Chapter 92: Ninety-Nine: A Qing

Ninety-Nine: A Qing’s Birthday and the New Kitchen Maid

“I am a failure, barely noticing whether the sunlight is brilliant or not, because I have no time.”

“My parents couldn’t support me, my education was low, and I wandered alone through the city seeking a future.”

“I applied for many jobs but was never hired—perhaps no one liked someone who couldn’t speak well, avoided interaction, and showed no sufficient ability.”

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“I went three full days eating only two loaves of bread; 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 dim, and I could barely see my feet by the faint light leaking from the rooms.”

“The smell was unbearable; corpses in body bags were occasionally brought in, and we helped carry 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 bringing in or taking 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 day shifts—I now sleep when the sun rises and wake when night falls, leaving my body weak and my head occasionally throbbing.”

“One day, a laborer delivered 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, its shape impossible to describe, the light was too dim.”

“I touched the mark—it felt ordinary.”

“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 a river or some 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 dimmer…”

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

“I sense something’s coming soon—I feel something, perhaps not even human, will come for me. 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 jacket and light-yellow trousers, his hair flattened, a simple dark round hat beside him.

He looked ordinary, like most 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-limbed, also with black short hair and pale blue eyes, but with sharp features that caught 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—to tell you tall tales like this.”

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

The male customer blinked:

“You were just making up that whole story?”

Laughter erupted around the bar.

As the laughter subsided, a thin middle-aged man gazed at the embarrassed guest:

“Stranger, you actually believed Lumian’s story? He tells a different one 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 it—nothing but blather!” added another regular.

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

The black-haired young man called Lumian 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, shrugged, and grinned brightly:

“Looks like she writes well.”

“Sorry for misleading you.”

The man in the brown tweed jacket, ordinary-looking, didn’t get angry—he stood and smiled back:

“An interesting story.”

“What’s your name?”

“Isn’t it common sense to introduce yourself before asking someone else’s?” Lumian 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, his yellow hair dusted with powder, his small eyes a shade darker than lake blue, dressed in a white vest, blue fine wool coat, and black trousers—clearly dressed with care for the occasion.

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 an intricate bun, covered by a white veil as a hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, fixed on Lumian with unhidden amusement, finding the whole scene entertaining.

Under the tavern’s gas wall lamps, the woman named Liya revealed a pert nose and beautifully curved lips—undoubtedly a beauty in the rural village of Kerdou.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere body-hugging dress, a cream-colored small coat, and Ma Xier boots, each with a small silver bell tied to her veil and boots. When she entered the tavern, the bells jingled all the way, drawing every man’s gaze.

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

Lumian nodded to the three outsiders:

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

“Li?” Liya blurted out.

“What’s wrong with my surname?” Lumian 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 admirals or kings than to meet a man named Frank Li.”

“His surname is also Li.”

“Is he that terrifying?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head:

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

He dropped the topic and said to Lumian:

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

“A ‘Green Fairy,’” Lumian 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 Teriel’s trends had reached here,” Liya added with a smile.

Lumian “oh”ed:

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

“For us, life is hard enough—we don’t need to care about a little extra harm. This drink helps us relax mentally.”

“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!” the thin middle-aged man who first exposed Lumian’s daily lies shouted, “Stranger, I can see you still doubt whether the story’s real!”

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

Before Ryan could decide, Lumian added:

“Why can’t I tell it myself? Then I’d 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,” Lumian 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,” Lumian 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 Auror 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 Daliere at the foot of the mountain; it takes a full afternoon to walk there."

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

She tilted her head slightly, producing a jingling sound.

Pierre nodded:

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

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

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