Chapter 551: Tales at the Bar: The Night Watcher of Cordu

I’m a failure. Sunshine or gloom makes little difference to me—I simply don’t have the time to notice.

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

I applied to countless jobs. None hired me. Maybe nobody wants someone who can’t talk well, doesn’t like to socialize, and just never seems to show enough skill.

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There was a time I spent three whole days living on nothing but two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me awake through the nights. Fortunately I’d already paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could keep living in that dark basement instead of facing the bitter cold wind outside during winter.

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

The hospital at night was even colder than I’d imagined. The corridor lights stayed off, leaving the place dim and eerie. Only a dim sliver of light leaking from inside the rooms let me see where I put my feet.

The smell was awful. Every so often, someone pushed in a corpse sealed in a black body bag, and we’d haul it into the morgue together.

It wasn’t much of a job, but at least I could buy some bread with the pay. The free time at night gave me a chance to study too. After all, no one wanted to visit the morgue unless they were bringing in or burning a body. Of course, buying books was out of my budget, and saving money seemed hopeless.

I owe my thanks to my predecessor. If he hadn’t quit suddenly, I wouldn’t have gotten this job at all.

I once dreamed of being rotated onto a day shift. Now I end up sleeping as the sun rises and waking only when night falls. My body’s grown a little weak, and sometimes I get these strange headaches.

One day, a few orderlies delivered a new corpse.

I heard it belonged to my predecessor—the one who quit all of a sudden.

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

He was an old man. His face was mottled blue and white, full of deep wrinkles. In the faint light, he looked downright terrifying.

He hardly had any hair left, most of it was white. Someone had stripped him down, not even a scrap of clothing left on him.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest. It was bluish-black, but I couldn’t quite make it out in the dim light.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing happened. It felt like nothing at all.

Staring at my predecessor, I found myself wondering—if I kept living like this until I was old, would I end up just like him?

I told him I’d accompany him to the crematorium tomorrow. Said I’d see to delivering his ashes to the nearest free cemetery myself, so the people in charge wouldn’t just dump them in the river or some empty field out of laziness.

It would cost me a morning of sleep, but that was fine. Sunday was almost here—I could catch up later.

After speaking to him, I fixed the body bag and slid it back into the drawer.

The room suddenly seemed even darker than before…

From that night on, every time I slept, I would dream of wandering in a thick, endless fog.

I could sense something was about to happen. Some day, something not quite human would come seeking me. But nobody believed me. They were sure it was just the job, that I’d lost my mind and needed a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar turned to the storyteller, who’d suddenly fallen silent.

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a rough brown tweed coat and pale yellow trousers. His hair was slicked flat, and an old, dark bowler hat sat beside his hand.

He looked utterly ordinary, just like most others in the tavern—black hair, pale blue eyes, not handsome, not ugly, nothing that set him apart.

To him, the storyteller appeared to be an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old; tall and slender, with black short hair and pale blue eyes, but with striking, sharp features that made him stand out.

The young man stared at his empty glass, let out a breath and replied,

“And then?”

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“And then I quit my job and returned to the countryside. Now I just hang out here spinning yarns with you.”

As he spoke, a sly, mischievous smile crept across his face.

The man at the bar seemed caught off-guard.

“So all that was just a story?”

“Ha!” Laughter erupted around the bar.

Once the laughter died down, a lean, middle-aged man eyed the embarrassed customer and said,

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He tells a different tale every day. Yesterday he was dumped by his fiancée for being poor. Today he’s the graveyard shift at the morgue!”

“Right! He talks about thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence, thirty on the right bank—always spouting nonsense!” chimed in another bar regular.

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

Lumian, the black-haired youth, braced himself on the bar and stood up slowly, grinning.

“You know, I’m not making this stuff up. These stories? They’re all written by my sister. She loves writing and even has a column in the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned toward the outsider, spreading his hands, and flashed a dazzling smile.

“Seems like she’s a pretty good writer after all.

“Sorry for giving you the wrong idea.”

The unremarkable man in the brown tweed, not bothered at all, stood up and smiled back.

“That was a fun story.”

“How should I address you?”

“Isn’t it standard to introduce yourself before asking someone else’s name?” Lumian shot back with a grin.

The out-of-town guest nodded.

“My name is Ryan Coste.

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

He meant the man and woman sitting beside him.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Some powder dusted his blond hair, and his not-too-large eyes were a shade deeper than lake blue. He wore a white vest, blue fine-wool jacket, and black trousers—obviously dressing to impress.

His expression was cold; he barely acknowledged the local farmers and herdsmen around them.

The young woman seemed younger than either man. Her light gray hair was arranged in an intricate updo, with a piece of white gauze acting as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair in color. When she looked at Lumian, her smile was open and unhidden, as though she found the whole exchange simply entertaining.

With the gaslight glowing across the bar, Leah’s delicate nose and beautifully curved lips were easy to see. In a rural village like Cordu, she was undeniably a beauty.

She wore a fitted white cashmere dress and a cream-colored short jacket, along with a pair of Marcil boots. Two little silver bells dangled from her veil and her boots. When she walked in, you could hear the tinkling all the way, and no man could help but stare.

To them, only cities the size of Bigo, the provincial capital, or the grand city of Trier could boast such fashionable outfits.

Lumian gave the three newcomers a quick nod.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong? Do you have a problem with my surname?” Lumian asked, curious.

Ryan Coste helped Leah explain.

“Your surname is intimidating. I almost lost control of my voice just now.”

Glancing at the local farmers and herdsmen, who all looked confused, he went on,

“Anyone who’s sailed with sailors or merchant crews knows this saying from the Five Seas:

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

“That Lee—he’s got the same surname.”

“Is he really that terrible?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I’m not sure. But if he inspires that kind of story, he can’t be ordinary.”

He let the topic drop, then turned to Lumian.

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

“A glass of Absinthe,” Lumian replied at once, settling back onto his stool.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… The Green Fairy?”

“Maybe I should warn you—absinthe is bad for your health. It can mess with your mind and cause hallucinations.”

“Didn’t expect Trier’s latest trends to reach a place like this,” Leah added with a knowing smile.

Lumian let out a little ‘oh.’

“So even folks in Trier like Absinthe… Well, for us, life’s hard enough already. A little extra damage isn’t worth worrying over. At least this drink helps us relax.”

“Alright,” Ryan said, sliding back onto his seat. He looked at the bartender. “One Absinthe, and another round of Fiery Heart for me.”

Fiery Heart was a well-known fruit spirit.

“Hey, why not order an Absinthe for me too? I’m the one who exposed the truth. I can even tell them all about this rascal!” The skinny, middle-aged man who’d revealed Lumian’s storytelling called out. “Strangers, I can tell you’re still not sure if his story was true!”

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

Before Ryan could answer, Lumian added,

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

“Because nobody knows if you’re telling the truth,” Pierre said with a smug grin. “Your sister’s favorite tale for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’

“Keep lying, and nobody will ever trust you.”

“Fine,” Lumian shrugged, catching sight of the bartender sliding a pale green drink his way.

Ryan glanced over, checking.

“Is that alright with you?”

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

“Then make it two Absinthes,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre immediately broke into a grin.

“Generous stranger! This rascal’s the biggest prankster in the village. Better steer clear of him.

“Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back here and he never left. Think about it. He was only thirteen; how could he work the night shift at a hospital? The nearest one is all the way down the mountain in Daliege, a whole afternoon’s walk away.”

“Brought back?” Leah jumped on the detail, quick as ever.

She turned her head slightly and the bells on her veil jangled.

Pierre nodded.

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“Ever since then, he’s used his sister’s surname, ‘Lee.’ Even his first name, ‘Lumian,’ was picked out by her.”

“Can’t even remember what my original name was,” Lumian said with a cheeky grin, taking a sip of absinthe.

He hardly seemed the least bit bothered or embarrassed by his past being spilled out for everyone to hear.