How did that day's conversation end?
To cut to the chase—Harry was thrown in prison.
Locked up for the crime of removing Sir Jamie's… ahem… very precious assets without proper explanation.
Considering this was an era where the concept of "medical malpractice" didn't even exist, it was quite the feat.
"You expect me to do something about it when I didn't even kill him on purpose?"—that kind of logic usually flew in this day and age.
Of course, private retribution was unavoidable, which was why some medical schools reportedly taught not just horsemanship but even swordsmanship…
"Going well?"
Anyway, that day hammered home the fact that nobility operated by different rules.
Ah, what happened to Hugh?
Things turned out surprisingly well for him.
Sir Damian, emboldened by Hugh's testimony, even rewarded him with a stipend.
Not that it'd be enough to lift him out of the slums entirely, but if he didn't blow it all on booze and gambling, he'd at least be set for a few months.
"Ah, Brother. You're here?"
"Yeah. I was worried. Sir Damian? That's an even bigger deal than Sir Jamie."
Perhaps because Dr. Liston and I had survived a near-death experience together, our bond had deepened.
Then again…
We had stormed a nobleman's house and caused a scene.
Only the favorable outcome saved us from becoming anatomy textbook specimens.
People called Sir Damian a heavyweight, but Sir Jamie could easily slice through two average men if provoked.
"Though… given how Liston and I are somewhat famous, they probably wouldn't have gone that far…?"
At any rate, since that day, I'd thrown myself into perfecting a surgery.
Which one?
Naturally, it was for benign prostatic hyperplasia.
Not just for Sir Damian's sake, though.
Harry might've been jailed, but…
This was London, after all.
A playground for every kind of lunatic—and this time was no exception.
Testicle removal wasn't exactly high-skill surgery, and it was already a common practice for livestock. Unsurprisingly, those specializing in that field were far more proficient.
They even had specialized tools…
"They'd better be good. Those damn bastards are out there right now, slicing off balls somewhere. It's a disaster."
"Exactly. They should all be hanged… but it's underground work, so that's impossible. Hell, Sir Damian even ran a newspaper article about it—why are they still doing it?"
"Well…"
Newspapers required money and literacy to access.
In 21st-century Korea, even if someone struggled with reading, outright illiteracy was practically nonexistent—but here?
London was a cesspool.
A place teeming with people who'd received no education, let alone a proper one.
"They don't know. They cut because they don't know. If it's uncomfortable, they hear it'll 'fix' things, so…"
Even stranger rumors were circulating.
That eating the removed testicles boosted virility, or some nonsense…
Entrepreneurs had already sprung up, selling them at exorbitant prices to nobles.
And wouldn't you know it? After Liston caught and executed one supplier, the next prospective buyer turned out to be Sir Jamie himself.
"Some idiots buy them to eat… and even 'educated' folks are doing it. Unbelievable."
Liston sighed deeply, likely recalling that incident.
The trail had gone cold because of noble involvement—frustrating, but unsurprising.
This was why I had to develop a safe, effective procedure—fast.
To do so, a few prerequisites were needed, the most critical being the right tools.
And today…
Finally, I could welcome these precious instruments.
"Why are you staring at them like that? Stop eyeing them so weirdly."
"Was I?"
"You were."
"Anyway… we need to test these."
Not that I planned to dissect a prostate right away—that would require cadavers first.
If I'd performed similar surgeries before, it might've been different, but…
This was entirely new territory for me.
The real issue was the rubber catheter.
Testing it on a cadaver would be pointless.
"We need to see if it inserts smoothly with resistance… and whether urine actually flows through it."
I examined the three rubber tubes the craftsman had delivered.
All identical in size.
And quite stiff…
But just feeling them wasn't enough to gauge if they matched the rigidity of my usual tools.
"Testing, then."
Liston, ever sharp, sensed danger and subtly stepped back.
In contrast, my three apprentices—also dear friends—stared at me blankly.
They'd likely never perform this surgery in their lives, but as novices desperate to learn anything, they were eager.
Or maybe the recent scandal had shown them this market's profitability.
"Alfred… Alfred's the one who'll end up doing this regularly."
I locked eyes with Alfred and asked:
"When did you last urinate?"
To an outsider, this would sound like the strangest question.
But the three of them couldn't lie—their answers were transparent.
Or more accurately, they didn't overthink it.
"About… two hours ago?"
"I just went before coming here."
"I haven't gone since morning."
Fate, it seemed, had chosen Alfred.
His bladder would be the fullest.
"Alright, lie down here."
"Huh? Wh-why?!"
"We're inserting this."
"Insert? What? Where? Where— Ugh!"
Only then did Alfred panic, thrashing like a cornered animal.
But Liston was here.
And Joseph was no lightweight either.
Alfred was dragged onto the table without mercy.
The sole comfort? My lab's bed was at least clean.
"It's fine. Really."
"You— You bastard—! Why? WHY?!"
Guilt made me avoid his face, focusing only on his lower half.
Everyone else did the same.
Liston even pinned Alfred's head down with his torso while yanking his pants off.
"Mmph! Mmmph!"
Stifled noises replaced screams—honestly, an improvement.
Screaming made this seem like some vile act.
Hell, Colin had his healthy teeth yanked out for medical progress.
Compared to that, this was…
"Smooth. At least… there won't be tearing."
Instead of lubricant, I used diluted agar—the same gelatinous seaweed extract from our penicillin experiments.
Heated until soft and applied before solidifying, it wouldn't cause inflammation.
"It won't… right?"
It shouldn't.
Dear Lord…
After a silent prayer, I picked up the most promising catheter and, with gloved hands, gripped Alfred's delicate area.
"Here we go. You'll feel…"
How would it feel?
"Like absolute hell."
"You psycho—!"
Blurting the truth, I shoved it in.
"Oh."
It slid right in.
A relief—I hadn't done this since internship days and was worried I'd lost the touch.
But they say procedural skills are like riding a bike.
"Oh."
"Wow."
"Does it hurt?"
"Guh—!"
Amidst the awe (and Alfred's strained noises), I advanced the tube smoothly.
A slight resistance at one point, but Alfred wasn't old enough for prostate issues—soon, it reached the bladder.
Drip. Drip.
Urine flowed through the tube, against Alfred's will.
"AAAAAH!"
A different kind of scream now—one laced with humiliation.
"Good."
"It works."
"Fascinating…"
"Shouldn't this be documented? For history?"
"You freaks!"
The students watched with rapt fascination.
Colin even suggested sketching it—which, now that I thought about it…
"In medical history… is this the first successful urinary catheterization?"
A historic moment.
A pang of regret hit me.
Colin, perhaps overexcited, asked if Alfred could "try once more" for artistic accuracy—and got slapped.
"Senior."
"You son of a—"
"You've advanced human knowledge today."
"And destroyed my dignity…"
"It's just between us, right?"
"You…"
"Ah-ah. Savior of lives here."
"Sigh…"
I nearly got hit too, but "savior of lives" was my get-out-of-jail-free card.
Thank God for my good deeds.
"Are we testing this next?"
Liston, seizing the momentum, picked up the freshly forged prostate resectoscope from the blacksmith.
Even Alfred, now in full rage mode, couldn't muster anger against Liston—only terror.
"N-no! Please, *no—*"
"Hm? Oh, no. This could cause damage."
"Ah. Right."
"'Right' my ass! Do you test new swords by chopping off limbs?!"
"I usually did. Patient limbs, mind you. Don't misunderstand."
Jesus.
For a second, I thought he was some Japanese swordsmith.
Those guys allegedly tested blades on people to check sharpness.
Anyway.
I soon headed to the dissection lab to practice on cadavers.
This wasn't straightforward—while the surgery would be internal, confirming its safety required external observation.
So I near-disemboweled the pelvis, exposing the prostate, then maneuvered the resectoscope inside.
"Phew…"
"What kind of madness is this?"
"Progress, though."
"What progress?"
"I just scraped the hell out of it from the inside, right?"
"And?"
"Not a single external wound. Meaning… we won't damage other organs. That's the point."
"Ah… So that's the genius here…"
The scene was gruesome enough to unsettle even Liston and the students—initially, they looked ready to bolt.
But after my explanation, they nodded, deeply impressed.
Heh.
Catheter? Confirmed.
Resectoscope? Confirmed.
"Now, let's meet our patients."
"Sir Damian arranged ten test subjects."
"They are actual patients, right? Not just practice dummies?"
"You think he'd send living men? He's not that cruel. He even published that article."
"Right…"
All that remained was the real thing.