Chapter 573: The Night Watcher’s Tale

I’m a failure. Sunshine or no, I hardly even notice—there’s never enough time.

My parents couldn’t support me and I have no fancy education. Alone, I wandered the city searching for my future.

I applied for job after job and wasn’t hired once. Maybe people just don’t like someone who’s awkward, doesn’t chat, or fails to prove their worth.

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For three whole days, I ate nothing but two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night, but at least I’d paid a month’s rent in advance. I could still hole up in that dark basement, away from the brutal winter winds outside.

Finally, I landed a job—night watch duty at the hospital’s morgue.

Nights at the hospital were colder than I’d imagined. The corridor lights stayed off, shadows pressed in from all sides. I could only rely on the faint glow leaking from nearby rooms to see my own feet.

The place reeked. From time to time, they’d bring in bodies zipped inside those body bags. We would work together to haul them into the morgue.

Was it a great job? Not at all, but it paid for bread. Besides, I got stretches of free time to study. Hardly anyone visited unless there was a corpse to drop off or haul out for cremation. Not that I could afford books anyway, or see much hope of saving up for them.

I owed my predecessor a thanks—if he hadn’t suddenly quit, there’s no way I’d have landed this gig.

I dreamed of getting a shift in the daytime, but instead, I started sleeping at sunrise and waking at night. It left me worn down and my head would sometimes throb with pain.

One day, the porters brought in another body.

Rumor was, it was the same predecessor who’d quit out of the blue.

Curious, I waited for everyone to leave. Then I slid open the drawer and quietly unzipped the bag.

He was an old man. His face was pale with a blue tint, wrinkled everywhere. In that dim light, he looked outright frightening.

He barely had any hair and what remained was almost white. Every stitch of clothing had been stripped away, not so much as a scrap left on him.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest, a blue-black pattern I couldn’t really make out in the poor light.

I reached out and touched it. Nothing special happened.

Staring at him, I wondered, if I kept living like this, would I end up just like him when I got old…

I told him, “Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the crematorium myself. I’ll make sure your ashes get placed in the nearest free cemetery, so those in charge don’t just dump you in a river or some desolate lot.”

I’d have to sacrifice a morning’s sleep, but so what? The weekend was just around the corner and I could make it up then.

After that, I zipped up the bag and pushed the drawer shut again.

Somehow, the room seemed even darker now…

From that night on, whenever I slept, I always dreamed of thick fog.

I had a feeling something was coming—something I wasn’t sure you could even call human. But no one would believe me. They all figured the job had messed with my head and told me I needed a doctor…

At the bar, a man sitting at the counter glanced at the storyteller, who had just stopped speaking.

“So, what happened next?”

This man was in his thirties, wearing a brown tweed jacket and pale yellow pants. His hair was slicked down and a battered dark bowler hat sat on the counter beside him.

He didn’t look remarkable—regular black hair and light blue eyes, not handsome but not ugly either, like most people in the bar.

To him, the storyteller was a young man of eighteen or nineteen. Tall and lean, with sharp features, short black hair, and the same light blue eyes, but strikingly good-looking.

The young man stared at his empty glass and let out a sigh.

“What happened next?”

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“Well, I quit the job and moved back to the countryside. Now I’m here, swapping stories with you.”

He broke into a mischievous grin, his smile full of teasing humor.

The man at the counter looked stunned.

“Wait, are you saying you made all that up?”

A chorus of laughter erupted around the bar.

When it quieted down, a thin middle-aged man looked at the now-awkward customer and said,

“Stranger, you actually fell for Lumian’s stories? Every day he spins a new one. Yesterday he was a poor sap dumped by his fiancée, today he’s a morgue-keeper!”

“Yeah! One day he’s talking about thirty years on the left bank of the Serrence River, thirty years on the right—he just babbles nonsense!” another regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, this large rural village. Worn jackets in black, gray, or brown were the norm here.

The young man—Lumian—propped himself up on both hands and stood up slowly, his eyes sparkling with a mischievous smile.

“You know this isn’t something I made up. My sister writes them. She’s a columnist for the Weekly Novel Magazine, loves making up stories.”

He turned, flashed a brilliant grin at the visitor, and spread his hands.

“Looks like her writing’s pretty convincing.”

“Sorry for letting you think it was true.”

The plain man in the brown tweed didn’t seem offended. Standing up, he returned the smile.

“That was an entertaining story.”

“Mind telling me your name?”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first, before you ask someone else?” Lumian replied with a grin.

The out-of-towner nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.”

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

He meant the man and woman sitting by his side.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight, a touch of powder dusted over his yellow hair, and his deep-blue eyes were almost darker than the nearby lake. He wore a white vest, fine blue wool jacket, and black trousers—all put together with obvious care.

His expression was cold and he barely glanced at the local farmers and herdsmen.

The woman seemed younger than both men. Her long pale-gray hair was styled up in a complex bun, with a white veil pinned over it like a cap.

Her eyes matched her hair, and she watched Lumian with open amusement, finding everything that had just happened thoroughly entertaining.

In the glow of the bar’s gas lamps, Leah’s pretty nose and graceful lips stood out. Here in Cordu, she was a rare beauty.

She wore a fitted white cashmere dress with a cream jacket and a pair of Maciel boots. Little silver bells dangled from her veil and her boots, ringing with every step as she entered, and plenty of men couldn’t take their eyes off her.

That kind of style seemed like something you’d only see in big cities—Bigo, or the capital, Trier.

Lumian nodded to the three strangers.

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What’s wrong—is there something weird about my surname?” Lumian asked with honest curiosity.

Ryan Coste explained for her.

“That name scares people. Even I almost lost my nerve just now.”

The surrounding herd of farmers and herdsmen wore blank, confused expressions, so he continued.

“Anyone who’s ever dealt with sailors or sea merchants knows the saying that goes around the Five Seas.”

“They’d rather run into a pirate general or even a pirate king than cross paths with a man named Frank Lee.”

“His surname is Lee too.”

“Is he really that dangerous?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t know. But since there’s a legend like that, it must mean something.”

He ended that topic and went back to Lumian.

“Thank you for your story. It deserves a drink. What will you have?”

“An Absinthe,” Lumian shot back, not the least bit shy as he settled back into his seat.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… That’s what you call the Green Fairy, right?

Let me remind you—absinthe’s actually bad for you. Might even make you hallucinate or lose your mind.”

“Looks like Trier’s trends have reached even here,” Leah added, smiling.

Lumian gave a drawn-out “Oh.”

“So folks in Trier like Absinthe too… For us, life’s already hard enough. We might as well take what little comfort we can get. This drink helps us relax our minds.”

“Fair enough,” Ryan replied, turning back to the bartender. “An Absinthe for him, and get me another shot of Fiery Heart.”

Fiery Heart was the name of a famous fruit spirit.

“And why don’t I get an Absinthe too? I was the one who gave you the lowdown. I can spill all the dirt about this kid if you want!” The skinny middle-aged man who’d first outed Lumian as a storyteller cried out. “Come on, you can’t seriously still believe his story!”

“Pierre, you’ll do anything for a free drink!” Lumian fired back across the room.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian added brightly,

“Why not let me tell the story? That way, I’d get another Absinthe out of it!”

“Because nobody knows if you’re telling the truth or not,” Pierre answered smugly. “Remember, your sister’s favorite story for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Lie too often and nobody trusts another word.”

“Fair enough,” Lumian shrugged, watching as the bartender slid a pale green drink over.

Ryan looked over and asked,

“Is that all right?”

“No problem. As long as your wallet can cover the bill,” Lumian replied breezily.

“Then let’s have another Absinthe,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre broke into a beaming smile.

“You’re generous, stranger! This kid’s the worst prankster in the entire village. You’d better keep your distance. Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to Cordu and he’s never left since. There’s no way he could’ve worked as a morgue keeper before—he was only thirteen! The nearest hospital’s all the way down in Daliege. It takes a whole afternoon to walk there.”

“Brought him back to the village?” Leah asked sharply.

She tilted her head, setting her silver bells chiming again.

Pierre nodded.

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

“Can’t even remember what I used to be called,” Lumian laughed, sipping his absinthe.

He didn’t seem embarrassed or ashamed by any of the details about his past being shared.