The Male Lead’s Sickly Aide is My Type - Chapter 96.2
Chapter 96.2
‘A performance?’
Deciding to watch until Archen returned, she pulled a chair closer to the stage. A jester-like emcee emerged, pulling back the velvet curtain and announcing, “Ladies and gentlemen, the play is about to begin!”
‘A play! I haven’t seen one since I arrived in this world.’
Excitement bubbled within her.
‘What kind of story will it be? A romance? Or perhaps a heroic tale?’
She held her breath in anticipation.
* * *
Archen fled the hall and sought refuge in the deserted gardens, leaning against a wall. He gritted his teeth, but the pain was relentless.
Biting his lip, he pinched his thigh. Even the medication provided no relief.
Four pills weren’t enough.
‘Should I take another?’
He recalled the doctor’s stern warning: no more than five. The potent medicine, taken in excess, could be fatal. But the agony was almost unbearable.
‘Wouldn’t risking death be preferable to this torment?’
He hesitated, the pill bottle clutched in his hand, then closed the lid. He couldn’t risk it, not for Carinne’s sake. Putting aside the potential for further damage to his body, he couldn’t bear the thought of her worry if he collapsed.
There was only one option: endure. He clutched his chest, squeezing his eyes shut.
‘This too shall pass.’
He told himself, forcing positive thoughts. Naturally, his mind drifted to Carinne. Her vibrant green eyes, her bright, cheerful laughter, and the soft touch of her lips—all vivid in his memory.
Despite the excruciating pain, a faint smile touched his lips.
‘Soon.’
He thought.
‘Soon, I’ll hold her in my arms again. We’ll finish that kiss. We’ll ride home in the carriage, change into comfortable clothes, have dinner, and sit by the fireplace, reliving the events of the evening…’
The pleasant fantasy shattered as another wave of pain washed over him, a searing agony that felt like his chest was being ripped open. He gasped, clutching the wall, sweat pouring down his face.
His knees trembled, his back arched, his body convulsing.
‘Just a little longer.’
He pleaded with himself.
‘I can’t collapse here.’
He bit back a scream, clinging to the hope that the worst was over. However, deep down, he knew he was reaching his limit. His legs grew weak, his vision blurred, and his knees buckled.
Just as he was about to fall, a shadowy figure approached.
“You.”
Archen lifted his head, the simple act requiring immense effort. As their eyes met, the masked figure extended a hand, a small pill resting in his palm.
“Care for this? It seems you’re in need. It’s for pain. Quite effective.”
He didn’t take it. He wasn’t foolish enough to accept an unknown medication from a stranger, especially one wearing a mask and using magic to disguise their voice. He remained silent, his expression grim.
The figure tilted their head, puzzled.
“Don’t you need it?”
Although he wanted to speak, the pain choked his voice.
Even breathing was a struggle.
Dizziness washed over him, his extremities grew cold, and the agonizing pain in his chest intensified. If he could speak, he would have begged for death. Unable to stand any longer, he sank to his knees, his consciousness fading.
The masked figure, in contrast, seemed perfectly at ease. They bent down, meeting Archen’s gaze, the small pill gleaming in the moonlight.
“It works wonders. You’ll see.”
Archen’s vision blurred. He knew he had mere seconds left, and he was out of options.
He snatched the pill from the figure’s hand and swallowed it.
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