There are countless red-hot steel needles drilling into the cracks in the skull, and every pulse beats with a dull pain like tearing.
Wu Galen's consciousness seemed to be sinking in a thick darkness, surrounded by chaotic roars, sometimes distant and sometimes near, like the never-ending beeping of the monitor in the hospital emergency room, or like some older, duller sound, with the smell of earth and rust, hitting the eardrums hard.
He wanted to raise his hand to press his temples, but found that his limbs were as heavy as lead. Every time he moved, there seemed to be grains of sand stuck in the bones, making it painful. The eyelids were stuck together, and it took a lot of effort to open a crack.
What I saw was not the familiar white ceiling, nor the pale lights of the emergency room.
It's gray thatch.
Layers of withered yellow thatch were pressed on top of the head, with a few rays of dim light leaking through the gaps.
