Before discussing passage or tokens, Lin Tao went to work with the cold, focused care of a battlefield trauma surgeon.
“Lie back on the stone,” Lin Tao instructed firmly. He pushed Du Cang’s shoulders gently down onto the sheepskin blanket. “Your humility doesn’t prevent around the heart-squeezing fluid. Your heart is laboring against three ounces of trapped fluid inside the heart sac. If I don’t drain it now, you’ll lose mind within two minutes.”
Tie Shan knelt at Du Cang’s head, his massive hands firmly securing the Sword Saint’s shoulders to prevent any sudden movement during the procedure.
“Hold still now,” Tie Shan warned softly. “Iron works fast.”
Lin Tao picked up a three-inch hollow silver hollow tube, dipping the tip in distilled bitter pine-resin spirit. His left eye zoomed in on Du Cang’s chest bone, overlaying body cross-sections onto the bruised chest.
“Breathe all the air out of your lungs and don’t inhale,” Lin Tao commanded.
Du Cang exhaled, his chest sinking.
Lin Tao placed his left thumb upon the xiphoid process at the base of the chest bone. He felt the notch between the joint padding and the costal margin. With a swift, practiced motion of his right hand, he pushed in the silver hollow tube at a forty-five degree angle toward the left shoulder.
