Chapter 564: Mist and Mischief in Cordu Village

I’m a failure. I barely notice whether the sun is shining or not. There just isn’t time.

My parents can’t support me, my education isn’t great, and I’m all alone, searching for a future in the city.

I applied to a ton of jobs but never got hired. Guess nobody wants someone who’s bad at talking, not fond of socializing, and just doesn’t seem all that capable.

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I went three whole days eating nothing but two loaves of bread. The hunger kept me up at night, but luckily I’d paid a month’s rent in advance. I could still hole up in that dark basement, at least not shivering in the brutal winter wind outside.

Finally, I landed a job—night watch at the hospital. My task? Guarding the morgue at night.

Turns out the hospital at night is even colder than I’d imagined. The corridor sconces don’t work, so it’s gloomy everywhere. I could only rely on the weak glow spilling out from nearby rooms to avoid tripping over my own feet.

The smell down there is awful. Every so often, someone wheels in a dead body stuffed in a bag. We’d work together to get it inside the morgue.

It’s not a great job, but at least it lets me afford bread. The empty nights let me study, since nobody wants to visit the morgue unless they’re bringing in a body or hauling one away for cremation. Still, I don’t have enough money for books, and it doesn’t look like that’ll change anytime soon.

I have to thank my predecessor. If he hadn’t quit out of nowhere, I probably wouldn’t even have this gig.

I dream of working the day shift someday. As it is, I sleep when the sun is up and wake at night. It’s made me a little frail and every now and then my head throbs.

One day, the porters brought in a new corpse.

Word was, it was my predecessor—the one who’d suddenly quit.

I was curious. Once everyone left, I slid open the drawer and quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man, his face a sickly mix of blue and white, wrinkled all over. Under the dim lights, he looked downright terrifying.

He had very little hair left, most of it white, and he was stripped bare—he didn’t even get a scrap of cloth.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest, dark and bluish, but I couldn’t make out the exact shape. The lighting was just too dim.

I reached out and touched it. Nothing happened. It didn’t feel like anything special.

Looking at my former coworker, I wondered if I kept going like this—would I end up the same way, when I got old…?

I told him, tomorrow I’d go with him to the crematorium and personally see that his ashes made it to the closest free cemetery. Otherwise, the people in charge would just dump him somewhere random—a river, or some wasteland—just to avoid the hassle.

I’d lose a morning of sleep taking care of it, but it was almost Sunday anyway, so I could catch up.

After that, I zipped up the body bag and slid him back into the drawer.

The morgue seemed even darker somehow…

Ever since then, whenever I slept, I’d dream of thick fog.

I had a feeling something was coming. I just knew, sooner or later, something—not even sure I should call it a person—would come looking for me. But nobody believes me. They think the job’s gotten to my head, that I’m losing my mind and need to see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar glanced at the storyteller, who’d suddenly stopped:

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a coarse brown jacket and light yellow trousers. His hair was plastered flat and a battered dark round hat sat within reach.

He looked utterly ordinary—black hair, pale blue eyes, not handsome, not ugly, just another face in the crowd at the tavern.

To him, the storyteller was a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen. Tall and lean, with close-cropped black hair and striking blue eyes, his sharp features made him stand out.

The young man stared into his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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“Then I quit, went back to the countryside, and ended up here spinning tall tales with you.”

He grinned as he spoke, a sly smile spreading across his face.

The man at the bar stared at him, surprised:

“So all that was just a story?”

“Ha!” Laughter erupted around the bar.

When the laughter died down a little, a skinny middle-aged man eyed the gullible guest.

“Outsider, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He makes up a new one every day! Yesterday he was dumped by his fiancée for being poor, today he’s a corpse watcher!”

“Yeah! He keeps rambling about thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River and thirty years on the right bank—always talking nonsense!” chimed in another local.

They were all farmers from Cordu, the big village nearby. Their short jackets were black, gray, or brown.

Lumian, the black-haired young man, braced his hands on the bar, stood up slow, and flashed a sunny grin.

“You all know the stories aren’t mine! My sister writes them. She loves telling stories. She’s even a columnist for ‘Weekly Novel Magazine.'”

He turned and shrugged to the out-of-town guest, grinning wide.

“Guess she’s got real talent.”

“Sorry for fooling you.”

The man in the coarse brown jacket didn’t seem angry. He stood as well, smiling back.

“That was a great story.”

“What should I call you?”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself before asking someone else’s name?” Lumian chuckled.

The guest nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

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

He gestured to the young man and woman sitting nearby.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, a hint of powder in his blond hair, his eyes deeper blue than the lake, dressed in a white vest, blue wool jacket, and black trousers. Clearly, he’d fussed over his appearance before coming out.

He looked rather cold, barely glancing at the local farmers and herders.

The woman seemed younger than both men. Her long pale gray hair was styled into a complicated knot, wrapped with a white veil that doubled as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and she watched Lumian with open amusement, looking like she genuinely found the scene entertaining.

With the gaslight flickering on her face, Leah’s pretty nose and gracefully curved lips were easy to see. In a place like Cordu, she was strikingly beautiful.

She wore a form-fitting white cashmere dress, a cream short coat, and a pair of Marsil boots. Silver bells hung from the veil and boots, so when she entered, the cheerful jingling turned plenty of heads.

To everyone here, her outfit was the sort of high fashion you’d only see in Bigo, the provincial capital, or Trier, the real capital.

Lumian nodded at the three visitors.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

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

Ryan answered for Leah:

“That name’s a little scary. I almost couldn’t keep my voice steady just now.”

Seeing confusion on the farmers’ and herders’ faces, he explained further:

“Anyone with dealings on the Five Seas has heard the saying:

‘Better cross paths with pirate lords or even kings than mess with a man named Frank Lee.'”

“He’s got the same surname as you.”

“Is he that terrifying?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head:

“I have no idea, but there’s a legend. If it’s spread that far, it’s probably not baseless.”

He dropped the subject and turned to Lumian.

“Thanks for the story. It’s worth a drink. What’ll you have?”

“An Absinthe.” Lumian didn’t hesitate, settling back in his seat.

Ryan frowned a bit.

“Absinthe… You mean the Green Fairy?”

“I should warn you—absinthe can mess you up. Might give you hallucinations or drive you a little mad.”

“I’m surprised the trends from Trier have made it all the way out here,” Leah added with a smile.

“Oh,” Lumian said, “so folks in Trier like the Green Fairy too…

Life’s hard enough here already, so what’s a little more damage? This drink actually helps us unwind.”

“All right then,” Ryan said, returning to his seat and signaling to the bartender. “One Absinthe, and add a Fiery Heart for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a well-known fruit spirit.

“Why not order me a Green Fairy too? I was the one who told you the truth, and I can spill everything about this kid!” protested the skinny middle-aged man who’d outed Lumian’s stories. “I know you outsiders are still doubting his tale!”

“Pierre, you’d do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back loudly.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian added:

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

“Because they don’t know if you’re telling the truth,” Pierre said with a smug grin. “Your sister’s favorite story for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ A liar’s always going to lose his credibility.”

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

Ryan looked at him, checking:

“Is that okay?”

“Sure, as long as your wallet can handle it,” Lumian replied breezily.

“One more Absinthe, then.” Ryan nodded to the bartender.

Pierre broke out in a broad grin:

“Generous outsider! This kid’s the biggest prankster in the village; you’d better watch out. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back. He’s never left Cordu since. Think about it—he was just thirteen back then. There’s no way he worked as a morgue night watch in some hospital! Closest one’s halfway 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 a bit, making her bells jingle.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took Aurore’s surname—Lee. Even the name ‘Lumian’ was given by her.”

“I don’t even remember what I used to be called,” Lumian laughed, taking a sip of absinthe.

And he didn’t seem even a little ashamed of having his past thrown out for everyone to hear.