The herbal broth smelled of cold swamp moss, bitter gentian, and the iron tang of crushed hematite.
Lin Ke sat cross-legged in a hollowed granite basin in the center of Sub-Vault Zero, stripped to a pair of coarse hemp trousers. The dark green liquid reached his chest bone, cold enough to turn the skin of his chest into a field of tight, shivering goosebumps.
Around the rim of the basin, thirty-six silver needles hung suspended from silk threads, their points hovering a tiny fraction of an inch above the main spirit vein gates along his shoulders, spine, and ribs.
Apothecary He stood at his right shoulder. He held a pair of heavy horn metal tongs and a bowl of steaming salt water.
The old man’s face was haggard, hollowed out by two days without sleep, his fingers twitching with nervous tension.
“The bath will keep your skin from sloughing when the fever spikes,” Apothecary He said, his voice flat and dry as dead leaves. “When you start vomiting the melted rock waste, lean forward over the left rim. If you choke on your own bile while your nervous system is offline, I can’t clear your airway without pulling the needles.”
