How the Villainous Consort Avoids His Death Ending - Chapter 76.2
“Protect His Highness. Everyone, retreat! Clear the way!”
The assassins immediately grouped around Everett. Despite their efforts, the Hezekia Knights could not hold back the clearly superior number of Everett’s men. A few knights tried to give chase, but the sound of my panicked cries caused them to freeze in shock.
“Tristan……Tristan, wake up. Please!”
But he had already lost consciousness, lying heavily in my arms.
❖ ❖ ❖
Tristan had not regained consciousness for four days.
A doctor from Belforte was urgently called to the residence. As he removed Tristan’s blood-soaked jacket and shirt to examine the wounds, everyone gathered around the bed drew a sharp breath. The skin around the sword embedded in his back had blackened and necrotized. If the blade had been angled slightly differently, it would have pierced his lungs.
The doctor spoke cautiously, moving his skilled hands over the wound.
“Fortunately, the vital organs were barely missed. However, the wound is very deep……”
“What does that mean? He can recover, right?”
Clinging to the doctor, I asked urgently. He averted his eyes, hesitant under the intense gazes of the knights. His voice trembled as he avoided a direct answer.
“That depends on……His Highness, the Grand Duke……”
“Explain in detail. Do not hold back.”
“……The area around the wound is infected, and the fever is severe. If he does not survive the night…… I cannot guarantee his safety.”
“…….”
The doctor spoke weakly, glancing at me. My entire body shook, and I could not think or respond. A deathlike silence settled over the chamber.
After the doctor left, the knights withdrew, leaving me alone at Tristan’s side.
I placed a cold towel on his fevered forehead and changed his sweat-soaked clothes multiple times. Tristan lay motionless, breathing weakly throughout the day.
When exhaustion clouded my awareness, I rested my cheek against the edge of the bed. Yet even the slightest irregularity in Tristan’s breathing would jolt me awake. Watching his pale face, my hands trembled.
The fear that Tristan might die gripped my throat at times.
In the original story, Tristan was destined to die more than ten years later. Though I swore to prevent that fate, the thought would sometimes intrude.
I imagined that once his predetermined death was averted, we could divorce and go our separate ways without incident. I even pictured him living with the ‘Grand Consort’ from the original story after I left Hezekia. Thinking of that made my stomach churn and sent shivers down my spine.
Yet all of that felt far off, like a distant future. Who worries about events ten years away? I was neither meticulous nor particularly forward-thinking.
Until now, all of those events had seemed nothing more than a hazy future to come after a long, long time.
Perhaps I had imagined life drifting at sea with the fleet, occasionally returning to Hezekia, Tristan always by my side, and us traveling to distant continents with Constantine, repeating simple daily routines forever.
Yet reality hit like cold water. Sitting at Tristan’s bedside, the hand I held was scorching and vivid from his fever.
If I let go now, he might vanish. Years earlier than in the original story, yet following the fate already set for him.
“……No, damn it.”
Tears wet my eyes. I rubbed them with the back of my hand, muttering curse after curse. Get up already, please.
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