Chapter 574: Tales at the Bar: The Night Watcher’s Story

I’m a failure—sunshine or not, I barely notice. There’s just no time for it.

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

I’ve looked for countless jobs, but not a single one panned out. Maybe nobody likes someone who isn’t good with words, who avoids small talk, and shows no real skills.

To read the latest chapters, please download the app for ad-free updates. The website no longer hosts new chapters—only on the Xingwen Reading App.

For three straight days, I survived on just two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me up at night. Luckily, I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could still sleep in that pitch-black basement—better than braving the bitter winter winds outside.

Finally, I landed a job—night watch at the hospital, guarding the morgue.

The hospital at night was even colder than I’d imagined. The corridor wall lamps stayed off, leaving only the faintest spill of light from the rooms to see my own feet.

The smell was awful. Every now and then, bodies stuffed in body bags were delivered. We’d help carry them into the morgue.

It wasn’t a great job, but at least it meant I could afford bread. The long hours at night also gave me time to study—no one hung around the morgue unless they had to move a body, or burn one. Not that I could buy books yet; I couldn’t even see a future where saving money was possible.

I should thank my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I wouldn’t have even gotten this job.

I dreamt of eventually getting daytime shifts. For now, I slept when the sun came up and woke up after dark. My body felt weak, my head ached from time to time.

One day, the porters brought in a new body.

They said it was my predecessor, the one who’d vanished out of the blue.

Curiosity got the better of me. Once everyone left, I pulled the drawer open and unzipped the body bag.

He was old—face pale and bruised, skin wrinkled everywhere. Under that dim light, he looked downright scary.

Hardly any hair left, most of it white. He wasn’t wearing anything; not a scrap of clothing remained.

For the fastest updates, download the app.

I noticed a strange mark on his chest, dark blue and almost black. I couldn’t make out the exact pattern—the lighting was just too poor.

I reached out and touched that mark. There was nothing special about it.

Staring at my predecessor, I couldn’t help but think—if I keep going like this, will I end up just like him when I’m old?

I told him, tomorrow I’d take him to the crematorium myself, and then bring his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. Better than leaving it up to those who’d toss him in some river or abandoned field just to save themselves the trouble.

I’d lose a morning’s sleep for it, but it was almost Sunday, so I could make up for it later.

After that, I zipped the bag and pushed it back in.

The room seemed even darker than before.

Ever since that night, my dreams have been lost in thick fog.

I have this feeling something is going to happen. Maybe something… not quite human will come for me before long. No one believes me—they just say this job has screwed up my mind, that I need a doctor.

A man at the bar turned to the storyteller, whose tale had just come to a sudden stop.

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a brown coarse wool jacket and pale yellow trousers. His hair was neatly pressed flat, and a battered dark bowler hat sat by his hand.

He looked entirely unremarkable, just another face among the bar’s regulars—black hair, pale blue eyes, neither attractive nor ugly, nothing to set him apart.

To him, the storyteller was an eighteen or nineteen-year-old with a tall frame and long limbs. He also had short black hair and pale blue eyes, but his sharp features made him stand out.

The young man gazed at his empty glass and sighed. “And then?”

“And then?”

Download the app for the latest chapters.

“Then I quit, went back to the countryside, and now I’m here spinning tales with you.”

As he spoke, a mischievous smile crept onto his face.

The man at the bar stared in surprise.

“Were you just making all that up?”

“Hah!” Laughter exploded around the bar.

As it subsided, a gaunt middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed guest and said,

“Stranger, you actually fell for Lumian’s story? He makes up a new one every day! Yesterday, he was some poor sap ditched by his fiancée. Today, he’s a corpse-watcher!”

“Right! Next, he’ll be saying he spent thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence, then thirty on the right. All he does is spout nonsense!” called out another bar regular.

They were all farmers from Cordu, a big village. They all wore the typical jackets—black, grey, or brown.

The black-haired young man—Lumian—propped himself up on the bar with both hands and stood, smiling.

“You guys know I’m not making these up. My sister writes them—stories are her thing. She’s a columnist for Weekly Novel Magazine, too.”

He turned sidelong and spread his hands at the out-of-towner, grinning brilliantly.

“Looks like she’s pretty good, huh?

Sorry to mislead you.”

The plain-faced man in the brown jacket wasn’t offended. He stood and smiled back.

“It was an entertaining story.”

“And your name?”

“Isn’t it only polite to introduce yourself before you ask someone else’s name?” Lumian replied with a grin.

The out-of-towner nodded.

“I’m Ryan Coste.

These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman seated beside him.

The man was about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with blonde hair dusted in powder, eyes a shade deeper than the blue of a lake. He wore a white vest, a blue fine-wool jacket, and black pants, clearly having dressed with care.

His expression was cool, indifferent to the farmers and herdsmen around him.

The woman looked younger than the two men, her long silvery-gray hair done up in an elaborate bun, wrapped with a white veil serving as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and she gazed at Lumian with open amusement, finding the earlier scene only funny.

Under the gaslight, Leah’s pretty nose and curved lips caught everyone’s eye. In a rural place like Cordu, her beauty was striking.

She wore a fitted white cashmere dress with no pleats, a cream-colored jacket, and a pair of Maciel boots. Her veil and boots each had a silver bell, so when she’d entered, she jingled with every step. Plenty of men couldn’t take their eyes off her.

In their minds, such fashion belonged to the provincial capital, Bigo, or even the huge city Trier—not the countryside.

Lumian nodded at the three outsiders.

“My name’s Lumian Lee, but just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

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

Ryan Coste explained for Leah.

“Your surname scares people. I nearly couldn’t keep my voice steady just now.”

Seeing the confusion on the farmers’ and herdsmen’s faces, he elaborated.

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

‘Better to cross a pirate lord or king than run into a Frank Lee.’

That man’s surname is Lee as well.”

“Is he really that fearsome?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I don’t know, but any legend that widespread probably has something to it.”

He let the topic go and turned to Lumian.

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

“An Absinthe,” Lumian said without hesitation, settling back on his stool.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe? You know that stuff’s toxic, right? It might make you hallucinate.”

“I guess Trier’s latest trend has made its way out here,” Leah added with a smile.

Lumian replied, “Oh, so even folks in Trier drink Absinthe… For us, life’s hard enough as it is. Might as well enjoy a little escape.”

“Alright.” Ryan sat back down and turned to the bartender. “One Absinthe, and get me a Fiery Heart, too.”

Fiery Heart was a famous fruit brandy.

“Hey, why not get me an Absinthe, too? I’m the one who exposed the truth! I could even tell you all about this brat’s past!” the first man to call out Lumian, the gaunt middle-aged one, yelled. “Stranger, I can tell you still doubt that story!”

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

But before Ryan could reply, Lumian added,

“Why can’t I just tell my own story? That way, I’d get two Absinthe!”

“Because nobody knows if you’re telling the truth.” Pierre grinned triumphantly. “Your sister’s favorite story to tell kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ A liar never earns trust.”

“Fine.” Lumian shrugged and eyed the bartender as a pale green drink slid across the bar to him.

Ryan looked at him, checking, “Is that okay?”

“No problem. As long as your wallet can cover it,” Lumian replied, utterly unconcerned.

“Then add another Absinthe,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face lit up at once.

“Generous out-of-towner! This brat’s the village’s top mischief-maker. You better keep your distance.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village and he never left. He was only thirteen then—no way he could work at a hospital morgue! And the nearest hospital is in Daliege, a whole afternoon’s walk away.”

“Brought him back?” Leah asked sharply.

She tilted her head, setting her bells jingling.

Pierre nodded.

Download the app for the latest chapters.

“After that, he took Aurore’s last name—Lee. Even his first name, Lumian, was picked by Aurore.”

“Can’t even remember what I used to be called,” Lumian said with a lopsided grin, sipping his absinthe.

He didn’t seem the least bit ashamed about having his past put on display.