"Is this the place?"
"Yes. I'm certain. A few coins loosened everyone's tongues."
We followed the coachman.
He was quite competent, and for some reason, he seemed driven by a sense of mission—he'd managed to track down several of the professor's former patients still living in London.
Well…
He'd used connections from the professor's usual carriage driver, so it wasn't anything extraordinary, but if it had been just us, we'd never have thought of such a method. That alone made it impressive, didn't it?
"Good work. Here, take this as thanks."
"This… This is too much."
"It's fine. You've earned it. Think about it—London was nearly overrun with men missing their testicles."
"Ah… Thank you."
Liston, perhaps sharing my sentiments, handed the coachman a sizable sum.
That kind of leadership was likely why people followed Liston despite his rough edges.
'Should I try that too…?'
Money…
Ah, money.
Honestly, I had quite a bit now.
Enough to share with subordinates.
'I could even offer some to the higher-ups… Though a bribe won't make me director.'
Right, considering my near-nonexistent foundation, it was clear that…
Knock knock.
While I was lost in thought, Dr. Liston stood before a shabby house and rapped on the door.
"Shabby" was putting it kindly—this wasn't even a proper house.
Not that I was speaking from privilege.
Back when I worked at the university hospital, I'd volunteered in slum clinics, and even then, I'd been shocked. But this…
'Is that a window…?'
Through a small hole serving as a window, I glimpsed movement—far too many people for such a cramped space.
The wooden shack looked barely large enough for one, yet multiple figures shuffled inside.
"Who's there?"
A gravelly voice rasped from within.
Nothing unusual—everyone in this alley sounded like that.
If I bothered to examine them, half would probably turn out to have laryngeal cancer.
"Dr. Liston. From London College."
"A doctor? What's one want here?"
"We heard a sailor named Hugh lives here."
"That's me."
"We've got business. Open up."
"You payin'?"
Sounded like he'd been bribed before.
Again, no surprise.
This was London, after all—the vanguard of crude capitalism.
Money opened doors that should've stayed shut, so plenty of folks had no shame demanding it.
And we had money to give…
'Huh?'
We did, so why was Liston just…
Staring at the haphazardly latched door handle?
I tugged it experimentally.
Locked.
"Professor, it's locked."
"Is it?"
Without a proper latch, there was no click—just a flimsy bar slid across like a bathroom lock.
Not that it mattered.
"It's open now."
"Wait, you—you broke—"
Liston didn't bother with the handle. He punched straight through the door, gripped the hole he'd made, and yanked.
Naturally, Hugh—the grizzled sailor inside—staggered back and grabbed a rusted iron spike.
"The hell! You ain't no doctors!"
No one would mistake us for doctors at this point…
Not that we could complain.
And that spike…
Probably the most dangerous blade in existence.
In a world without tetanus treatment, it was a death sentence.
"Professor. Let's calm down."
But Liston showed no fear.
If anything, he looked offended by the weapon.
"You're the bastard here, pulling a knife on us."
"We broke your door."
"You wouldn't open it! Demanding money—what, you a robber?"
"I—"
Sometimes, conversations just spiraled.
But I hadn't expected this with a blade pointed at us…
"You—you little shits! What's your game?!"
Even Hugh, spike in hand, seemed baffled. He yelled first, buying time.
Behind us, onlookers gathered—though none dared step closer.
Shink.
Swordmaster—
No. Surgeon Liston drew his scalpel.
Though "scalpel" undersold it—the thing was massive…
Wait.
"Professor?"
"Ah, don't misunderstand. Purely defensive."
"Right…"
"Anyway, Hugh. We're here to talk."
Thankfully, Liston wasn't completely unhinged. Despite the drawn blade, his voice stayed calm.
"Talk? 'Bout what?"
Hugh, sizing up Liston's bulk and that "scalpel," seemed to sober up fast.
Not that fighting would've helped.
He'd have died.
'Small mercies…'
In a way, coming with Liston had escalated things…
But glancing back, I couldn't regret it.
Alleyway pedestrians in this era were just robbers waiting for an opening.
Judging by appearances was wrong, but look at those faces.
Alone, I'd have been dismembered and hauled off already.
"You're missing your testicles, correct?"
While I rationalized, Liston—having already disarmed Hugh—dropped the bombshell.
"What?"
Stunned, I looked at Liston.
His expression didn't waver.
Hugh, though—
"The hell—the hell you—you bastard!"
His face flushed crimson, voice cracking with humiliation.
Pitiful, really.
Knowing the truth, I almost felt bad.
Luckily, Liston kept his voice low, so the eavesdroppers outside (and the other shack occupants) caught little.
"You can't get it up, can you?"
"You—you little—!"
To outsiders, it'd just sound like Hugh sputtering indignantly.
"Last time you tried? And your beard's gone."
"You—!"
They say when pushed too far, humiliation comes before rage.
Hugh proved it.
Tears streaked his weathered face—a face carved by decades of hardship, now stripped of testosterone's edge.
Even Liston seemed to regret his bluntness, hastily producing coins.
"Details earn payment."
The way Hugh's eyes locked onto the money made my chest ache.
"Let's—let's sit. Talk properly."
His tone turned obsequious.
The power of money… staggering.
"No room to sit. We'll talk here."
"Then—then clear out the others. I've got pride, damn it!"
"Pride…?"
At Liston's skeptical glance, Hugh waved frantically.
"I do!"
Liston relented, stepping back.
He ordered the shack's four other occupants out.
They'd have left anyway, but the giant scalpel in his hand *encouraged* haste.
Now, only the three of us remained.
"I've… heard rumors. Dr. Liston…"
With the door shut, the stench inside became unbearable—but Liston had a strong stomach, and my dissection training helped me endure.
Besides, this was critical.
'If even a shred of function remains…'
Complete testicle loss meant zero testosterone—no chance of recovery.
But…
Hugh wasn't surgically castrated. An accident took them.
If even one remained, things changed.
"You've heard, then? You're missing them?"
"Y-yes. How'd you—that professor bastard blab?"
"Wrote it down for research."
"Wrote—that son of a—"
"He's dead."
"Oh."
Hugh, mid-rant, deflated like a punctured bladder.
"So… You reported no urinary issues?"
"Ah, yeah."
"Hmm…"
Liston trailed off, studying Hugh's head.
Staring at someone's scalp wasn't polite—especially since Hugh had little hair left, making it feel even more invasive.
"What…?"
"You're balding."
"Why you keep sayin' I'm missin' things—?!"
"Pyeong, what's the verdict?"
Liston ignored Hugh's outrage, turning to me.
I feared Liston more, so I answered fast.
"Hair loss post-removal is permanent. Won't regrow."
"Ah. Shame."
Liston looked oddly disappointed before refocusing.
"Anyway. You impotent?"
"Ain't that personal?"
"Critical. London's fate hangs on your answer. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here."
Hugh's face twisted—was this a joke or deadly serious?
With anyone else, he'd have flown into a rage.
But against Liston's scalpel? Few would dare.
"What… what're you sayin'?"
"Thanks to you, half of London's about to lose their balls."
"What?"
"Men like you—missing testicles but pissing fine—made others *volunteer* for removal. Today alone…"
Liston recalled Cain's face.
—The… the police took him.
Nobility had intervened.
Even aristocrats needed to piss.
The difference? They had the means to act.
Still, they shouldn't have taken Harry.
Harry the Butcher…
"Ahem. Before more victims pile up, we need proof of *critical* drawbacks. Talk."
"I…"
Hugh gaped at Liston, then—as the surgeon's expression darkened—caved.
"A-alright… Been useless down there for years."
"Eureka!"
"Hey, no need to celebrate—"
"Payment, as promised."
"Ah… Thanks."
"Good. Let's go."