The Tyrant's Terminally-Ill Childhood Friend (Completed Main Story) - Chapter 6

Lowell still did not understand why Peter had liked her so much.

Back then, Lowell was merely a child—and even a somewhat selfish one due to her long illness.

Thus, to young Lowell, Peter’s words sounded like a promise of eternal love. After all, she could never have a reason to dislike Peter.

It was like a ritual between them: Peter would say what Lowell wanted to hear, and in return, Lowell would hug him tightly.

Lowell knew well that her black eyes and hair were nothing to be proud of. Fortunately, because she resembled her father so closely, no one questioned her lineage—but Lowell had sometimes caught her parents sighing quietly in private.

[“Why is Lowell’s hair so dark, my dear? This child alone is unusually frail, and even her hair color is like this… I feel guilty. I’m so sorry for her…”]

Her parents clearly loved Lowell, yet they could not love even her blackness. Since Lowell was born with black hair and eyes, she would endure rumors about her bloodline for her entire life. Her blackness was practically a defect.

Therefore, Lowell’s parents had never once told her that her jet-black hair and eyes were beautiful.

The only one who loved Lowell’s blackness was Peter.

And Peter was also the only one who saw something special in Lowell.

‘Peter was the Emperor.’

Lowell sat lost in thought, submerged in the bathtub. She was no longer in the bridal chamber but in the bath of the palace newly assigned to her as the Emperor’s bride.

Last night, after the Emperor stormed out of the bridal chamber, Lowell had slept soundly with flowers as her pillow. The tension that had gripped her at the thought of meeting the Emperor had long since vanished. The reason was simple.

‘The Emperor can’t possibly kill me.’

Lowell recalled the startled expression of the maid who opened the bridal chamber door this morning.

The maid’s hand had opened the door without the slightest caution—naturally, she must have assumed the bride was already dead.

But when she detected no stench of decay inside, the maid seemed slightly flustered.

And upon seeing Lowell wide awake in bed, her expression turned as if she’d seen a ghost.

‘She must have wondered how that woman could possibly still be alive.’

Lowell fully understood the maid. After all, she herself had entered the imperial palace fully prepared to die.

Yet Lowell had survived—ironically, by clinging to the longing of the very person who had intended to kill her.

‘Should I call this fortunate?’

Could misfortune buried beneath lesser evils truly be called good fortune?

Splash. Lowell’s hand, which had been resting on the edge of the tub, slipped into the scented bathwater. She had been sitting in the hot water so long that all strength had drained from her body. Of course, an ordinary person wouldn’t lose control of their limbs over something so trivial, but Lowell’s frail constitution made her different.

Merely leaning against the tub made her dizzy. The steam choked her, forcing her to gasp for air like a fish thrown onto dry land. Yet she had no intention of getting up. As she stared blankly at the ceiling, her mind seemed fogged by steam too, her strength fading and consciousness growing dimmer by the moment.

As her eyelids slowly closed as though for the last time, Lowell recalled one truth.

The best way to break a person is to take away their one and only thing.

It need not be something precious. It could be an indelible scar or a jewel unmatched in the world.

It only needs to be their one and only.

Something that must exist within their world—something whose absence would leave them stumbling through life as if a limb had been torn off. When that one and only thing is taken away—

‘That is when a person truly breaks.’

Lowell knew this truth from experience. She also knew the world called this state “falling into despair.”

Thus, despair became Lowell’s blade.

Therefore, before executing any plan, Lowell had to confirm one thing first.

Feeling the water’s surface pull her sinking body downward, she slowly blinked.

‘I, the puppet noblewoman presented to the Emperor and the false Lowell…’

Could I truly move the Emperor?

[This is the timeline separator]

“I’ve brought the records you requested, Your Majesty.”

At the voice from behind, the shadow of the man standing in the chaotic room tilted. Crimson liquid dripped steadily down the blade of the Emperor’s longsword, held in his right hand. Though anyone would have been alarmed by such a sight, the visitor showed no sign of surprise—clearly accustomed to such scenes.

“I’ll summon the royal physician.”

“No need. Hand me the records first.”

The Emperor instinctively reached out for the documents, then suddenly realized his hand was drenched in blood and clicked his tongue lightly. He couldn’t accept papers like this—he’d need to wipe his hand first. With that thought, he gave a casual wave.

“You read it aloud, Simoren.”

“Understood.”

The knight addressed as Simoren replied automatically, immediately unfolding the documents he’d brought.

The records detailed an unofficial imperial decree from the Former Emperor’s reign, specifically the extermination of a noble house ten years prior.

After listening silently for a while, the Emperor raised his hand, halting Simoren’s recitation.

“The imperial decree ordered the mansion’s entrance sealed and set ablaze. Care was taken to prevent damage to nearby civilian homes, and thirty-two bodies were confirmed dead. Does this differ from what you’ve read?”

“No, it does not.”

The Emperor’s brow furrowed. Whether this was due to displeasure at Simoren’s answer or pain from the wound wrapped in his handkerchief remained unclear.

“Is there any possibility of survivors?”

“No one emerged from the mansion at the time. Forgive my bluntness, but discussing such a possibility seems meaningless.”

“…Yes, you’re right. There’s no way she could have survived.”

The Emperor finally turned his head away. He had no further need to hear from Simoren. All evidence pointed clearly to one conclusion: Lowell was dead.

‘Even if she somehow survived the fire that day… her health was so poor.’

Peter recalled the last time he’d seen Lowell. Even to his untrained eyes, her sickly frame seemed unlikely to survive another year. Thus, even if she had escaped the fire, her frail body could never have lasted long.

Peter knew this well—and also knew it was futile to hope otherwise.

“Yet… why can’t I let go of this hope?”

Peter muttered to himself with bitter self-mockery, and worry flickered across Simoren’s face.

“…I heard the ‘doll’ you received yesterday is still alive.”

“Yes. She claimed I’d need her. Said I must be on the verge of madness—that no one else would suit me better.”

“Dare she speak such words to Your Majesty? Who does she think she is…?”

“But isn’t it true? That I’m on the verge of madness, and that no one but Anette Martinek fits the role.”

Peter lightly flexed and relaxed the hand wrapped in a handkerchief, then gave a faint laugh.

“She really does resemble her.”

“…That much?”

“For a moment, I thought Lowell had returned.”

Yes—if Lowell were still alive, she would indeed look just like that.

Slightly less baby-faced than in his memories, her features more mature. Of course, Anette’s expression appeared far more irritable than Lowell’s ever had—but then again, Lowell herself had never been a particularly sweet-tempered child, as was common among those who’d endured long illnesses.

Thus, when Anette’s lips parted to call out, “Peter?” he nearly lost his reason.

Her appearance was too much like that of the girl he’d loved—the girl now buried beneath the earth.

Even knowing Anette wasn’t Lowell, he felt the madness climbing his spine reach out toward her. Had Peter’s patience been just a little shorter, he surely would have mistaken her for Lowell.

“But that can’t possibly be her real face. It must be some magical artifact… or some trick used to craft her likeness.”

“Likely so. Regardless, it worked. It made enduring things slightly easier.”

“Then… your hand…?”

Simoren’s voice trailed off. His gaze fixed on the bloodstained handkerchief wrapped around Peter’s hand. Noticing the look, Peter lifted his hand, gave it a light shake, and chuckled softly.

The wound, which had seemed freshly cut, was already half-healed.

“It’s nothing. I just needed to check if I’d truly gone mad.”

Until morning, Peter couldn’t erase Anette’s face from his mind. Only madness could explain such fixation. Thus, if he truly were mad—if this were merely a hallucination—he shouldn’t feel any pain.

But unfortunately, Peter’s senses remained perfectly intact. The blood was red and warm, confirming he stood firmly in reality—and damnably, reality delivered its message with perfect clarity.

Anette Martinek was not Lowell Hessen.

This fact implied only one thing: whoever had pushed Anette before him knew about Lowell.

Peter questioned this.

‘But everyone involved surely died back then.’

Moreover, all records related to House Hessen had been erased entirely under imperial law.

Then how, ten years later, could Martinek present a woman who looked exactly like Lowell?

Could this truly be mere coincidence?

“Simoren, bring me Anette Martinek’s records…”

Just as he began ordering Simoren to fetch Anette’s records, a knock sounded at the door.

At his command to open it, a maid prostrated herself before Peter.

“Your Majesty, Lady Anette’s life is in grave danger.”