The Sickly Double Doesn't Want to Be Spoiled - Chapter 38 

Chapter 38 

When Lu Cong returned from his phone call, he found the hospital bed empty.

The room was so quiet there wasn’t a trace of sound.

He had been out in the hallway the entire time, and the ward door had never opened; it was impossible for Meng Yuan to have gone out.

Then he should be in the bathroom?

“Meng Yuan?” Lu Cong called out tentatively.

No response.

He quickened his pace. The bathroom door was half-ajar, with light streaming through the crack.

As he drew closer, Lu Cong faintly caught the scent of blood floating in the air.

It wasn’t heavy; it was very faint, almost like an illusion, but in an instant, it made Lu Cong’s spine go cold.

He slammed the door open and saw a vision that would cause his heart to stop every time he recalled it.

The sink was full of blood.

Meng Yuan had collapsed on the floor. There was blood on his eyelids, mouth, and nose some dried, some still bright red.

His body was curled up; his face beneath the bloodstains was as white as paper. His lips were trembling, his eyes half-closed, and his pupils dilated.

“Meng Yuan…”

Lu Cong rushed over, knelt beside him, and pulled him up: “Meng Yuan, wake up!”

Meng Yuan’s chest was heaving rapidly, but every breath was very shallow, as if he couldn’t catch air. His fingertips were cyanotic from lack of oxygen.

Lu Cong’s life had been clean and respectable. Even though he had a father of low character and a weak, naive mother, his life had never been stained by blood.

From the day he was born, he was destined to have the best of everything in the world. Anything others spent a lifetime of hardship to reach, he had at his fingertips and could discard like old shoes at any time.

Lu Cong never imagined he would have a day like this.

His hands were shaking; he didn’t know how to hold Meng Yuan.

How could a person bleed this much?

There were no wounds on Meng Yuan’s body, so why was there so much blood?

Relying on his last shred of reason and the natural coolness inherent in his character, Lu Cong dialed the doctor’s number and explained the situation briefly and quickly.

Meng Yuan’s body was as soft as if it had no bones. Lu Cong had to use both hands to support him, and then he realized the weight was terrifyingly light.

Meng Yuan had not completely lost consciousness; his lips were moving as if trying to say something.

Lu Cong pressed his ear close.

“Uncomfortable…” Meng Yuan could only produce a very faint whisper of air.

“It’s okay,” Lu Cong squeezed his palm. “The doctor is coming right now. We are in the hospital; nothing will go wrong.”

“…Can’t… can’t breathe…”

The intermittent syllables felt like small knives, stabbing densely into Lu Cong’s heart.

However, what he displayed was his usual, eternal composure.

Meng Yuan looked at him, and as he watched, tears slid down.

“Why are you crying,” Lu Cong raised his hand to wipe the teardrop from the corner of his eye and asked him: “Does it hurt?”

Meng Yuan shook his head.

In truth, he hadn’t felt pain from start to finish. He just couldn’t breathe; his chest felt pressured and miserable, as if he were about to suffocate.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Lu Cong still used that excessively steady tone.

He held Meng Yuan’s wrist and felt his pulse racing, while his own heartbeat was not faring much better.

The ward door was pushed open, and medical staff burst in. Seeing this scene, their expressions all changed.

Meng Yuan was lifted onto the bed for emergency resuscitation.

His face grew whiter, his breathing weakened, but his hand clutching Lu Cong’s sleeve refused to let go.

Lu Cong’s hand also began to tremble. He rubbed Meng Yuan’s fingers.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”

The moment his fingers were pried away, Meng Yuan’s tears fell again, and this time Lu Cong had no chance to wipe them away for him.

The next second, a pulse oximeter clip was snapped onto that finger.

“Oxygen on! EKG monitor! Fast!” the doctor ordered rapidly.

Lu Cong was pushed aside.

He stepped back two paces and stood there, watching Meng Yuan be surrounded, watching the nurses wipe the blood from his face, watching the machines being connected to him one by one.

For a long time, Lu Cong was in a daze.

His brain felt hollowed out; he was unable to generate any independent thought.

He simply stood in place.

Until Meng Yuan was wheeled into the emergency room.

The emergency room light stayed on for a long time.

It was already dark when the doctor came out, his expression even more solemn than usual.

“How is he?”

When Lu Cong spoke, he realized he hadn’t talked for so long that his voice was hoarse.

“He’s out of immediate danger for now,” the doctor said, “but in his condition…”

He paused and sighed.

“The disease is progressing faster than we anticipated. This was an acute episode. If we were a few minutes later, the consequences would have been unthinkable.”

Lu Cong stood there, listening to these words as they nailed themselves into his heart, one by one.

“He needs rest now and cannot be stimulated further,” the doctor said. “We will adjust the plan to see if there are better options.”

“Chemotherapy must begin, and it’s best to proceed with a bone marrow transplant as soon as possible,” he looked at Lu Cong. “There really is almost no time left.”

…

Inside the monitoring unit, Meng Yuan lay on the bed with his eyes closed, his face devoid of color.

He was hooked up to tubes, and an oxygen mask covered most of his face.

In the silent room, the EKG monitor beeped rhythmically.

Lu Cong sat down by the bed.

His gaze swept over Meng Yuan’s face. The face had been washed clean, without a trace of blood remaining, making it look even more grey and deathly pale.

Lu Cong let out a breath and slowly buried his head in his hands, his back soaked with sweat.

“You scared me to death,” he murmured.

The monitor continued to beep.

“Scared me to death…”

It was as if he were complaining to Meng Yuan, or perhaps just talking to himself.

Autumn continued, and Meng Yuan’s body continued to wither like the approach of a harsh winter.

Every day he woke up, he felt a bit more tired than the day before. It took longer to get out of bed, he had to hold the wall to walk, and he often had to stop and take deep breaths because of sudden dizziness.

And the good appetite Meng Yuan was most proud of was completely worn away by these trivial ailments.

But he still got up when he should, walked when he should, and ate when he should.

He didn’t want Qin Qing to worry.

Qin Qing didn’t say it out loud, but her cooking became lighter and more meticulous.

Stewing soup one day, simmering porridge the next, and making the snacks he loved the day after.

Every time she brought it up, she watched Meng Yuan expectantly, hoping he would eat just one more bite.

They endured until deep winter. One afternoon, Meng Yuan was lying in bed watching TV.

It was a very old movie he had seen many times; he could recite the plot.

He just watched it, spacing out.

Suddenly, his chest tightened.

It wasn’t the usual slow, lingering chest tightness; it was instantaneous, as if someone had grabbed it violently.

Meng Yuan froze. His phone dropped under the bed. Before he could react, his vision began to go black.

He wanted to call for help but couldn’t; he wanted to stand up but couldn’t muster any strength.

He could only clutch the quilt at his chest and pant desperately until his vision went completely dark.

Meng Yuan thought he was a goner this time.

Calculating the time, it was indeed not far from the time he died in the novel, and the feeling of this fainting spell was very similar to the sensation of dying in his past life.

But when he opened his eyes again, it was still the familiar hospital, the familiar ceiling, the familiar lights, and the familiar rhythmic sound of the monitoring equipment.

He turned his head and saw Lu Cong sitting by the bed.

“You’re awake?” Lu Cong’s voice was terrifyingly hoarse.

Meng Yuan opened his mouth to speak, but his throat hurt too much to make a sound.

Lu Cong helped him up, poured him a cup of water, and fed him some.

Leaning against Lu Cong’s chest, he heard Lu Cong’s heart beating very loudly, thumping against his ribcage with great weight.

His thoughts moved slowly; Meng Yuan realized he had survived again.

Throughout the entire winter, he would occasionally fall into a coma like this.

Every time, Meng Yuan thought he wouldn’t wake up, yet every time he managed a narrow escape.

In this way, Meng Yuan actually endured through the peak of winter. By the time the spring warmth began to melt the ice, he miraculously took a turn for the better.

On a day with a gentle breeze, he was actually permitted to return home to recuperate.

The acute phase of MDS was somehow endured and even smoothly bypassed by him.

“What are you thinking about?”

Beside him, Lu Cong stared at the tablet in his hand and asked without looking up.

Meng Yuan snapped back to reality. “Nothing, just thinking that I actually really survived.”

Lu Cong’s hand paused, and then he raised his head, looking at him seriously.

“Don’t overthink it,” his face lacked expression, but his tone was heavy: “I told you, your illness isn’t that serious.”

“Is that so…” Meng Yuan curled his lips slightly.

It was simply unbelievable. How was this possible?

Normally, he should be nearly dead by now.

The contract deadline was drawing closer; only after he died could the new plot proceed normally.

But why was it that every time he didn’t actually die?

Meng Yuan fell into a subtle state of anxiety.

He was grateful for a few more days of life, yet worried about the future plot.

Most importantly, his contract with Lu Cong was only for two years.

Originally, he just needed to die cleanly when the contract expired; that was his plan.

But looking at it now, he wasn’t going to die anytime soon?

Then what should he do? Would it count as a breach of contract?

This thought gave Meng Yuan a cold sweat; he would rather die than be poor again.

…

Lu Cong had lied.

Meng Yuan’s illness was anything but “not serious.”

The reason he looked a bit better, the reason he could be discharged, was solely because Lu Cong had spent vast, vast amounts of money.

He had assembled the best team of experts from home and abroad, used the most advanced equipment to sustain Meng Yuan’s life, and used the most expensive medications to alleviate the side effects of chemotherapy.

And now, they had almost reached the end of the road.

Lu Cong never knew that finding a matching bone marrow was such a difficult task.

He had always felt that money and power could accomplish 99% of the things in the world, and the remaining 1% was destiny.

It was just a matching bone marrow; it shouldn’t be up to God to decide.

But as things stood, he had to admit there were times when his power fell short.

How could there be none?

How could it just not be found?

No matter how rare Rh-negative blood was, Meng Yuan wasn’t the only one. With so many people with the same blood type in the world, how could they not find a single perfect match for Meng Yuan?

It was as if he were bound by something. Lu Cong felt like he was living inside a giant, invisible glass dome.

The power he thought could cover the sky only covered the tiny patch of heaven he could see before his eyes.

But further away, the unknown world outside the glass dome was terrifyingly large, large enough to make him feel small, large enough to make him tremble uncontrollably. For the first time in his life, a sliver of cowardice emerged.

He felt an unprecedented fear.

This fear was like a hand reaching out from hell, erupting and spreading from the deepest part of his heart until it swallowed him whole.

He buried his face deep in his palms, which were already covered in cold sweat.

Then, as if having made a certain resolution.

He took out his phone and, clinging to a final shred of hope, found a long-silent number in his contacts.

He clicked to dial.

…

Meng Yuan’s anxiety did not disappear.

As the contract deadline approached, it only intensified.

If it really doesn’t work, I’ll just run away secretly, the thought suddenly popped into his head.

According to the timeline of the original book, most of the plot began after his death, and those were the main text. Everything he was experiencing now was just background mentioned in passing by the author.

So, actually, was it not strictly necessary to die?

The moment this thought appeared, Meng Yuan’s heart skipped a beat.

Yes, disappearing was the same.

The original plot just needed him to stop appearing; hiding far away would work too. It didn’t strictly have to be solved by death.

Meng Yuan’s eyes lit up, feeling excited at having found a second path for himself.

Immediately following that, the excitement dimmed again.

He thought of Qin Qing.

If he disappeared, Qin Qing would be very sad.

Death was an act of God that he couldn’t control, but disappearing secretly behind her back would be something he caused intentionally.

Thinking of Qin Qing’s sad appearance, Meng Yuan felt a bit of reluctance.

His thoughts drifted further, and he thought of Lu Cong.

Would Lu Cong also…

The moment this thought arose, it was instantly snuffed out by Meng Yuan.

He took a deep breath, pressed down on his thumping heart, and warned himself: Don’t overthink it, don’t overthink it.

Let’s wait and see. Anyway, there’s still a little time left.

Isn’t there still a little time?