Chapter 568: The Night Watcher’s Tale

I’ve always considered myself a failure. Whether the sun was shining or not just never mattered—there was never enough time for that.

My parents couldn’t offer any support and my education wasn’t much to speak of. Alone in the city, I was chasing a future I could barely imagine.

I tried for countless jobs, but no one would hire me. Maybe it was because I wasn’t a talker or good with people, and I definitely hadn’t proved myself capable of anything special.

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I spent three whole days living on just two loaves of bread. The hunger kept me awake at night. Luckily, I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could still stay in that dark basement and didn’t have to brave the brutal winter winds outside.

At last, I landed a job—night shift at the hospital, keeping watch over the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I’d expected. The corridor wall lamps stayed off, leaving everything shrouded in darkness. Only a faint bit of light from various rooms helped me see my own feet.

The place stank. Every so often, a corpse would be wheeled in, stuffed into a body bag. We helped carry them into the morgue.

It wasn’t exactly a great job, but at least it let me afford bread. I could use the quiet night to study, since hardly anyone ever came by the morgue unless a body needed to arrive or be taken for cremation. Of course, I couldn’t afford to buy books yet—didn’t even see the hope of saving up for them.

I owed all this to my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I might not have gotten the job at all.

I kept hoping I’d get a shot at the day shift. These days, I slept when the sun came up and woke only after nightfall. My body felt weaker for it, and sometimes a sharp pain flickered through my head.

One day, the movers brought in a new corpse.

People said it was my predecessor, the one who left so abruptly.

I was curious about him. After everyone else left, I slid open the drawer, quietly unzipped the body bag.

He was an old man—his face a mottled bluish white, wrinkled all over. Under the dim light, he looked downright creepy.

He didn’t have much hair left, and most of it was white. All his clothes had been stripped off, not a single scrap was left to him.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest, somewhere between blue and black. I couldn’t quite make out its exact look—the lighting was just too poor.

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

Staring at my predecessor, I couldn’t help but wonder—if I kept going down this path, would I end up like him when I was old…?

I told him I’d be by his side at the crematorium tomorrow, personally taking his ashes to the nearest free burial ground. If you leave it to the staff, they’d just toss him in a river or dump him on some deserted lot out of convenience.

It would cost me a morning’s sleep, but that was fine. Sunday was coming up—I could catch up later.

After saying that, I zipped the bag shut and pushed the drawer back in place.

The room seemed even darker than before…

After that night, every time I tried to sleep, I dreamed about being lost in a thick fog.

I had a sense that something was coming—something neither quite human nor quite right. But no one believed me. They said my mind was fraying from working in that kind of place. Maybe I needed to see a doctor…

At the bar counter, a male patron glanced at the storyteller who’d suddenly stopped speaking.

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a brown tweed coat and pale yellow trousers. His hair was neatly flattened and an old, dark round hat sat on the bar beside his hand.

He was an unremarkable sort, just like most in the tavern—black hair, light blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly, with no real distinguishing features.

But the storyteller he watched was a young man around eighteen or nineteen, tall and slender, with short black hair and clear blue eyes. His sharp features made him stand out instantly.

The young man stared into his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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“Then I quit and came back to the country. Now here I am, spinning tales with you.”

As he said this, a sly grin curled his lips, mischief shining in his eyes.

The male patron hesitated.

“You mean all that was just a story?”

A burst of laughter exploded from around the bar.

When the laughter died down, a skinny middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed patron and said,

“Stranger, you really fell for Lumian’s story? He tells a new one every day. Yesterday, he was a poor guy dumped by his fiancée. Today, he’s a watcher of the dead!”

“That’s right! One day he’s lived thirty years on the east of the Serrence River, then thirty on the right side—he’s always spinning tall tales!” another regular chimed in.

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

Lumian—the black-haired young man—propped himself up on the bar, slowly stood, and beamed at them.

“You know it’s not all made up. These stories come from my sister. She’s a writer—actually, a columnist for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned toward the visiting patron with a dazzling smile and spread his hands.

“Guess her writing really is something.”

“Sorry for the confusion.”

The man in the brown tweed coat wasn’t offended. He stood up and smiled back.

“That was a pretty entertaining story.”

“What’s your name?”

“Isn’t it proper manners to introduce yourself before asking someone else?” Lumian replied, grinning.

The traveler nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He was referring to the man and woman seated beside him.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, his blond hair powdered and perfectly styled. His eyes were a darker blue than lakewater. He wore a white vest, a blue fine-wool jacket and black trousers—clearly dressed for an occasion.

He carried himself with cool detachment, barely glancing at the local farmers and herders.

The woman seemed younger than the men, with long silvery-gray hair twisted into an ornate bun under a white veil that doubled as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair color. She looked at Lumian with open amusement, clearly entertained by the whole scene.

Under the glow of the tavern’s gas lights, Leah’s delicate nose and perfectly shaped lips stood out—by Cordu village standards, she was a real beauty.

She wore a white, fitted cashmere dress with an off-white jacket and knee-high Marcil boots. Matching silver bells dangled from her veil and boots, tinkling with every step when she entered, turning heads throughout the bar.

To the locals, that was city fashion—something they’d expect only from bigger places like Bigo, or the capital, Trier.

Lumian nodded to the three travelers.

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

“Lee?” Leah repeated, surprised.

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

Ryan Coste helped explain for her.

“Your surname is enough to make anyone uneasy. I nearly lost my composure just now.”

Seeing the puzzled faces of the farmers and herders, he went on.

“Anyone connected to sailors or sea merchants knows the saying across the Five Seas:

“Better to face pirate generals or kings themselves, than to ever cross paths with a man named Frank Lee.”

“He’s got the same surname—Lee.”

“Is he really so dangerous?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I couldn’t say for sure, but a legend like that doesn’t come from nowhere.”

He let the topic drop and turned to Lumian.

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

“An Absinthe,” Lumian replied without hesitation, sitting back down.

Ryan Coste frowned.

“Absinthe… Wormwood liquor?”

“Just so you know, absinthe isn’t good for you. It can mess with your mind—cause hallucinations or worse.”

“Didn’t expect the fashion in Trier to reach here already,” Leah added with a smile.

Lumian let out a small “oh.”

“So people in Trier like Absinthe too…

Life’s already tough for us as it is. I’m not too worried about a little extra harm—anything that helps us relax a bit more is welcome.”

“Alright then.” Ryan turned back to the bartender. “One Absinthe, and make it a Fiery Heart for me too.”

Fiery Heart was a well-known fruit brandy.

“Why not get me an Absinthe, too? I was the one who broke the story first! And if you want, I could tell you the whole truth about this kid right here! I know you strangers are still not sure if that story was true!” the skinny middle-aged man called out, disgruntled.

“Pierre, you’ll do anything for a free drink!” Lumian shot back, his voice loud over the bustle.

Before Ryan could reply, Lumian added,

“Why not let me tell it myself? Maybe then I’d get another Absinthe.”

“Because everyone’s not sure whether to believe anything you say,” Pierre laughed, proud to have the last word. “After all, your sister’s favorite story for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Someone who lies all the time soon loses all trust.”

“Alright, fine.” Lumian shrugged, watching the bartender slide a pale green drink his way.

Ryan looked to him for confirmation.

“Is it okay?”

“As long as your wallet can handle it, it’s fine by me,” Lumian answered, unfazed.

“Another Absinthe, then,” Ryan said, nodding.

Pierre instantly beamed.

“You strangers are generous! That kid’s the biggest prankster in the village—you’d be wise to keep your distance.”

“Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village and he’s never left since. Back then, he was only thirteen—how could he have worked at some hospital as a corpse watcher? The closest hospital is down the mountain in Daliege, and it takes a whole afternoon to walk there.”

“She brought him back?” Leah asked, quick as ever.

She turned slightly, the bells on her veil jingling.

Pierre nodded.

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“After that, he took Aurore’s surname—Lee. Even his name, Lumian, was her idea.”

“I can’t even remember what I was called originally,” Lumian said, grinning as he took a sip of absinthe.

He didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious or embarrassed about having his past exposed.