Chapter 578: Tales at the Bar: The Undertaker’s Secret

“I’m a failure. I barely notice whether the sun is shining anymore because I just don’t have the time.”

“My parents can’t support me and I never made it far in school. All alone in the city, I searched for any hint of a future.”

“I tried for dozens of jobs but never got hired. Guess nobody wants someone who’s bad at talking, hates to socialize, and doesn’t exactly scream ‘talent.'”

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“I went three days living on just two loaves of bread. Hunger kept me up at night. Lucky for me, I’d paid my rent ahead for a month, so I could still stay in my pitch-black basement room instead of braving the brutal winter wind outside.”

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

“The hospital was colder than I imagined. The corridor lights were off and the whole place was shrouded in shadows. I could only see by the slivers of light spilling out from some rooms.”

“The smell down there was foul. Every so often, they’d wheel in a corpse zipped up tight in a body bag. We’d help cart it into the morgue.”

“It’s not a good job, but at least I could afford bread. Plus, nights were quiet enough to study. Nobody wanted to visit the morgue unless they were dropping off or collecting the dead for cremation. Of course, I still couldn’t afford books, and saving up seemed like a far-off dream.”

“I owe this job to my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I probably wouldn’t have gotten even this.”

“I dreamed of working the day shift instead, but for now, I sleep after sunrise and rise at dusk. My body feels weaker each day and sometimes my head throbs.”

“One day, a worker brought in another corpse.”

“They said it was my predecessor, the one who quit so suddenly.”

“Curious, I waited till everyone had left, then quietly slid open the drawer and unzipped the body bag.”

“He was an old man, face pale as wax and mottled with blue, every inch of skin wrinkled. Under the feeble lights, he looked downright terrifying.”

“He didn’t have much hair left—what little remained had turned white. They’d taken all his clothes, not even a scrap left to cover him.”

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“I noticed a strange mark on his chest, dark and bluish, but I couldn’t make out the details. There just wasn’t enough light.”

“I reached out and touched the mark, but there was nothing special about it.”

“Staring at my predecessor, I wondered—if I kept living like this, would I end up like him when I’m old…?”

“I told him, ‘Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the crematorium myself. After that, I’ll make sure your ashes reach the nearest free cemetery. Otherwise, the people in charge might just toss you in some river or bury you in a random wasteland, just to save themselves the trouble.'”

“That would cost me a morning’s sleep, but Sunday’s coming up soon, so I can catch up.”

“After saying that, I zipped the bag closed again and pushed it back into the drawer.”

“It felt like the room got even darker after that…”

“Since that day, every time I sleep, I dream of thick fog.”

“I’ve got this feeling something’s going to happen soon. Like something’s coming for me—something I can’t even call ‘human’. But nobody believes me. They just think, working that job in that environment, my mind isn’t right and I need a doctor…”

Seated at the bar, a man glanced at the storyteller who’d suddenly gone quiet.

“And then?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wore a coarse brown jacket and pale yellow trousers. Flat hair. By his hand sat a worn, dark bowler hat.

He seemed utterly ordinary, just like most in the tavern—black hair, pale blue eyes, neither handsome nor ugly, nothing to set him apart.

To him, though, the storyteller looked like a strong, tall eighteen or nineteen-year-old with black cropped hair and striking blue eyes. His features were bold and memorable.

The young man gazed at his empty glass and sighed.

“And then?”

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“Then I quit and moved back to the countryside. Now I’m here, spinning tall tales for you.”

The grin on his face widened, carrying a hint of mischief.

The man paused, caught off guard.

“You mean, all that was made up?”

Laughter erupted from those seated around the bar.

As the laughter died down, a gaunt middle-aged man looked at the awkward guest and said,

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He changes it every day! Yesterday he was some poor guy dumped by his fiancée—today, he’s a night watchman keeping corpses company!”

“Yeah! Next thing you know it’ll be thirty years on the eastern bank of the Serrence, thirty on the right—always making up nonsense!” chimed in another regular.

They were all farmers from Cordu, a large village. Their jackets were black, gray, or brown.

The young black-haired man they called Lumian pushed himself up from the bar, still grinning.

“You know, I didn’t make up any of those stories. My sister wrote them. She loves writing—she’s even a columnist for ‘Weekly Novel Magazine.'”

He turned to the out-of-town guest, spread his hands and flashed a dazzling smile.

“Seems she’s pretty good at it.”

“Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

The man in the plain brown jacket wasn’t offended. He stood too, smiling back.

“It was a fun story.”

“And your name?”

“Isn’t it customary for you to introduce yourself first?” Lumian replied, smiling.

The guest nodded.

“My name is Ryan Coste.”

“These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He nodded at the young man and woman sitting by his side.

The man appeared about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, blond hair with a dusting of powder. His eyes were a shade deeper than lake blue, and he wore a white vest, a blue tailored jacket, and black trousers. He’d clearly dressed with care.

His expression was chilly, paying little attention to the other farmers and herders around him.

The woman looked the youngest of the three, her long pale gray hair styled in an intricate chignon with a white veil doubling as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and she regarded Lumian with open amusement, clearly entertained by the whole scene.

Under the gaslight, Leah’s cute nose and graceful lips were striking—by Cordu’s standards, she was a true beauty.

She wore a snug, pleatless white cashmere dress, a cream-colored jacket, and a pair of Maciel boots. Silver bells dangled from both her veil and her boots, ringing with each step as she entered, drawing many admiring stares.

To the locals, her fashion sense belonged to big cities like Bigo or the capital Trier, not somewhere rural like this.

Lumian nodded to the trio from out of town.

“I’m Lumian Lee. Just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“What, is there something wrong with my last name?” Lumian asked, curious.

Ryan Coste helped Leah explain.

“That surname is notorious. I almost slipped up when I heard it.”

Seeing the confusion on the farmers’ and herders’ faces, he went on,

“Anyone who’s sailed or worked with merchant marines knows the saying from the Five Seas.”

“‘You’d rather cross a pirate admiral or a king than tangle with someone named Frank Lee.'”

“His last name is Lee too.”

“Is he really that scary?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I wouldn’t know, but if there’s a legend like that, it’s bound to mean something.”

He dropped the subject and turned back to Lumian.

“Thanks for the story. You deserve a drink. What will it be?”

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

Ryan Coste frowned a little.

“Absinthe… wormwood liquor?”

“Just so you know, wormwood can be harmful. That drink can mess with your head—cause hallucinations, even.”

“Wow, I didn’t think city trends from Trier had traveled all the way out here,” Leah added with a smile.

Lumian gave a nonchalant, “Oh.”

“So Trier folks like Absinthe too… Well, life’s hard enough already. A little extra harm doesn’t matter to us. That kind of drink helps you unwind.”

“Alright,” Ryan said, sliding back onto his stool. He glanced at the bartender. “One Absinthe and one Fiery Heart for me.”

Fiery Heart was a famous fruit spirit.

“Hey, why not get an Absinthe for me too? I was the one who spilled the truth and I can tell you all about this rascal! You outsiders are still doubting his story, aren’t you?” The gaunt man—the first to call Lumian out—shouted in protest.

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

Before Ryan could respond, Lumian added,

“Why can’t I just tell the story myself and nab a second Absinthe?”

“Because anything you say is suspect.” Pierre chuckled smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story for the local kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Hard to trust a chronic liar.”

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

Ryan looked his way, seeking confirmation.

“Is that alright?”

“I don’t mind, as long as you can pay for all this.” Lumian replied, unconcerned.

“Then another Absinthe, please,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face lit up with a broad grin.

“Generous strangers! This kid is the village’s top prankster. You lot better keep your distance. Five years back, his sister Aurore brought him here and he never left. Think about it—he was only thirteen at the time, how could he have worked as a morgue attendant? The nearest hospital is all the way down at Daliege—it’s half a day’s walk.”

“Brought him here?” Leah asked, picking up on the detail.

She tilted her head, and the silver bells chimed.

Pierre nodded.

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

“I can’t even remember what I used to be called,” Lumian declared with a wicked grin, tipping back his Absinthe.

If anything, he looked perfectly at ease with his past laid bare.