Chapter 1: The Outsider

I’m a failure; I barely notice whether the sun 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.

I went three full days eating only two loaves of bread; hunger kept me awake at night. Luckily, I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so I could still stay in that dark basement, spared from the bitterly cold winter winds outside.

Finally, I got 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 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. Of course, I still 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, laborers brought in a new corpse.

Others told me 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 stripped off, not even a scrap of fabric left.

For dead without family, the laborers would never miss a chance to make extra money.

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

I reached out and touched the mark; it felt nothing special.

Looking at my former colleague, I wondered: if I kept going like this, when I grew old, would 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 it up.

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

The room’s light seemed even darker…

Ever since that day, every time I sleep, I dream of thick fog.

I sense something’s about to happen, sense that something—something I can’t even call human—will come for me eventually. But no one believes me; they think the environment and the job have damaged my mind, that I need a doctor…

A male customer sitting 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 him, 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?”

“And then I quit and returned to the countryside, came here to tell you tall tales.”

As he spoke, he smiled, a mischievous grin on his face.

The male customer blinked:

“You were just making up that story?”

Laughter erupted around the bar.

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

“Foreigner, 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, blabbering nonsense about thirty years east of the Sailunzuo River, thirty years west of it—just rambling!” another regular added.

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

The black-haired young man named Lumian pushed himself up from the bar with both hands and smiled:

“You know, these aren’t my stories—they’re written by my sister. She loves writing, even writes a column 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 jacket, ordinary-looking, didn’t get angry; he stood and smiled back:

“A fascinating 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, Valentine and Lyra.”

He meant the man and woman sitting beside him.

The man was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, his yellow hair lightly dusted with powder, his eyes a shade darker than lake-blue, dressed in a white vest, a blue fine wool coat, and black trousers—clearly dressed with care for going out.

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; she looked at Lumian with unhidden amusement, clearly finding the whole thing entertaining.

Under the tavern’s gas wall lamps, the woman named Lyra revealed a pert nose and beautifully curved lips—undoubtedly beautiful by the standards of Keldu village.

She wore a white, pleatless cashmere dress, a cream-colored small coat, and a pair of Ma Xi boots; silver bells were tied to both the veil and the boots, jingling as she walked in, 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 foreigners:

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

“Li?” Lyra 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 met sailors or sea merchants knows this saying across the Five Seas:

‘Rather face pirate admirals or kings than 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 subject 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,” Lyra added with a smile.

Lumian “oh”ed:

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

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

“Alright,” Ryan sat back, nodded to 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 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. “Foreigners, I can tell you still doubt whether the story’s true!”

“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 pay for all these drinks,” Lumian said carelessly.

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

Pierre beamed:

“Generous foreigners, this boy is the village’s greatest prankster—stay far from him.”

“Five years ago, his sister Aurora brought him back to the village, and he never left. Think about it—he was only thirteen before that. How could he have worked as a corpse watcher? The nearest hospital is in Dariji below the mountain—a full afternoon’s walk.”

“Brought back to the village?” Lyra asked sharply.

She tilted her head slightly, producing a tinkling sound.

Pierre nodded:

“Aurora moved here and settled down six years ago. After a year, she went out on a trip and returned with this boy, saying she found him on the road—a homeless child, nearly starved to death, and she intended to adopt him.”

“Since then, he took Aurora’s surname ‘Li,’ and even his name ‘Lu Mi’ was given by Aurora.”

“I’ve forgotten what I was called originally,” Lu Mi said, sipping absinthe with a grin.

He showed no shame or embarrassment at having his past exposed like this.

PS: Today is Little K’s birthday. I hope he likes this gift. :)

(End of chapter)