The Major General Faked His Terminal Illness Chapter 07

The Major General Faked His Terminal Illness Chapter 07

Luna was taken away amid piercing screams, and her 

whereabouts remain unknown. 

Before long, well–informed insiders began to hear rumors that two of Major General Gray’s daughters had “died of illness” in quick succession. 

But at the grand funeral, there was only Sienna’s coffin. 

In the south, in a small frontier town where spring lasts all 

year round. 

I was crouched in front of my landlord’s old TV, which was showing a news report from a major city in the north. 

The camera captured a solemn, high–profile funeral in 

progress. 

Standing before the gravestone, a man in a crisp military 

uniform wept so hard that his whole body shook; he was gaunt 

and emaciated, and had to be supported several times before 

he could barely stand on his own. 

“Nate,” I said, mumbling through a bite of apple, “that guy’s crying his eyes out. Did his sister die? She looked pretty young 

–what a shame.” 

The news report showed a close–up of the tombstone. 

The girl in the black–and–white photograph had a serene 

expression. 

I tilted my head and stared at it for a while, then suddenly pointed at the screen in surprise: “Hey? Nate! Come take a 

look! The person in this photo… doesn’t she look a little like 

me?” 

The man in the apron poked his head out of the kitchen, glanced at the screen, and declared with absolute certainty, “She doesn’t look like her. Our Sienna is much prettier.” 

I smiled contentedly, turned off the TV, and skipped into the 

kitchen to help him out. 

I know that Nate Johnson isn’t my biological brother. 

But in this world, he’s the only one who’s been the kindest to 

1. me. 

I remember “dying” once. 

He snatched me from the jaws of death. 

The price I paid was that I forgot everything that had happened before. 

As I regained consciousness under the operating room lights, I looked at my wrist–covered in old and new scars and gaunt as 

a skeleton- and felt a sense of utter emptiness toward the 

world. 

Perhaps I should count myself lucky. 

My past is probably best left in the past. 

“Congratulations on your new life.” 

A warm, dry hand reached out to me, and in the palm lay a fruit candy wrapped in colorful paper. 

He stood with his back to the sunlight streaming through the 

window, a gentle smile on his face, yet in his eyes I saw a sense of relief mixed with a heaviness I couldn’t quite fathom. 

At that moment, I felt a sudden lump in my throat. 

He said he had a younger sister who had the same illness as 

me, but they couldn’t save her. 

It was my “new beginning,” and in a way, it redeemed him. 

From then on, we became siblings who depended on each other for everything. 

I followed him when he was transferred from the Military 

General Hospital to this southern town, known for its peace 

and happiness. 

Life was simple, yet warm and fulfilling. 

The only unexpected event occurred six months later. 

That man who used to cry hysterically on TV somehow ended 

up here. 

When he saw me, he froze in disbelief at first, then his eyes 

welled up with tears. He rushed over, torn between laughter 

and tears, calling out my name incoherently and saying he was 

my uncle—the person closest to me. 

I furrowed my brow, and a strong sense of betrayal and 

resistance welled up inside me. 

I spoke up loudly to refute him and expose his “lies“: 

“You’re my uncle? Then where were you when I was lying on the operating table, nearly dying? And these old injuries on my 

body–did you do that to me? I’ve lived here for so long, and you’re just now showing up?” 

“If you really were family, to go this far… well, you’d be 

something else.” 

I slapped him across the face and warned him in a menacing tone not to follow me anymore. 

But he seemed to have lost all reason, following me like the 

most stubborn shadow for a whole year. 

Come rain or shine, silent, yet never leaving my side. 

Then one day, he suddenly disappeared. 

Nate told me he had died. 

Sudden death from overwork. 

Despite possessing wealth and status beyond the imagination of ordinary people, he stubbornly worked seven or eight part–time jobs a day, ate the worst food, lived in the most cramped quarters, and worked around the clock in a manner bordering on self–torture. 

In the end, it all came crashing down on a night of food delivery in the pouring rain. 

I listened, feeling no particular emotion, just a faint sense of 

melancholy. 

His entire estate was bequeathed to me through his lawyer. 

I didn’t accept it. 

Instead, I donated the entire amount to the Veterans 

Protection Foundation and brain tumor research 

organizations. 

After all, he and I have nothing to do with each other.