Chapter 570: Tales from the Night Shift

I’m a bit of a failure, honestly. I don’t pay much attention to whether the sun is shining or not—there just isn’t time for that.

My parents can’t support me and I don’t have much education. Alone in the city, I was left searching for a future.

I applied for job after job, but never got hired. Maybe nobody likes someone awkward with words, not great at talking or connecting, and who never really stands out.

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I once went three whole days with only two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me up at night. Luckily, I’d paid a month of rent in advance, so I could keep living in that dark basement and didn’t have to face the bone-chilling winter wind outside.

Finally, I found a job—night watch at a hospital. I was to keep vigil in the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I’d expected. The corridor lights stayed off, everything swallowed in gloom, and the only light came seeping from room to room, just enough for me to see my own feet.

It smelled awful there. Now and then, a corpse would arrive, zipped into a body bag. We’d work together to move it into the morgue.

It wasn’t exactly a dream job, but at least it let me afford bread. I had my nights free to study too, since nobody liked hanging around the morgue unless they were delivering bodies for storage or cremation. Not that I could buy any books yet—I didn’t have a hope of saving up for that.

I owe my thanks to my predecessor. If he hadn’t left so suddenly, I probably wouldn’t have even landed this job.

I kept dreaming that one day I could swap and get the day shift. But for now, I always slept when the sun was out and woke up once night fell. My body was getting weak from it. Sometimes my head hurt for no reason at all.

One day, a worker delivered a new corpse.

Rumor had it, this was my predecessor—the one who’d up and quit out of nowhere.

Curiosity got to me. After everyone left, I pulled open the drawer and snuck a look inside the body bag.

He was an old man, skin mottled blue and white, wrinkles everywhere, and in the faint, sickly light, he looked absolutely terrifying.

He barely had any hair left and what was there had gone white. His clothes had been stripped away—he hadn’t even been left a scrap of fabric for dignity.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest, deep blue-black. I couldn’t make out the shape, not with lighting that dim.

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

Looking at my predecessor, I started wondering—if I kept living like this, would I end up just like him when I got old…?

I told him that tomorrow I’d go with him to the crematorium, and personally bring his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. Otherwise, the folks in charge would probably just toss him in a river or bury him in some deserted field out of convenience.

I’d have to give up a morning’s sleep for that, but it was nearly Sunday anyway—I could make up for it then.

After saying that, I zipped up the body bag and slid it back in.

The room seemed darker than before…

After that night, I started dreaming of heavy fog every time I slept.

I just knew something would happen soon, that sooner or later, something—I don’t even know if I should call it human—would come looking for me. Not that anyone believed me. They figured working there, stuck in that place, had messed with my head and I just needed to see a doctor…

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

“So? What happened next?”

The man was in his thirties, dressed in a coarse brown tweed jacket and pale yellow trousers. His hair was slicked flat and beside him was a battered dark round hat.

He looked ordinary, just like most people here in the tavern—black hair, pale blue eyes, not ugly or especially handsome, nothing that stood out.

The storyteller he was staring at looked eighteen or nineteen, tall and lean, with black cropped hair and striking pale blue eyes set in sharp features—someone you’d notice right away.

The young man gazed at his empty glass and heaved a sigh.

“So what happened next?”

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“I quit the job and moved back to the countryside to trade stories with you,” he replied.

As he spoke, a mischievous grin spread across his face.

The man at the bar blinked in surprise.

“So, all that was just a tall tale?”

Laughter erupted from the crowd gathered around the bar.

When things quieted down, a gaunt, middle-aged man looked over at the embarrassed guest and said,

“You’re not from around here if you take Lumian’s stories at face value. He tells something different every day! Yesterday his fiancée dumped him for being broke. Today he’s working in a morgue!”

“Yeah! He’s always spouting nonsense—one day it’s thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River, the next it’s thirty years on the right! He never says a word that makes sense!” a regular chimed in.

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

The young man called Lumian braced himself on the bar and slowly stood, grinning from ear to ear.

“You all know I don’t make this stuff up. My sister writes these stories—she loves it. She’s even a columnist for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned and spread his hands toward the visitor, flashing an even brighter smile.

“Guess she’s pretty good at it, isn’t she?

Sorry if I threw you off.”

The man in the brown tweed, average in every way, took it all in stride and stood up too, smiling back.

“That was a fun story.”

“And you are…?”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first before asking someone else’s name?” Lumian shot back with a grin.

The visitor nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.

These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He was referring to the man and woman sitting on either side of him.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. His blond hair was dusted with powder and his eyes were a deep shade of blue, just darker than a lake. Dressed in a white vest, blue fine-wool jacket, and black pants, he’d spent time getting ready before heading out.

He wore a cold expression, not bothering to acknowledge the local farmers and herders.

The woman looked younger than both men. Silvery-gray hair was styled in a complicated updo and topped with a veil made from a piece of white cloth.

Her eyes matched her hair and sparkled with undisguised amusement as she looked at Lumian, clearly entertained by the whole exchange.

Under the glow of the tavern’s gas lamps, Leah’s elegant nose and curved lips stood out—she was a rare beauty for a place like Cordu village.

She wore a white cashmere dress with no pleats, a cream short jacket, and a pair of Maciel boots. Little silver bells hung from both her veil and boots, jingling all the way in when she entered, drawing the stares of half the men in the place.

To all of them, this was city fashion you’d only find in a provincial capital like Bigo or even Trier itself.

Lumian nodded at the three strangers.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong? Is my last name a problem or something?” Lumian asked, genuinely curious.

Ryan Coste explained for her.

“Your last name scares people. I almost couldn’t keep my voice steady just now.”

Seeing the puzzled faces of the farmers and herders nearby, he continued:

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

“Better to cross paths with any pirate admiral or king than run into a single man named Frank Lee.”

“That Frank Lee has the same last name.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I’m not sure, but if the saying’s made it this far, it must mean something.”

He left it at that and turned back to Lumian.

“Thanks for the story. It deserves a drink. What’ll it be?”

“Absinthe,” Lumian said without hesitation, plopping back onto his stool.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe—the Green Fairy?”

“Let me warn you: absinthe’s bad for you. It can mess with your mind, cause hallucinations. It’s dangerous.”

“I didn’t realize trends from Trier made their way out here too,” Leah added, lips curled in a smile.

Lumian let out an ‘oh’.

“So even people in Trier drink absinthe… Well, life’s already tough enough—we’re not worried about a little extra harm. At least it relaxes us a bit more.”

“Alright then,” Ryan slid back into his seat and glanced at the bartender. “One absinthe—and a Fiery Heart for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a famous fruit spirit.

“Why can’t I get an absinthe too? I’m the one who exposed him! I can even tell you everything about this kid!” The gaunt man—first to call Lumian out for making up stories—snapped, “You strangers seem like you’re not sure about any of this!”

“Pierre! You’ll do anything for a free drink!” Lumian hollered back.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian piped up again.

“Why can’t I tell it myself? That way, I could get another absinthe out of it!”

“Because nobody knows if your story’s true!” Pierre retorted with a smug grin. “Your sister’s favorite tale for kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Lie enough and nobody’ll trust a thing you say.”

“Fine.” Lumian shrugged and watched as the bartender slid a glass of pale green liquor his way.

Ryan looked at him, asking,

“Is that alright?”

“No problem, as long as your wallet can handle it,” Lumian replied without a care.

“Make that another absinthe,” Ryan agreed.

Pierre beamed from ear to ear.

“Generous strangers! Just keep in mind—this kid’s the biggest prankster in the village. Better steer clear. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to Cordu and he never left again. Before that, he was only thirteen—how could he have gotten a gig in a morgue? The nearest hospital is all the way down to Daliege—it’d take half a day to walk there.”

“Brought back to the village?” Leah cut in, sharp-eyed.

She tilted her head and her bells chimed.

Pierre nodded.

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

“I’ve forgotten what my old name was,” Lumian said cheerfully, sipping his absinthe.

If anything, having his past laid bare didn’t embarrass him in the least.