Chapter 555: Stories from the Village Bar

“I’m a failure. Sunshine or not, I rarely pay it any mind—I just don’t have the time.”

“My parents can’t support me and I’m not well educated. All alone in the city, I’m searching for a future.”

“I’ve applied to all sorts of jobs but didn’t get hired. Maybe it’s because no one likes people who struggle with words, who don’t socialize or show much 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 a month’s rent upfront, so I could keep living in that dark basement instead of facing the bitter chill of winter out in the open.”

“At last, I landed a job—night shift at the hospital, watching over the morgue.”

“Nights at the hospital are colder than I ever imagined. The hallway lights are off, making it dim everywhere. I have to rely on the faint glow leaking from other rooms just to see my feet.”

“The place always reeks. Every so often, they bring another body in a bag, and we help carry it into the morgue.”

“It’s far from a good job, but at least I can afford bread. I can use the quiet nights to study—no one visits the morgue unless a body needs to be brought in or sent out for cremation. Of course, I still can’t afford books, and it feels hopeless to set aside any savings.”

“I owe it all to my predecessor—if he hadn’t quit, I wouldn’t have even snagged this gig.”

“I dream of switching to the day shift. Right now I always sleep when the sun rises and wake at night. It’s left me weak and sometimes my head throbs.”

“One day, a porter wheeled in a new corpse.”

“Rumor was, that was my predecessor—the one who suddenly quit.”

“I couldn’t help being curious. After everyone left, I quietly slid open the drawer and unzipped the body bag.”

“He was an old man—his skin a patchwork of pale and bluish-green, wrinkles everywhere. In the dim light, he looked terrifying.”

“Hair nearly all white, head nearly bald. They’d stripped him of every scrap of clothing—not even a shred left for dignity.”

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“I saw a strange mark on his chest, dark and bluish—hard to describe, because it was so dim.”

“I touched the mark. Nothing special happened.”

“Looking at him, I found myself wondering—if I keep living like this, will I end up like him when I’m old?”

“I told him, ‘Tomorrow, I’ll go with you to the crematorium. I’ll personally carry your ashes to the nearest free cemetery. Otherwise, the folks who’re supposed to do it might just toss you into a river or dump you in some wasteland.'”

“I’ll be giving up a morning’s sleep, but that’s fine. Sunday’s coming soon—I can catch up then.”

“After I finished talking, I put the bag back together and slid it into the drawer.”

“The light in the room seemed to get even dimmer…”

“Ever since that night, every time I sleep, I keep dreaming of thick fog.”

“I’ve got this feeling that something’s about to happen… like something not quite human is coming for me. But nobody believes me—they just think my mind’s not right from that job and that place, that I should see a doctor…”

A man sitting at the bar turned and looked at the storyteller, who had suddenly gone quiet.

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a coarse brown wool coat and light yellow trousers. His hair was pressed flat and a plain dark bowler hat sat by his hand.

He had a forgettable face—black hair, pale blue eyes, not handsome but not ugly either, just like most of the men in the bar.

To him, the storyteller was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, tall and lean, with short black hair and the same pale blue eyes—but striking, with sharply defined features.

The young man stared at his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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“And then I quit, went back to the country, and ended up here swapping stories with you.”

As he spoke, a sly grin spread across his face, hints of mischief in his smile.

The man at the bar blinked in surprise.

“So all that was just a tall tale?”

The bar burst into laughter.

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

“Stranger, I can’t believe you fell for Lumian’s story. He changes it up every day. Yesterday, he was a jilted lover dumped for being broke. Today, he’s a night watchman in a morgue!”

“Right! And all that nonsense about spending thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River, then thirty years on the right—just pure fantasy!” another bar regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, this big country village, dressed in short jackets of black, gray or brown.

The black-haired young man, Lumian, pushed himself up from the bar and grinned at them.

“You all know I didn’t make the story up. It’s my sister who writes them—she’s a columnist for the Weekly Novel Magazine!”

He shifted, spread his hands at the outsider and flashed a brilliant smile.

“Seems she writes pretty well.”

“Sorry for the confusion.”

The plain-looking man in the brown coat didn’t seem annoyed. He stood, smiling back.

“It was an entertaining story.”

“What’s your name?”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first, before asking about others?” Lumian laughed.

The visitor nodded in agreement.

“I’m 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. His blond hair, touched up with powder, framed deep blue eyes. Dressed in a white vest, blue wool jacket and black trousers, he’d clearly gone to some effort before coming.

He seemed cold and distant, barely giving the locals a glance.

The woman looked younger than either man. Her long, pale gray hair was braided into an elaborate bun, topped by a white veil she wore like a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and when she looked at Lumian, there was open amusement in her gaze—she seemed to find the whole thing funny.

Under the gaslight of the bar, Leah’s delicate nose and graceful lips made her an absolute beauty for a rural place like Cordu.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, an off-white short jacket, and a pair of Marcille boots. Two little silver bells dangled from her veil and boots. They jingled as she entered, turning plenty of male heads along the way.

In their eyes, this was the kind of fashion you’d only see in the province capital Bigo or the big city, Trier.

Lumian nodded to the trio.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

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

Ryan Coste answered for Leah.

“That surname gives people chills. Just now, I almost couldn’t keep my voice steady.”

Seeing the local farmers and herdsmen looking puzzled, he went on,

“Anyone who’s dealt with sailors and sea traders has heard the saying across the Five Seas:

‘Better to run into a pirate lord or even a king than cross paths with someone named Frank Lee.’

That person’s last name is Lee too.”

“Is he really so terrifying?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t know. But with legends like that, he can’t be ordinary.”

He dropped the subject and turned to Lumian.

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

“An Absinthe.” Lumian answered without hesitation and sat back down.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… The ‘Green Fairy’?”

“I should warn you—absinthe is dangerous. It can harm the mind, cause delirium or even hallucinations.”

“I didn’t expect fashions from Trier to reach this far,” Leah chimed in with a smile.

Lumian let out an ‘oh’.

“So Trier folks like Absinthe too… For us, life’s already tough enough. What’s a little more risk if it lets us relax?”

“A bit more ease is worth it.”

“Alright.” Ryan sat back down and looked at the bartender. “One Absinthe—and add a Fiery Heart for me.”

Fiery Heart was a well-known fruit spirit.

“Why not order an Absinthe for me too? I was the one who spilled the truth! I could tell them everything about this kid!” the skinny middle-aged man who first outed Lumian grumbled loudly. “You can tell these outsiders still haven’t decided if the story was real!”

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

Before Ryan could answer, Lumian chimed in,

“Why can’t I tell the story myself? I could get another Absinthe out of it!”

“Because folks don’t know if your story’s true,” Pierre retorted smugly. “Remember, your sister’s favorite tale for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ People who always lie lose all their credit.”

“Fine.” Lumian shrugged, watching as the bartender pushed a pale green drink his way.

Ryan looked over as if asking for permission.

“Is it alright?”

“No problem—as long as your wallet can cover it.” Lumian didn’t mind at all.

“Another Absinthe, then,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face split into a wide grin.

“A generous outsider! Just so you know, this kid’s the village’s biggest prankster. Best to keep some distance.”

“Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village. He hasn’t left since. Before that, he was only thirteen—how could he have worked nights at the hospital morgue? The closest hospital’s down the mountain in Daliege. It’s a whole afternoon’s walk.”

“She brought him back?” Leah asked, catching on immediately.

She tilted her head slightly, setting her bells dancing.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took Aurore’s surname ‘Lee,’ and even his name, ‘Lumian,’ was her idea.”

“I don’t even remember what I used to be called,” Lumian said with a grin after tasting the absinthe.

Clearly, he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed or ashamed of his past being laid bare.