speaking, I zipped up the body bag again and pushed him back into the drawer.

The lights in the room grew even dimmer…

Ever since that day, I keep dreaming of thick fog whenever I lie down.

I can’t shake the feeling that something’s about to happen—that some thing I can’t even call human will soon come looking for me. But no one believes me. They just think this job is driving me mad, that I’d be better off seeing a doctor…

Seated at the bar, a male customer glanced over at the storyteller who had come to an abrupt stop.

“And then?”

He was in his thirties, dressed in a rough brown coat and pale yellow trousers, hair flattened neatly, with a simple dark round hat resting beside his hand.

He looked utterly unremarkable—just like most others in the tavern. Black hair, light blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly, nothing that stood out.

The storyteller in his eyes was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, tall and lean, with short black hair and clear light blue eyes. His sharp features were striking.

The young man stared at his empty glass, sighed, and said:

“And then?”

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

As he spoke, a sly grin tugged at his lips.

The man at the bar hesitated:

“You mean you just made all that up?”

A burst of laughter erupted from around the bar.

When the laughter died down, a skinny middle-aged man eyed the slightly embarrassed visitor and said:

“Oh, out-of-towner, you really believed Lumian’s story? He spins a new one every day. Yesterday he was dumped by his fiancée over money troubles, and today he’s a night watchman for corpses!”

“Exactly! Yesterday he claimed thirty years on the left bank of the Serrence River, thirty years on the right—all nonsense!” chimed in another regular.

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

The black-haired young man—Lumian—braced himself against the bar and stood up slowly, beaming.

“You all know I don’t make these up. They’re stories my sister writes. She loves storytelling and even has a column in Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned and shrugged at the stranger, his smile bright as ever.

“Guess she writes pretty well, huh?”

“Sorry for misleading you.”

The plain-looking man in the brown coat didn’t take offense, standing up with a smile of his own.

“It’s an entertaining story.”

“How should I address you?”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first before you ask someone else’s name?” Lumian replied with a grin.

The visiting guest nodded.

“My name is Ryan Coste.”

“These two are my companions—Valentine and Leah.”

He motioned to the man and woman seated beside him.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight, his blond hair lightly powdered, eyes deeper blue than a lake, dressed in a white vest, blue fine-wool jacket and black trousers—a clear sign he’d taken care to dress up.

His expression was cold, barely glancing at the farmers and herders nearby.

The woman seemed younger than both men. Her pale grey hair was twisted into an elaborate bun beneath a white veil serving as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and she watched Lumian with open amusement. She seemed to have enjoyed every bit of what had happened.

Under the gas wall lamps, Leah showed off her pretty nose and elegantly curved lips—by Cordu village standards, she was stunning.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, a cream jacket and a pair of Marcille boots. Silver bells decorated her veil and boots, tinkling brightly as she had entered the tavern, drawing plenty of lingering stares.

To the locals, her outfit was the kind you’d only ever see in city centers like Bigo or the capital Trier.

Lumian nodded to the three outsiders.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

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

Ryan Coste helped explain:

“Your last name is notorious. I almost couldn’t keep my voice steady when you said it.”

He saw looks of confusion on the faces of the farmers and herders and explained further:

“Anyone who’s worked with sailors or merchants knows the saying across the Five Seas:

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

“That Lee is the same as your Lee.”

“Is he really that dangerous?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t know, but with a reputation like that, he must be something else.”

He let the topic drop and turned to Lumian.

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

“Absinthe,” Lumian answered boldly, sitting right back down.

Ryan Coste frowned.

“Absinthe… the ‘Green Fairy’?”

“I should warn you—absinthe isn’t good for your health. It can cause hallucinations and make you lose your mind.”

“I didn’t expect the trends from Trier to reach out here so soon,” Leah added with a smile.

Lumian just replied, “Oh? So people in Trier drink Absinthe too…

For us, life’s already tough enough. What’s a bit more damage if it helps us unwind?”

“Alright,” Ryan said, settling back into his seat and telling the bartender, “One Absinthe. Add a ‘Fiery Heart’ for me too.”

Fiery Heart was the famed fruit spirit.

“Why not get me an Absinthe too? I’m the one who told you the truth—plus, I can reveal everything about this rascal here!” The skinny middle-aged man who first exposed Lumian’s stories shouted. “Outsiders, I can tell you’re still doubting what you’ve heard!”

“Pierre, you really will do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back, raising his voice.

Before Ryan could respond, Lumian cut in again:

“Why can’t I just tell the story myself? Then I’d get another Absinthe.”

“Because nobody knows whether to trust a word you say,” Pierre crowed. “Your sister’s favorite bedtime story for the kids was ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ If you lie too much, you lose all credibility.”

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

Ryan looked over, checking:

“Is that alright?”

“No problem—as long as your wallet can handle it,” Lumian said, completely unfazed.

“Then make it two Absinthe,” Ryan agreed.

Pierre’s grin grew twice as wide.

“You’re generous, outsider! Mind you, this guy is the village’s top troublemaker—best stay clear.

Five years back, his sister Aurore brought him to the village, and he’s never left since. Think about it—he was only thirteen then. How could he work as a night watchman at a hospital? The nearest one is all the way down in Daliege—it takes half a day just to get there.”

“Brought to the village?” Leah asked smartly.

She tilted her head, making her silver bells chime.

Pierre nodded.

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“Afterwards, he took on Aurore’s last name—Lee. Even the name ‘Lumian’ was chosen by her.”

“I can’t even remember what I was called before that,” Lumian said with a playful grin, sipping his Absinthe.

He seemed wholly unashamed about the bits of his past being laid bare.