"Cough, cough... Can I smoke?"
"It really hurts too much!"
Martin sat miserably on the floor, pointing at the brown, cup-shaped smoking tube beside the bed.
His brain felt as though it were convulsing. If his skull had not been relatively sturdy, it would have long since leaped out of his head.
Even though he believed his skull could contain his brain, it felt as though his head were an eggshell about to hatch.
If he were an egg, that would be one thing, since it would mean hatching and rebirth. Unfortunately, he was not an egg, but a living, breathing person.
For a living person, that was a sign of impending death.
He had to ease the pressure in his brain, just as he had done during countless previous seizures—smoke marijuana, drink heavily, take sedatives.
Wu Heng said nothing in response to Martin's question. He merely smiled and extended a hand, indicating that Martin could help himself.
"Thank you!"
Martin forced himself to crawl over to the smoking tube. With trembling hands, he picked it up and pulled open the top, turning it into a two-foot-long, horn-shaped pipe.
He pulled out a bag of tobacco and a lighter from beneath the pillow beside the bed.
After setting it up, he took a deep, shuddering drag.
"Hah—!" Martin leaned back and lay on the floor, overcome by a sorrowful sense of finality.
He no longer had the strength to hold the pipe, and it dangled from his fingers.
Seeing how miserable he looked, Wu Heng was speechless.
To be honest, the red-clad Blood Floss Demons had not harmed Martin in the slightest. They had merely silently investigated him, confirmed the attributes of his soul, and prevented him from leaving.
Martin's severe injuries had been entirely self-inflicted.
"Pain makes the soul