Chapter 392: Echoes

Itching is a uniquely peculiar bodily signal. Counterintuitively, it is fundamentally distinct from the itch triggered by being tickled.

The latter arises from mechanoreceptors in the skin, routed through pathways tied to touch and movement, activating a defensive response that alerts the mind to an intrusion within personal space, prompting avoidance and struggle.

The former is governed by a dedicated set of nerve fibers, activated by various inflammatory mediators, running parallel to and independently of pain, mutually inhibiting each other—thus relieved temporarily by scratching, which trains the brain to continue scratching, even to the point of breaking the skin when unbearable.

The former lies within; the latter lies without.

“Bone-deep itching” unmistakably signals profound internal change—an unknown reaction surging rapidly, spreading like wildfire in moments.

He rolled up his sleeves and saw a rash spreading in sync with the itch, centered on embedded fragments, red, swollen, and inflamed into large patches resembling severe urticaria.

Beneath the epidermis, the itch continued to diffuse deeper, gradually evolving into a mild burning. Dull, heavy pains, like copper beads rolling, moved across his bones; his joints stiffened as if poured with molten metal.

His arms felt like water bags filled with boiling water—hot, taut, yet always capable of holding more, never bursting, only a sinister numbness rising from the worst points, swallowing normal sensation.

A dark, unmaskable pale luster appeared on the surface of the embedded objects—they had lain dormant for so long, always hidden beyond the immune system’s surveillance, so long that the host had sometimes grown accustomed to their presence.

Now, as if a sliver of residual will had been awakened, they once again became “foreign bodies,” rejecting this body, while being rejected by it in turn.

The result inherited the hallmark traits of hypersensitivity: swift and violent. Bone and flesh became a brutal battlefield within moments.

The effects continued to spread. Massive amounts of inflammatory mediators were released, circulating through the bloodstream, bringing heat and palpitations.

As the itch crossed his sternum and reached his neck, he felt his breathing grow labored, as if a packed wad of dry cotton had been shoved into his throat—too thick to swallow, too stubborn to cough out.

This was no illusion, but one of the most severe complications of allergy: laryngeal edema. At the narrowest point of the glottis, mere millimeters of swelling could cause drastic airway restriction.

The footsteps of suffocation were already echoing in his ears.

Without hesitation, without wasting energy on futile cries for help, he calmed his emotions, reduced oxygen consumption, and easily found what he needed on the neatly arranged shelves—a tracheal intubation kit.

Theoretically, a person cannot possibly perform tracheal intubation on themselves. The tube’s passage through the oropharynx triggers intense stimulation, violent coughing, and vomiting reflexes—nearly impossible to endure while conscious.

Moreover, constrained by posture and field of view, an already difficult procedure becomes even harder; even the most skilled practitioners struggle to find the right angle.

But some have overcome far more extreme discomfort, their vision not limited by their eyes.

He tilted his head back, opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and pushed the leather-wrapped tube into his throat, forcing open a passage before edema completely sealed the glottis.

It felt like swallowing a live coal—dry, itchy, stinging, burning his trachea—but his breathing was preserved.

Yet this was only the beginning of a cascade. Something in his consciousness or spiritual senses seemed to trigger it, pushing the allergic reaction to a new level.

A hazy black border encroached on his vision; he noticed himself shivering. Within minutes, the heat began shifting to its opposite extreme.

Under inflammatory infiltration, his blood vessels dilated and became hyperpermeable, like a balloon swelling while leaking—internal pressure plummeted, unable to reach the circulatory periphery, his skin cold and clammy.

His heartbeat pounded like a drumstick, each strike farther than the last.

Anaphylactic shock, the deadliest link in acute allergic reactions, arrived as promised.

Unlike hemorrhagic shock, it cannot be effectively corrected by fluid replacement. The body does not lack fluid—it simply cannot retain it within the vessels.

Fortunately, its treatment is simpler: biological evolution has naturally forged a mobilization signal against the ultimate threat to life—epinephrine.

A single injection can block nearly all pathological pathways: vasoconstriction, bronchodilation, cardiac stimulation, blood pressure elevation, inflammation suppression, shutting down excessive unnecessary immune responses, redirecting resources toward survival.

Unfortunately, this cheap, commonly stocked drug—worth a few yuan per vial—is now impossibly distant.

The blackening of his vision deepened; retinal ischemia turned noon into midnight. Time was running out.

Perhaps minutes, perhaps the next second—when the brain lost effective perfusion, it would shut down outright. At that point, he would be better off praying his spirit could detach from biological foundations and exist independently.

Or he would have to invent on the spot a drug equal to epinephrine, with equal breadth and speed of inhibition.

Clearly impossible.

The fading warmth of his consciousness struggled in cold darkness, grasping for any spark of inspiration.

A sound arose, like overlapping scales sliding—something had sensed the loosening of its cage. Listening again, it resembled an invitation: the world beyond cognition opened a sliver, waiting for him to lose all that could be lost, so he might pass through.

The invitation was refused. Peaceful death was easier to accept than meaningless eternity.

Before accepting death, biological instinct made one final thought.

Fast-acting? Inhibitory?

No epinephrine—but there was indeed something that perfectly matched the description. The safe alternative had long been unseen, buried in darkness.

His cold, trembling hand opened the bottom layer of the sample case. Inside a glass vial, a flowing pure-black liquid waited, as always.

Its patience, like its unchanging color, endured—someday it would be swallowed. The outcome had been sealed since its creation: whether one yielded to the call, or was driven to it by accident.

Kraft took one drop, dissolved it in water, sipped a small amount, and held it under his tongue.

At Wendeng Harbor, he had seen too many others take it—he sat on the floor before swallowing, waiting for the crisp sound of his skull hitting the ground.

The progression did not unfold as expected—or at least, not entirely.

After sitting still for dozens of seconds, his wavering consciousness still held his body upright.

A subtle sinking sensation arose, as if a thick carpet had been laid beneath his feet—or his mattress pulled away—hard to distinguish from the dizziness of shock.

The diluted black liquid had indeed taken effect—not enough to carry mind and body into the depths, but its physiological impact was being released without restraint.

The spread of darkness in his vision gradually halted, then ceased entirely, like slowly rising from underwater—air thick, heavy, nausea surging.

Cold and numbness gave way to aching, stinging pain; warmth and sensation slowly returned to his skin.

The joy of survival had not yet formed when a message arrived first.

He “heard” a muffled impact—a collision, distant, yet not from thunderclouds beyond the horizon, but an echo of the past: celestial shattering, scales tearing.

When conflict reappeared by coincidence, its ripples followed the overlapping path, summoned here.