Chapter 563: Moonlit Lies at the Village Bar

I’m a failure. Sunshine or not, I barely notice—there’s just no time for that.

My parents can’t support me. I don’t have much education, so here I am, alone, searching for a future in the city.

I’ve gone after plenty of jobs, but none have worked out. Guess no one wants someone who’s not talkative or social, and who can’t prove they’re up to the task.

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There were three whole days when I got by on two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. At least I’d paid a month’s rent ahead, so I could keep living in my dark basement room. No need to face that brutal winter wind outside.

At last I landed a job—working nights at the hospital, standing guard in the morgue.

Nights at the hospital were even colder than I expected. The corridor wall lamps stayed off, leaving everything in gloom. Only the faintest bits of light from nearby rooms helped me see where I stepped.

The smell down there was awful. Every now and then, a body stuffed in a bag would show up, and we’d help move it into the mortuary.

This job wasn’t great, but at least I could buy bread now. There was free time at night for studying, since no one liked hanging around the morgue unless a body needed dropping off or hauling out for cremation. Of course, I couldn’t afford books yet, and saving money seemed hopeless.

I owe a thanks to the man before me. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I probably wouldn’t have landed this job at all.

I dreamed of someday taking a daytime shift. For now, I slept when the sun came up and woke at night. My body was getting weak, and sometimes my head throbbed.

One day, a worker brought in a new corpse.

I overheard that it was my former coworker, the one who’d quit out of the blue.

Curious about him, I waited for everyone to leave, then pulled out the drawer and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man, face pale and bluish with wrinkles everywhere—downright scary under such dim lights.

His hair was thinning and mostly white. They’d stripped all his clothes. Not a scrap was left on him.

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I spotted a strange mark on his chest, dark greenish-blue, but I couldn’t make out the shape—the lighting was just too bad.

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

Staring at my predecessor, I wondered—if I stayed like this, would I end up just like him when I’m old…?

I told him I’d go with him to the crematorium tomorrow and personally carry his ashes to the nearest free cemetery, just so the staff wouldn’t dump him in a river or some wasteland out of laziness.

That’d cost me half a morning of sleep, but with Sunday around the corner, I could catch up.

Once I said that, I fixed up the body bag and slid him back into the drawer.

Somehow, the room felt even darker after that.

From that night on, every time I slept, I dreamed of a place smothered in fog.

I had a hunch something was about to happen. I kept thinking something—or someone not quite human—would come looking for me someday. Nobody believed me, though. They thought the job was messing with my head, told me I should see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar glanced at the storyteller, who had suddenly stopped.

“And then?”

This man was in his thirties, wearing a coarse brown wool coat and pale yellow trousers, his hair pressed flat. By his side sat a shabby dark round hat.

He looked entirely average, just like most of the people in the tavern—black hair, light blue eyes. Not handsome, not ugly—just nothing remarkable.

From his view, the storyteller was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, tall, with long limbs. Black short hair and light blue eyes, but his sharp features made him stand out instantly.

Staring at his empty glass, the young man sighed.

“And then?”

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“Then I quit and moved back home. Came here to trade tales with you.”

As he spoke, the young man’s face lit up with a sly little smile.

The man at the bar was caught off guard.

“Everything you just said—that was all make-believe?”

Laughter broke out all around the bar.

When the noise finally died down, a skinny middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed visitor and said,

“Outsider, you actually believe Lumian’s tales? He makes up new ones every day! Yesterday his fiancée dumped him for being broke, and now he’s a morgue guard?”

“Yeah! One day it’s thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence, next it’s thirty on the right bank—can’t ever get a word of truth out of him!” another regular chimed in.

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

The black-haired young man called Lumian pushed himself up from the bar, grinning.

“You know these aren’t my own stories. My sister writes them. She’s nuts about storytelling—she even writes a column for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned, spread his hands in front of the visitor, and flashed a dazzling smile.

“Looks like she’s pretty good at it.

Sorry if you took it the wrong way.”

The man with the brown coat and plain looks wasn’t upset. He stood with a smile and replied,

“That was a great story.”

“What should I call you?”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself first when asking someone else’s name?” Lumian replied with a laugh.

The outsider nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman sitting on either side.

The man looked twenty-seven, twenty-eight—with light blond hair powdered lightly, eyes deeper than the lake, wearing a white vest, a blue fine-wool jacket, and black trousers. He was clearly dressed to impress before leaving home.

He wore a cool, distant look and barely spared a glance at the local farmers and herders.

The woman seemed younger than the men, her long pale gray hair styled in an elaborate updo, draped with a white veil for a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and when she looked at Lumian, she didn’t bother to hide her delight. The whole situation just amused her.

With the tavern’s gas-lit lamps shining on her, Leah’s pretty nose and graceful lips stood out. In a rural place like Cordu, she was definitely a beauty.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, a cream short coat, and a pair of Massir knee-high boots. Two little silver bells hung from her veil and boots, jingling as she walked into the bar, turning quite a few heads.

In their eyes, only some place as fashionable as the provincial capital Bigo or the metropolis Trier would see someone dressed like her.

Lumian nodded to the three strangers.

“I’m Lumian Lee. Just Lumian is fine.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong with my surname?” Lumian asked, genuinely curious.

Ryan Coste explained for her.

“That name gives people a chill. I almost lost my composure hearing it, too.”

Seeing the farmers and herders look lost, he added,

“Anyone who’s dealt with sailors or merchants out on the Five Seas knows this saying:

‘Better to cross a pirate admiral or even a king than to run into a man named Frank Lee.’

He shares your surname.”

“Is he really that dangerous?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I’m not sure, but if there’s a legend like that, it can’t be baseless.”

He dropped the topic and turned to Lumian.

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

“An absinthe,” Lumian shot back without hesitation, settling into his seat again.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… The ‘Green Fairy’?”

“I should warn you, absinthe isn’t good for you. It can mess with your mind—even cause hallucinations.”

“I didn’t expect Trier’s drinking habits to make it out here,” Leah added with a smile.

Lumian gave a small ‘oh’ of recognition.

“So people in Trier like absinthe too…

For us, life’s tough enough already. No need to care about one more thing that’s bad for us. At least this drink helps us unwind a little.”

“Alright,” Ryan sat back down and looked at the bartender. “One absinthe. And a Fiery Heart for me.”

‘Fiery Heart’ was a well-known fruit brandy.

“Why not order me some absinthe too? I was the one who tipped you off about the truth! And I can spill everything about this brat!” The skinny middle-aged man who’d revealed Lumian’s storyteller habit called out, “Outsider, I can tell you still doubt that story!”

“Pierre, there’s nothing you won’t do for a free drink!” Lumian called back loudly.

Before Ryan could answer, Lumian chimed in again.

“Why can’t I just tell the story again myself? That way I’d get another glass of absinthe!”

“Because nobody knows if what you say is true or not.” Pierre grinned. “Your sister’s favorite story for kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Keep lying and people stop trusting you.”

“Alright then.” Lumian shrugged and watched the bartender slide a pale green drink his way.

Ryan looked at him for confirmation.

“Is that okay?”

“Fine by me, as long as your wallet can handle it,” Lumian replied, unfazed.

“Then one more absinthe,” Ryan agreed with a nod.

Pierre broke into a broad smile.

“Generous stranger! Watch out for the prankster, though—he’s always up to something. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back here, and he’s never left. He was only thirteen then—no way he ever worked at a hospital morgue. The nearest hospital’s all the way down in Daliege, a whole afternoon’s walk.”

“She brought him back?” Leah asked sharply.

She turned her head a bit, and the silver bells chimed.

Pierre nodded.

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“That’s right. Afterward, he adopted his sister Aurore’s last name, Lee. Even the name ‘Lumian’ was picked by her.”

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

He showed not a trace of shame or awkwardness about his past being outed.