Iron Fist and Loyal Heart

Chapter 36 Hidden Injuries

Associate Physician Liu placed the reagent card in the reader's slot and waited a full three minutes. The machine didn't beep, but the data on the screen appeared one by one, and the last column—subspace residual markers—changed from light color to pale orange. He glanced at Old Tietou sitting on the examination bed and turned the screen around to show him.

"The infection markers are high, but not below the sepsis threshold. The amount of residual subspace particles is small, but the problem is that these particles are alive." Associate Dr. Liu pointed to the irregular dark spot on the screen with his finger. "They are embedded in the fascia layer of your forearm and are multiplying extremely slowly. The multiplication rate is about one division every three days—not fast, but they are releasing trace amounts of neurotoxins, which is why you feel numbness."

Old Iron Head glanced down at his left forearm. The bandages had been removed, exposing the wound to the incandescent light of the examination room. Fine, purplish-black threads seeped from the fascia layer, weaving an extremely fine and thin net beneath the skin. The center of the net was still slightly writhing, as if something was breathing extremely slowly deep within the muscle. He rested his arm on the armrest of the examination table and said, "Can you cut it off?"

Associate Physician Liu was silent for a moment. "It can't be cut off. The parasitic particles have spread to the fascia layer of the entire forearm and become entangled with the muscle fibers. If we were to cut it off, we would have to remove the entire left forearm." He printed out the test report and placed it on the table. "There is currently no standard treatment plan. The parasite research in the Northern Alliance started earlier than ours, but they haven't found a way to reverse the process either—they simply don't treat it and directly perform full-body prosthetic replacement on the infected host, replacing all the parasitized parts with machines. But you come from the old martial arts background, and prosthetics will cause mechanical rejection; at least half of your four major skills will be lost. So I wouldn't recommend you get it done."

Old Tie Tou grunted, picked up the report, glanced at it, and then put it down again. He asked Associate Physician Liu for a cigarette, but didn't light it. "So, I guess I'll have to rely on my own immune system to tough it out."

"That's all we can do for now. The military medical station has an old-fashioned antiparasitic serum that can temporarily suppress the activity of the microparticles, giving your own immune system a chance to metabolize the toxins. However, the serum itself cannot kill the microparticles. In other words—the injury is your own, and how much you can withstand depends on your own constitution. If you can't withstand it, the toxins will gradually erode the fascia, and the function of your left forearm will continue to decline." Associate Physician Liu spoke calmly, without deliberately comforting or alarming. He had worked at the Special Phenomenon Bureau's military medical station for many years and had seen too many wounded soldiers infected by subspace debris. He knew that the outcome of such injuries depended on the patient's own metabolic capacity and willpower, and had little to do with the doctors.

Old Tie Tou took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and held it between his fingers. Associate Physician Liu took an antiparasitic serum from the medicine cabinet, injected it into his right arm, and then re-bandaged the wound on his left forearm. This time, the bandage was military-grade, thicker and tighter than the one Su Xinpei had used, with an added layer of silver-ion-containing insulating dressing to slow the spread of microparticles. After finishing, Old Tie Tou jumped off the examination bed, put on his ripped tank top, said "Thanks," and then pushed open the door and left.

Su Xinpei sat on a bench in the corridor.

He'd been sitting here for three days. He'd taken all his annual leave from the neighborhood committee—he'd never taken a day off in his three years on the job, and this time he'd used up all the annual leave he'd saved up over the years. Aunt He didn't ask why on the phone, just said, "Go ahead." At the resettlement site, Old Sun and the social worker were holding things off. He still checked the supplies list with Old Sun every day using his communication chip, but he remained in the corridor of the Special Elephant Bureau's medical ward. He sat during the day, dozed off against the chair back at night, and ate nothing but compressed biscuits and canned coffee from the vending machine for all three meals. The nurses in the corridor recognized him and would tiptoe past him every time they passed.

When Lao Tietou pushed open the door, Su Xinpei stood up from the bench. Lao Tietou glanced at him, his cigarette still unlit: "What are you still doing here? Don't you have to go to work?"

"Annual leave," Su Xinpei said.

Old Tie Tou didn't say anything more and walked to the end of the corridor. Su Xinpei followed behind him, and the two of them passed through the Special Meteorological Bureau's underground passage and exited the building through the back door. The sky over the lower district of Ironthorn City was still grayish-white, indistinguishable between fog and industrial emissions. The two walked towards Ironbone Hall, and when they passed the Beihe Vegetable Market, Old Tie Tou turned in and bought a roast chicken and a few sesame cakes. Oil from the roast chicken seeped from the paper bag and dripped onto his fingers, but he ignored it.

Back at Tiegutang, Old Tietou placed the roast chicken and sesame cakes on the bench, then went to the storeroom, dragged the old rattan chair to the center of the courtyard, sat down, and rested his left arm on the armrest. A small ring of dark color seeped from the wound beneath the bandage—not blood, but the imprint left by fine, purplish-black threads slowly wriggling beneath the dressing. He glanced at his left arm, then picked up his enamel mug, took a sip of cool tea, and said to Su Xinpei, "Don't stand there watching me, practice your kung fu."

Su Xinpei stood in the center of the courtyard and set up his stance. He closed his eyes, focused his energy into his dantian, and circulated it throughout his body. But he didn't stand for the full hour as usual—he stopped after standing for about half the hour, walked to the door of the storage room, took the old sandbag from the toolbox, and hung it on the hook. Then he began to practice his punches. Not stances, not secret techniques, but pure power—each punch landed squarely on the center of the sandbag, the fist striking the canvas with a rough, muffled thud, the sandbag swinging backward, the chain making a sharp metallic scraping sound.

When he threw his thirtieth-something punch, Old Tie Tou said from the side, "Your punches are too heavy, hold back a bit." Su Xinpei didn't stop. When he threw his sixtieth-something punch, Old Tie Tou said again, "If you keep hitting the sandbag like that, your wrists will swell up tomorrow." Su Xinpei still didn't stop. When he threw his ninetieth-something punch, Old Tie Tou stopped saying anything.

Su Xinpei stopped after throwing his 150th punch, panting with his arms hanging limply. The calluses on his knuckles were chafed raw by the canvas, and a little blood seeped out. He wiped his hands on the back of his pants, then walked to the bench, picked up a water glass, and drank. Old Tie Tou leaned back in his wicker chair, watching him with a complicated expression.

"Are you throwing so many punches to try and get that arm back?" Old Iron Head asked.

Su Xinpei put down his water glass. "We can't turn things around."

"Then what are you hitting?"

"Take care of other things," Su Xinpei said.

Old Tie Tou was silent for a moment, then laughed. It was a short laugh, a snort from his nose, but his eyes genuinely curved. He placed the enamel mug on his lap, looked at the old elm tree in the yard, and said, “Your grandmaster used to be like that too. Every time I was injured, he wouldn't say a word, he'd just keep hitting the sandbag. Once, he tore the sandbag to pieces, the sand from the canvas spilled all over the yard, and he swept it up alone under the moonlight all night.” He paused. “You’re better than him. He knew why he was hitting, but he couldn’t say it. You can say it.”

Su Xinpei didn't reply. He placed the water glass on the bench, walked back to the center of the courtyard, and straightened the sandbag. He didn't hit as hard this time—he reduced his strength and began to use secret techniques. He used techniques like sleeve wrapping, silk coiling, hammering, and elbow strikes, twisting from the Yongquan point (Kidney 1) to the knuckles, pausing briefly at the end before slowly releasing. The strength from his tendon-strengthening exercises was still there, but this time he didn't use it to smash things.

Old Tie Tou watched him finish a set of secret techniques from the wicker chair, then placed the enamel mug on the bench, stood up, went into the storeroom, and pulled a stone slab from a drawer. The slab was old, with several chips along the edges, and its surface had been carved with some kind of sharp tool—the carvings were extremely deep and chaotic, some revealing human outlines, others resembling symbols, but all were only half-carved and never completed. He placed the slab on the ground in front of Su Xinpei. "This was left by your grandmaster. Every time he felt something was lacking, he would carve a line on it. He carved it his whole life but never finished, calling it his 'Alchemy Stone Slab'—actually, it had nothing to do with alchemy, it was just him struggling with himself. Now I'm giving it to you—what's stuck in your heart, don't hit the punching bag, hit it here."

Su Xinpei squatted down and looked at the stone slab. The engravings on it were a mix of new and old; the deepest one still had a bit of dried iron powder embedded in it, as if it had been carved in by a knuckle. He stretched out his right index finger and slowly ran it along the deepest engraving, feeling the granular texture of the iron powder—cool and sharp. He stood up and walked to the sandbag, switching from a fist to fingers, changing his force from hammering to stabbing—not using brute force, but concentrating the trembling energy from his muscle-strengthening training at the tip of his index finger, and quickly poked the canvas surface. The canvas didn't tear, but when his fingertip touched the sand layer beneath, the sand emitted a very faint cracking sound. He withdrew his index finger and looked at his knuckle—it wasn't broken, but his fingertip was slightly warm.

Old Tietou stood up from the wicker chair, walked into the room, and waved to Su Xinpei with his back to him. "Continue tomorrow. Don't forget to call your Aunt He—she definitely knows how long you're going to be on leave." He closed the door. Su Xinpei placed the stone slab under the bench, straightened the sandbags, then picked up the communication chip, held it behind his ear, and dialed Old Sun's number. The background noise of the resettlement center's corridor was distinctly loud when the call was answered—someone was asking, "When will breakfast be served?", a child was crying, and Old Sun's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper, but when he said, "The supplies are enough, don't worry," his pace was as steady as it had been three days ago. Su Xinpei briefly checked the supply list, the number of people to be resettled, and the night shift roster, then hung up and walked out of Tiegutang.

Two streetlights in North Alley were broken. He stood still in the darkness, drawing his breath into his dantian. The charcoal was still there, warm and steady. He walked along the alley toward his apartment, his steps slow but firm.