Chapter 114: One Hundred Twenty-One: The Worst Strategy, the Middle Strategy, the Best Strategy

One Hundred Twenty-One: The Worst Strategy, the Middle Strategy, the Best Strategy

“I am a failure; I barely notice whether the sunlight is bright or not, because I have no time.”

“My parents couldn’t support me, my education was low, and I was alone in the city searching for a future.”

“I applied for many jobs but was never hired—perhaps no one liked someone who wasn’t good at speaking, avoided communication, and showed no sufficient ability.”

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“I ate only two slices of bread for three full days; hunger kept me awake at night. Fortunately, I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could still stay in that dark basement, avoiding the bitterly cold winter winds outside.”

“Finally, I found a job: night watch at the hospital, guarding the morgue.”

“The hospital nights were colder than I imagined; the corridor wall lamps were unlit, everything was dim, and I could barely see my feet by the faint light leaking from the rooms.”

“The smell there was foul; corpses in body bags were occasionally brought in, and we helped move them into the morgue.”

“It wasn’t a good job, but at least it let me buy bread, and my free nights could be used for studying—after all, few wanted to come to the morgue unless a corpse needed to be delivered or taken away for cremation. Still, I couldn’t afford books, and I saw no hope of saving money.”

“I owe thanks to my predecessor—if he hadn’t quit suddenly, I might never have gotten even this job.”

“I dream of switching to daytime shifts; now I sleep when the sun rises and wake when night falls, leaving my body weak and my head occasionally throbbing.”

“One day, a laborer brought in a new corpse.”

“Others said it was my former colleague who had quit so suddenly.”

“I was curious about him. After everyone left, I pulled out the drawer and quietly opened the body bag.”

“He was an old man, his face bluish-white, covered in wrinkles, terrifying under the dim light.”

“He had little hair, most of it white; all his clothes had been removed, not even a scrap of fabric left on him.”

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“I saw a strange mark on his chest—bluish-black—I couldn’t describe its shape; the lighting was far too dim.”

“I reached out and touched the mark—it felt nothing special.”

“Looking at my former colleague, I wondered: if I keep going like this, when I grow old, will I end up like him…?”

“I told him: tomorrow I’ll accompany you to the crematorium and personally take your ashes to the nearest free cemetery, so those in charge won’t get lazy and dump you by some river or wasteland.”

“It’ll cost me one morning’s sleep, but it’s almost Sunday—I can make up for it.”

“After saying that, I sealed the body bag and shoved it back into the drawer.”

“The room’s light seemed to grow even darker…”

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

“I sense something is about to happen—I feel something, perhaps not even human, will come for me soon. But no one believes me; they think the environment and my job have broken my mind, that I need a doctor…”

A male customer seated at the bar looked at the storyteller who had suddenly fallen silent:

“And then?”

The man was in his thirties, wearing a brown tweed coat and light-yellow trousers, his hair flattened, a simple dark round hat beside him.

He looked ordinary, like most patrons in the tavern—black hair, pale blue eyes, neither ugly nor handsome, lacking any striking features.

To his eyes, the storyteller was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, tall and slender, with short black hair and pale blue eyes, his features sharp enough to catch the eye.

The young man stared at his empty glass and sighed:

“And then?”

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“Then I quit and returned to the countryside, came here to brag to you.”

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

The male customer blinked in surprise:

“You were just making up that whole story?”

Laughter erupted around the bar.

As the laughter subsided, a thin middle-aged man looked at the embarrassed guest and said:

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumi’an’s tale? He tells a different story every day—yesterday he was a poor fool whose fiancée broke off their engagement; today he’s a corpse watcher!”

“Yeah, he talks nonsense about thirty years east of the Sailunzuohe, thirty years west of the Sailunzuohe—just rambling!” added another regular.

They were all farmers from the large village of Kerdou, wearing short jackets in black, gray, or brown.

The black-haired young man called Lumi’an pushed himself up from the bar with both hands, smiling:

“You know, these aren’t my stories—they’re written by my sister. She loves writing, and she’s even a columnist for the ‘Novel Weekly.’”

He turned to the foreign guest, spread his hands, and grinned brightly:

“Looks like she writes well.”

“Sorry for misleading you.”

The man in the brown tweed coat, ordinary in appearance, didn’t get angry—he stood up and smiled in reply:

“It was an interesting story.”

“What’s your name?”

“Isn’t it common sense to introduce yourself before asking someone else’s?” Lumi’an laughed.

The foreign guest nodded:

“I’m Ryan Cos.”

“These two are my companions, Valente and Liya.”

He meant the man and woman sitting beside him.

The man was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with yellow hair dusted with powder, eyes slightly darker than lake-blue, wearing a white vest, a blue fine wool coat, and black trousers—he’d clearly dressed carefully before leaving.

He looked cold, barely glancing at the farmers and herders around him.

The woman appeared younger than the two men, her pale gray hair tied into a complex bun, covered by a white veil as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and her gaze toward Lumi’an held unhidden amusement—she seemed to find yesterday’s events merely entertaining.

Under the tavern’s gas wall lamps, the woman named Liya revealed a pert nose and elegantly curved lips—she would be considered beautiful even in Kerdou village.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, a cream-colored short coat, and Ma Xier boots; silver bells were tied to both her veil and boots, jingling as she entered the tavern, drawing many male stares.

In their eyes, this was fashion only seen in big cities like Bigor or the capital, Terrel.

Lumi’an nodded to the three outsiders:

“I’m Lumi’an Li—you can just call me Lumi’an.”

“Li?” Liya blurted out.

“What’s wrong with my surname?” Lumi’an asked curiously.

Ryan Cos explained for her:

“That surname frightens me—I almost lost control of my voice just now.”

Seeing the farmers and herders confused, he added:

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

“Better to face pirate generals or even kings than to meet a man named Frank Li.”

“His surname is also Li.”

“Is he that terrifying?” Lumi’an asked.

Ryan shook his head:

“I don’t know, but if such a legend exists, he must be formidable.”

He dropped the subject and said to Lumi’an:

“Thank you for the story—it deserves a drink. What would you like?”

“A ‘Green Fairy,’” Lumi’an said without hesitation, sitting back down.

Ryan frowned slightly:

“‘Green Fairy’… absinthe?”

“I should warn you—absinthe is harmful; it can cause madness and hallucinations.”

“I didn’t realize Terrel’s trends had reached here,” Liya added with a smile.

Lumi’an “oh”ed:

“So Terrel people like ‘Green Fairy’ too…”

“For us, life is hard enough—we don’t need to care about a little more harm. This drink lets our minds relax more.”

“Alright,” Ryan sat back, signaling the bartender. “One ‘Green Fairy,’ and one ‘Spicy Heart’ for me.”

“Spicy Heart” was a famous fruit brandy.

“Why not give me a ‘Green Fairy’ too? I was the one who told you the truth—I can tell you everything about this kid!” shouted the thin middle-aged man who’d first exposed Lumi’an’s daily lies. “Stranger, I can see you still doubt whether the story’s real!”

“Pierre, you’d do anything for a free drink!” Lumi’an called back.

Before Ryan could decide, Lumi’an added:

“Why can’t I tell it myself? Then I could get another ‘Green Fairy.’”

“Because they don’t know whether to believe you,” Pierre grinned smugly. “Your sister’s favorite story for kids is ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’—a liar loses all credibility.”

“Fine,” Lumi’an shrugged, watching the bartender slide a pale green drink before him.

Ryan looked at him, asking:

“Is that okay?”

“Sure, as long as your wallet can cover the drinks,” Lumi’an said carelessly.

“Then another ‘Green Fairy,’” Ryan nodded.

Pierre’s face lit up with a grin.

"Generous outsider, this boy is the village's most mischievous troublemaker—you must keep your distance from him."

"Five years ago, his sister Aurèle brought him back to the village, and he never left again. Think about it—he was only thirteen before that. How could he have worked as a corpse watcher in a hospital? The nearest hospital to us is Daliéri at the foot of the mountain; it takes a full afternoon to walk there."

"Brought back to the village?" Lyam asked sharply.

She tilted her head slightly, producing a tinkling sound.

Pierre nodded:

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"Then he took his sister's surname 'Li,' and even his name 'Lumian' was given by Aurèle."

"I've forgotten what he was originally called," Lumian said with a grin, sipping absinthe.

He showed no shame or embarrassment at having his past so openly revealed.