"To suddenly scream like that—what kind of rudeness is this?"
It wasn't as if the upper class particularly enjoyed noisy disturbances.
And among them, the older gentlemen like Sir Jamie or Sir Damian were even less likely to tolerate such things.
Why?
"As you age, your hearing deteriorates… and those with hearing loss tend to find loud noises even more uncomfortable."
In medical terms, this is referred to as a decline in auditory threshold—essentially, the worse your hearing gets, the narrower the range of comfortable volume becomes.
How would I, a surgeon, know this?
Would you assume all doctors should know such things?
Well, no, not exactly…
It's just that my best friend happens to be an ENT specialist.
"Ah… My apologies."
"And Dr. Liston. I'm aware you're a renowned physician, but… barging in uninvited—what is the meaning of this?"
"Forgive me. The matter was urgent… As a doctor, I simply couldn't stand by and ignore it."
Sir Jamie, who had somehow managed to extract an apology from Liston, seemed to realize just how impressive a feat that was.
Watching Liston bow his head was so unnatural that it was almost jarring.
Or perhaps it was the sheer bulk of the man—his thick neck, his arms, and his chest so massive that even the word "burly" felt inadequate.
"Even so, entering my room armed?"
"Armed?"
"That thing at your waist—is it not a weapon?"
"Ah… these are my surgical tools."
Sir Jamie, lying on his side with a thick pillow propping up his head, had a clear enough view of the room to make the accurate observation.
Yeah, from the waist, those certainly looked like weapons.
But in reality, they were surgical tools.
Though, to be fair, their primary function was severing limbs, so the distinction was somewhat academic.
It's no wonder there were whispers comparing him to a certain infamous figure—what was his name again? Ah, right. Jack the Ripper.
Rumor had it even he used similar blades.
"Ah, so that's the famous Liston Knife? The very one that's saved countless lives, I hear."
"You flatter me. With your permission… may I explain in detail why I've come?"
At any rate, Liston seemed to have his temper under control in front of nobility, adopting an uncharacteristically polite demeanor—so much so that it was almost impressive.
Who knew he could speak like that?
Sir Jamie appeared equally surprised.
Then again, when a man who looked more like a barbarian than a civilized person—no, more like a gorilla than a man—spoke with such eloquence, it was rather astonishing.
"He's gone eerily quiet."
Adding to the strangeness, Harry the Butcher had also clamped his mouth shut.
It was as if the Grim Reaper himself had arrived—his eyes darting not to Sir Jamie or Sir Damian, but to Liston, whose presence alone seemed to command silence.
Given that Liston had been the one to imprison him, only to reappear the moment he was freed, the reaction was understandable.
"Very well, speak. Now that you're here… I'll permit it."
With magnanimous grace, Sir Jamie granted Liston the floor.
Clearing his throat, Liston began:
"Sir Jamie. After your surgery… have your difficulties with urination improved?"
"How do you know about my—"
"This bastard blabbed."
"Hah. Unreliable fool. At any rate, since you already know, I suppose there's no point hiding it. Yes, it has improved. Truly… it's been a long time since I've felt this relieved."
"I see."
At this, Sir Damian's face brightened.
Honestly, the way he'd been shifting uncomfortably on his feet had been a dead giveaway—he clearly needed to go.
Yet he hadn't left, likely because past experience told him it wouldn't make much difference.
"So you recommended the procedure to Sir Damian?"
"Ah… yes. But that— Wait, you mean this wretch actually went around telling people?"
Harry, desperate to make money, had wasted no time spreading the word that even a man of Sir Damian's standing had agreed to the surgery.
Under Sir Jamie's sharp glare, Harry shrank back, though in truth, he hadn't done anything unusual.
The concept of patient confidentiality wasn't exactly widespread yet.
Even in hospitals, it wasn't uncommon to hear staff openly discussing treatments and patients—hardly surprising that the upper class avoided such places.
"Let me be blunt: this surgery should not be performed. This man is a butcher."
"Hmm… A dire warning, but I've seen the results myself. And I've had no issues."
It was baffling.
When I'd seen Harry's clinic earlier…
Could that even be called a clinic?
It was a disaster.
Unlike Liston, whose reputation was well-earned, Harry had no such credentials—his tools looked like they'd never been cleaned, and given the nature of his procedures…
"Ugh."
Just imagining it made me nauseous.
If this hadn't been a nobleman's chambers, I might've vomited right then.
"Uh… Why me?"
While I struggled to keep my composure, Hugh, trembling beside me, was dragged forward.
The man was fairly well-built, but when Liston yanked him by the collar, he flapped like a ragdoll.
"Uh— Uh—"
Almost simultaneously, Liston's sword flashed out and back into its sheath.
Even as a skilled blade-wielder myself—proud of my surgical precision—I only caught the afterimage.
Swish.
Hugh's trousers fell away, sliced clean through.
What followed was gruesome, but people in the 19th century often struggled to distinguish between *horrifying* and fascinating. The onlookers merely watched with keen interest.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Sir Jamie's eyesight was predictably poor—even from a distance, the faint milky haze over his pupils suggested cataracts.
We'll have to treat that eventually…
"People of status tend to live longer these days, don't they? And the longer you live, the harder it is to avoid cataracts."
Sunglasses existed, but they weren't exactly common.
Thankfully, this was England—if this were sun-drenched France, cataracts would've been rampant.
Treating noblemen with cataracts would've been a surefire path to wealth and prestige.
Maybe opening my own hospital wasn't such a far-fetched dream.
"This man's name is Hugh. A sailor. He injured his testicles aboard ship… and lost both. You see?"
"Ah… Ah, indeed. It seems he lacked proper medical care."
Only now did I get a proper look.
Good grief…
Life at sea was harsh, but the medical treatment was even harsher.
Then again, back when I was a military medic, I had friends assigned to naval ships—their language got colorful fast.
This era's ships couldn't possibly be better than 21st-century Korean naval vessels, so…
"That bastard I met back then was the same."
Some lunatic actually suggested amputating a limb again to treat phantom pain?
How anyone could think like that was beyond me.
"Hugh, tell them yourself. Can you perform?"
Liston, unfazed by the grotesque sight before him—despite being the one who'd created it—gave Hugh a light tap.
Hugh, still dazed, blinked and finally spoke.
He probably hadn't fully processed the situation.
Frankly, that was for the best—if he realized how he looked right now, he'd either bolt or jump straight out the nearest window.
"Uh… No, I can't."
"You could before?"
"Y-Yeah. I was… quite the stud, you know?"
"But after the injury, nothing?"
"Right, right."
"Now, look at his legs. His thighs—what's happened to them? They're just skin and bone. The muscle's gone."
Liston patted Hugh's shoulder, then gestured to his legs.
As he continued, Sir Jamie, Sir Damian, and even Sir Jamie's sons—who'd been lingering nearby—leaned in intently.
Honestly, men always perked up when the conversation turned to… that area.
Not that I could judge—I was the same.
"This is all because he lost them."
"No, that can't— No…"
Sir Jamie, now pale, could only stammer denials, as if arguing with his own missing parts.
"Good heavens…"
Sir Damian, meanwhile, remained composed—his own equipment still intact.
"But tell me this."
"Yes, Sir Damian?"
"If that's the case, how do we treat urinary difficulties? At my station, social gatherings are frequent, and…"
Ah.
Amidst the shock of Hugh's condition, I'd overlooked something obvious:
Sir Damian had just pissed himself.
Prostate enlargement caused this exact problem.
When the bladder filled to bursting, the pressure could lead to… leakage.
And because the bladder remained overstretched for so long, the sensation dulled until—suddenly, urgently—the need became unbearable.
For a man of society, this was pure torture.
"That's something my apprentice—and fellow university professor—Dr. Pyeong can explain."
"Dr. Pyeong? I don't believe I've heard of him."
"He recently conducted dissections on convicts at the London Royal Opera House."
"Ah! Yes, now I recall. Hard to mistake an Asian physician in London. So we've met before."
Sir Jamie, still in a daze, was murmuring to his absent anatomy—"You okay? Still working? No? Right?"
Ignoring him, I focused on Sir Damian.
"Yes, I'm Dr. Pyeong. It's an honor to be here."
Saying it out loud, "honor" felt like a stretch, given the scene: one nobleman whispering to his vanished manhood, a butcher lurking nearby, and Hugh standing pantsless…
"Go on, then."
Fortunately, Sir Damian seemed unfazed by the absurdity and urged me to continue.
"First, we'll need… Ah, yes. Thank you. Now, observe."
I quickly sketched a simplified anatomical diagram—kidneys, ureters, bladder, urethra, and prostate.
"The enlarged prostate here compresses the urethra, obstructing urine flow. Current treatments focus on inserting tools to widen the passage, but this is both risky and ineffective, which is why it's not widely practiced."
"Whereas this seems safer and more effective… though the side effects are rather severe."
"Exactly. We must avoid those side effects at all costs. Which is why I've devised an alternative method…"
As I sketched the necessary instruments and explained, time flew by.
Occasionally, Sir Jamie's muffled sobs reached us, but they weren't disruptive.