Chapter 579: Tales Over Absinthe

I’m a failure—so much so that I barely notice whether the sun is shining or not. There’s just no time.

My parents can’t support me and my education isn’t great. Alone in the city, I’m just trying to find my future.

I’ve tried my luck at countless jobs, but never got hired. Maybe nobody likes someone awkward, quiet and unimpressive.

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For three whole days, all I had were two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. Luckily, I’d already paid a month’s rent, so I could still stay in that dark basement and not brave the biting winter wind outside.

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

Nights at the hospital were even colder than I’d imagined. The corridor wall lamps were out; everything was so dim. I could only see the floor by the faint glow leaking from nearby rooms.

The smell was awful. From time to time, they’d bring in a body sealed in a bag and we’d help carry it into cold storage.

Not a great job, but at least it let me buy bread and gave me free time at night to study. Almost nobody came near the morgue unless they had to bring in a body or fetch one for cremation. Of course, I didn’t have money for books yet and saving felt impossible.

I owed the job to my predecessor. If he hadn’t suddenly quit, I wouldn’t have even gotten this position.

I dreamed of someday working day shifts. Lately, I’ve been sleeping when the sun’s up and waking when night falls. My body’s turning weak and sometimes my head throbs.

One day, the porters brought in another corpse.

Word was, it belonged to my suddenly departed predecessor.

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

He was an old man—face pale and tinged with blue, wrinkles everywhere, and downright terrifying under the dim lights.

He hardly had any hair, and what was left was all white. They’d stripped him bare—not even leaving him a scrap of cloth.

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I noticed a strange mark on his chest—a bluish-black one I couldn’t describe. The light was just too faint.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing unusual.

Looking at my predecessor, I wondered—if I kept living this way, would I end up just like him when I’m old?

I told him that tomorrow, I’d go with him to the crematorium and personally take his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. Otherwise, the folks in charge might dump him in a river or some deserted field just to save themselves the trouble.

It’d cost me a morning’s sleep, but at least Sunday’s coming—plenty of time to catch up.

After saying that, I zipped him up tight and slid the drawer shut.

The room seemed even darker after that…

Every night after that, I started dreaming of thick fog.

I had a feeling something was about to happen. Felt like something—maybe not even human—would come find me. But nobody believed me. They just thought my job was turning me crazy and said I should see a doctor…

Sitting by the bar, a male customer glanced at the storyteller who’d suddenly fallen silent:

“So, what happened next?”

The man looked to be in his thirties, wearing a rough brown wool jacket and pale yellow trousers. His hair was tightly pressed down. Next to him sat a shabby dark derby hat.

He looked perfectly ordinary—black hair, light blue eyes, nothing particularly handsome or ugly—much like most folks in the tavern.

To him, the storyteller was a young man of about eighteen or nineteen—tall and lean, with short black hair and the same blue eyes but striking, well-defined features.

The young man stared at his empty glass, sighed and said:

“What then?”

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

A sly grin crept across his face as he spoke.

The male customer blinked in surprise:

“You mean all that was nonsense?”

A burst of laughter erupted from around the bar.

As it died down, a thin middle-aged man looked at the flustered customer and said:

“You’re from out of town and you actually believed Lumian’s story? He makes up a new one every day—yesterday he got dumped by his fiancée for being broke, today he’s a morgue attendant!”

“Yeah! Something about thirty years on the east bank of the Serrence River, thirty more on the right—all nonsense!” another tavern regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from Cordu, this big village. Most wore short jackets in black, grey or brown.

The young man called Lumian braced his hands on the bar and stood up slowly, grinning:

“You know, I didn’t make those stories up. My sister wrote them. She loves storytelling and writes a column for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

He turned to the out-of-towner, spreading his hands with a dazzling smile:

“Seems she really nailed it.

Sorry for the confusion.”

The man in the brown jacket, perfectly at ease, rose and replied with a smile:

“That was an entertaining story.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first before asking?” Lumian laughed.

The out-of-towner nodded:

“I’m Ryan Coste.

These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He nodded at the man and woman beside him.

The man looked about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, his blond hair lightly powdered, eyes a shade deeper than lake blue, dressed in a white vest, blue wool coat, and black trousers—clearly dressed up before coming out.

He wore a frosty expression and paid little attention to the farmers and herders around them.

The woman looked younger than the two men, her long pale gray hair styled in an elaborate bun topped with a white veil for a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair. She gazed at Lumian with open amusement, finding the drama entertaining.

In the glow of the tavern’s gas lamps, this Leah showed off a pert nose and gracefully curved lips—beautiful by any village standard.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, a cream-colored jacket, and a pair of Maciel boots. Silver bells dangled from her veil and boots, jingling with every step as she entered, catching the eyes of every man in the room.

To them, only people in the provincial capital Bigo or the big city of Trier dressed so stylishly.

Lumian nodded to the trio:

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

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

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

Ryan Coste explained for her:

“Your surname scares people. I nearly lost my voice just now because of it.”

Seeing the farmers and herders around them look confused, he added:

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

‘Better deal with pirate lords and kings than ever cross a man named Frank Lee.’

That Frank Lee has the same last name.”

“Is he so terrifying?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head:

“I don’t know, but if there’s such a legend, it can’t be far off.”

Changing topics, he turned to Lumian:

“Thanks for the story—it’s worth a drink! What’ll it be?”

“An Absinthe,” Lumian shot back, taking his seat again without hesitation.

Ryan Coste’s brow furrowed:

“Absinthe…? That’s what you mean?

I should warn you: wormwood is toxic. That liquor can scramble your mind and give you hallucinations.”

“I didn’t realize Trier’s fads had reached this far,” Leah added with a smile.

Lumian gave an ‘oh’:

“So Trier folks like absinthe too… For us, life’s tough enough. No need to worry about a bit more damage—the more it relaxes our minds, the better.”

“Alright then.” Ryan settled back in his chair and called to the bartender, “One absinthe. And another Fiery Heart for me.”

“Fiery Heart” was a famous fruit liquor.

“Why not buy me an absinthe too? I told you the real story, and I could spill all the dirt on this brat!” the first farmer to accuse Lumian of lying, Pierre, shouted. “You outsiders, I can tell you’re still not sure his story’s fake!”

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

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian added:

“Why can’t I just tell the story myself? If I did, I’d earn another absinthe!”

“Because nobody knows if you’re telling the truth.” Pierre grinned triumphantly. “Your sister’s favorite story for the kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ Keep lying and nobody will believe you.”

“Fine.” Lumian shrugged and watched the bartender slide a pale green drink his way.

Ryan looked at him, checking:

“Is that okay?”

“No problem—unless your wallet can’t handle it.” Lumian was unfazed.

“Then another absinthe, please.” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face instantly split in a broad grin:

“Generous outsiders… Be careful, this brat’s our village’s biggest prankster—best keep your distance.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village and he’s never left since. You think a thirteen-year-old could have worked in a hospital morgue? The nearest hospital is at Daliege, down the mountain—a whole afternoon’s walk.”

“Brought him back?” Leah asked keenly.

Her slight turn made the bells jingle again.

Pierre nodded:

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“He took his sister’s surname ‘Lee’ when Aurore brought him here. Even ‘Lumian’ was a name she gave him.”

“I’ve forgotten my original name altogether,” Lumian said cheerfully over a sip of absinthe.

He clearly didn’t feel the least bit shy or embarrassed about his past coming out.