63: Chapter 63 Temperature of Coagulants

The day after the psychic counterattack was repelled, Lin Mo scratched his left forearm on a metal plate loosened by artillery fire while inspecting the defensive lines.

The wound wasn't deep, but it was dirty—the metal plate was coated in rust and machine oil.

He went to the Medical Station to have Alice treat it.

She was the only one in the Medical Station.

She looked up at him, asked nothing, and pointed to a chair.

Lin Mo sat down and placed his left arm on the sterilization table in front of her.

Alice cleaned the wound with disinfectant—her technique was clean and efficient, exactly consistent with the standard procedures of Imperial medics, only slightly faster.

She turned and took a coagulant from the shelf—the batch she had improved, its pale gold label reflecting a razor-thin sliver of light in the morning sun.

On the side of the coagulant, a small number "1" was written in pencil.

It was the first one from the first batch of samples she had made—she had kept it herself and had never used it.

She held the coagulant in her hand for a moment, then performed an action he hadn't expected.

She didn't inject it directly.

She removed the seal and took a small sip herself—tasting it to confirm the dosage and temperature.

Only then did she attach the needle, wipe the injection site with an alcohol swab, and push the coagulant into the edge of Lin Mo's wound.

"Are you worried that my body might react to the improved formula?" Lin Mo asked.

Alice didn't answer directly.

She placed the empty coagulant tube back on the workbench, tidied up the sterilization tools, and then said in a very flat tone: "I didn't want to put something I hadn't tested on your wound."

His hand was trembling slightly—not from fear, but because the adrenaline hadn't fully faded.

The sensation in his fingertips had become abnormally acute; he could feel every single grain of debris embedded in his skin.

She didn't look at him.

But when she said that, her hands, busy with the medical instruments, paused for a fleeting second.

He silently calculated in his mind: how many days the food reserves would last, how much ammunition had been consumed, how many people were needed for the next patrol.

These numbers meshed together in his mind like gears, each one linked to three others—change one, and everything had to be recalculated.

He didn't press the matter.

When he stood up, he touched his bandaged left arm with his right hand—the coagulant had been warm when it was injected.

He didn't know if it was because she had held it in her palm for too long, or if the reagent itself, having just come out of the sterilization oven, retained heat.

He didn't ask.

When he walked out of the Medical Station, he paused at the door and said: "There's porridge heating on the stove; you haven't had breakfast yet."

Alice heard him but didn't answer.

After a while, she finished tidying up the instruments and walked toward the stove.

Lin Mo's wound wasn't large, but on that planet, every wound carried the risk of infection.

Before treating the wound, Alice had cleaned it three times with disinfectant—not because she was unskilled, but because she was using the action to stall for time.

She needed those few seconds to decide one thing: whether or not to use that improved coagulant.

The test tube numbered "1" was a sample she had prepared herself after successfully isolating the active components of the gene repair stock solution for the first time.

It hadn't undergone any animal testing, nor any human verification—only data under the microscope and her intuition.

She had tested the diluent accompanying the reagent on herself—confirming there was no acute toxic reaction—but this was her first time performing a human test of the complete formula.

The wind passed through the ruins, emitting a low, mournful wail, as if something enormous were breathing underground.

He told himself it was the wind.

But in the warhammer 40k universe, the wind was never just the wind.

She had held the test tube in her palm for a while, letting the temperature of the tube wall rise to near body temperature.

Then she unplugged the seal and took a small sip herself—not to check the flavor, but to confirm the dosage and temperature.

Only then did she attach the needle and inject it into the edge of Lin Mo's wound.

After finishing all this, she didn't leave immediately; she stood by for a few minutes, confirming there were no abnormal reactions at the edge of the wound, before turning to tidy up the instruments.

When she stood up, her fingers lightly touched the empty test tube.

Then, she rinsed it clean with water and placed it into the recovery tray—the first, and also the last, coagulant to exist as a sample.

After the number 1 coagulant was injected into the edge of Lin Mo's wound, Alice's fingers lingered on the empty syringe for a few seconds before letting go.

She placed the used syringe into the recovery tray, then took a new blank test tube from the shelf and applied a label numbered 2.

When he stood up, the gauze wrapped around his left arm was neat and secure.

He flexed his arm to confirm it didn't hinder movement, then nodded at Alice and turned to walk in the direction of the Intelligence Center.

After walking a few steps, he touched the area that had just been bandaged—the gauze still held the warmth left by her fingers.

After Lin Mo had walked a few steps, the bandaged area on his left arm still retained the scent of disinfectant—mixed with the faint, metallic tang characteristic of the coagulant.

He paused at the entrance of the Intelligence Center, reached out to his nose, and sniffed his fingertips.

Then he lowered his hand, pushed open the door, and walked inside.

He didn't look back, but the temperature of the number 1 coagulant remained on the edge of his wound—not a physical temperature, but something he knew he would remember for a long time.

In the pharmacy room, Alice labeled the blank test tube numbered 2 and placed it into the cold storage box.

She had learned an important lesson from the number 1 coagulant sample—next time, she would not let someone she cared about become a test subject.

Locke believed in one thing: there are no perfect plans on the battlefield, only perfect habits.

Therefore, his way of training recruits wasn't to teach them how to execute tactics, but to ensure that when they were too exhausted for their brains to function, their bodies still remembered what to do.

Changing magazines, crawling forward, judging cover—these actions had to be practiced until they could be performed without thinking.

Because Chaos wouldn't wait for you to be ready before attacking.

They would appear at the moment you were most exhausted, most relaxed, and most wanted to give up.

What Locke wanted to ensure was this—when that moment arrived, everyone in Blackstone Town would have bodies that reacted faster than their brains.

After Lin Mo returned to the Intelligence Center, he wrote a short poem on the back of the day's work log:

"Slender hands mix the frost, a silver needle tests warmth, spring arrives first."

"Not a word is spoken, yet it heals the heart."

*

"A tube of coagulant, worth more than a thousand words."

"When people are quiet, the moon brightens the small window,"

—Lin Mo, written on the back of the coagulant log, "Dian Jiang Chun" (Untitled)

But he didn't know that in the darkness, a pair of eyes had been watching him—watching for a long time.

Lin Mo had a dream that day.

It wasn't information transmitted by the mirror of the emperor—it was a real dream.

In the dream, he returned to Earth, sitting in the company meeting room, across from his product director.

The director was asking him why the Q3 data didn't look good; he wanted to answer but couldn't make a sound.

Then the walls of the meeting room began to shatter, and a gray-purple sky poured in through the cracks, carrying the smell of sulfur and rust.

He woke up with a start.

The sky outside the window wasn't yet bright.

He sat on the bed, panting for a few breaths, then touched his chest—the faint warmth of the mirror of the emperor was still there.

When he lay back down and closed his eyes, he suddenly thought of something: he was already starting to forget what color the lights in that meeting room on Earth were.

This made him pause.

Then he turned over and forced himself to continue sleeping.

Forgetting Earth wasn't a bad thing—at least on Hope Star, he didn't need to explain to anyone why the Q3 data didn't look good.

Here, the only question he needed to answer was—whether anyone would still be alive tomorrow.

That dream about Earth left Lin Mo feeling restless for the entire following day.

It wasn't because he missed Earth—it was because the dream made him realize that a rift was appearing between his two lives.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to recall the details of Earth: the names of colleagues, the layout of the office, the lights of the convenience store on the way home.

Replacing them was everything in Blackstone Town: the roar of Locke during training, the rhythm of Old Tom's forging hammer, the light in Alice's Medical Station.

He was becoming someone else—not the product manager from before his transmigration, but an Archon on a frontier planet.

This transformation was gradual, silent, but it was happening.

He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

But he was certain of one thing—he didn't want to go back.

He was needed here.

And there, there was no longer a place for him.

Lin Mo sat in the chair at the Intelligence Center, placing the empty tube of the number 1 coagulant on the table.

In the darkness, the glass tube reflected the moonlight from outside the window.

He looked at it for a long time.

Then he placed it into the deepest corner of the drawer—not to throw it away, but to keep it safe.

The way time passed on this planet was not quite the same as on Earth.

There were no mobile phones to remind him of meetings, no calendars to tell him what day of the week it was.

There was only sunrise and sunset, only battle and calm, only living and dying.

He used vertical lines in his notebook to record the days, drawing a horizontal line for every five.

This primitive method of counting made him feel grounded—at least he still knew what day it was.