The difference between a saved patient and a corpse was measured in tiny fractions of an inch and split seconds. The patient was a five-half-mile world-serpent and the incoming toxin was a packed neuro-rotting slurry. Then, the margin of error ceased to exist entirely.
Arthur Vance dropped off the front lip of Titus’s shell, his boots hitting the steadied jade stone with a sharp air hiss.
Before him, inside the smoking four-meter crater carved into the parasite’s dorsal back shell, the four main blood-vessel trunks were engorging with terrifying speed. The vessels—each three feet in width, ribbed with black hard shell rings and pulsing with a wild peristaltic rhythm—were turning from pale gray to a bloated, oily violet.
Through his Zeiss monocle magnifying glass, Arthur tracked the internal fluid dynamics:
“Internal drain tube pressure is spiking past twelve crushing deep-sea pressure,” Arthur spoke into his throat mic, sprinting along the edge of the crater. “The parasite is executing an end-post retrograde dump. It’s pumping two thousand four hundred liters of packed rotting rot straight down toward the serpent’s neck-artery bifurcation. If that slurry crosses the endothelial barrier, the dragon’s forebrain will liquefy in seven seconds.”
Behind him, Titus remained rooted. His four pillar-limbs held the skull plates in an iron vice. Grimm guarded the rear outer edge against twitching outer whip-tendrils, his low growl warning off any stray nerves. Overhead, Pip hovered in a tight heat holding pattern. That kept surrounding heat levels raised to prevent premature clotting.
