The Tyrant's Terminally-Ill Childhood Friend (Completed Main Story) - Chapter 63

It was a life that had stubbornly clung on, as if mocking the death sentences repeatedly handed down by physicians. Each time she felt her life nearing its end, she still held onto a faint hope that perhaps, just this once, she might survive a little longer.

Yet after coughing up blood in front of René, Lowell realized with bitter clarity that this hope had merely been her own arrogance. The time she had left to move, even in this diminished state, was running out.

Before administering the medicine, Miheu examined Lowell and wore an unusually grave expression. She said nothing outright, but Lowell—who had seen physicians’ faces as often as her own parents’—knew all too well that this was no good sign.

‘If my condition has worsened since before, then it’s truly time to prepare for the end.’

It was like the moment a windowpane, barely holding against a fierce gale, finally cracks. It may not have shattered completely yet, but once cracked, it could never be restored. She could no longer hope for the fissure to mend itself, nor could she clearly see through the glass as she once did. All she could do was pray that it wouldn’t fully shatter and come crashing down—not today, at least.

‘Miheu even said it would be difficult to cure me completely.’

What Miheu offered was merely medicine to slightly ease her symptoms; curing Lowell was impossible for anyone.

Thus, Lowell resolved to seek out Noah, grasping at straws.

Of course, Noah was a scholar who studied anomalies of magic, so he likely had no surefire cure for her—but still, Lowell wanted to knock on his door just once, clinging to that sliver of hope.

Who knew? Perhaps his laboratory held some information that could help her. Maybe even the person who had slipped a metal bookmark into a book had tried to send her a message—perhaps that very person held the key to her survival.

She had to clutch onto something—anything. If it meant prolonging her life, she’d gladly take the devil’s hand without hesitation.

The cold wind made her feel feverish. Lowell tightened the shawl around her shoulders, wiped away her tears, and resumed walking.

‘I can’t die before taking my revenge.’

Peter still didn’t love “Anette” perfectly. He might even be suspicious of her.

Yet if she killed Peter now, simply because she didn’t know when she might die, all the times she’d kissed him would become meaningless. Killing Peter with her own hands was a last resort—a final option to be used only at the very end.

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