Looking back, I should've realized sooner—Sir Damian was a man of immense influence.
To put it in perspective: during my anatomy demonstration at the opera house, he'd sat just one row behind the Prime Minister.
Perhaps that explained…
"Are these all the people Sir Damian sent?"
"Indeed. Quite the crowd, hm."
"They are actual patients, right?"
"Presumably…?"
"'Presumably'? We've seen otherwise."
I pointed toward the dissection lab.
Thanks to my relentless insistence, the operating room and dissection lab were now far apart—so technically, I was just gesturing at some nondescript part of the hospital.
But in this context, there was only one place I could mean.
Liston, while lacking in medical knowledge, wasn't lacking in intelligence. He caught on immediately.
At any rate, we both briefly recalled the horrors I'd inflicted in that dissection lab.
"Ugh."
Even Liston—no stranger to gore—winced at the memory.
"We can't do that to non-patients."
There was another reason, too.
"Non-patients… have smaller prostates. Which means…"
A larger prostate was, of course, bad for the patient.
Benign prostatic hyperplasia wasn't cancer—it didn't destroy surrounding tissue, but compressed it, causing symptoms.
Naturally, the bigger it was, the worse the symptoms.
Of course, medicine relied on statistics, and human bodies varied too much for blanket statements…
"But if my tool scrapes outside the prostate instead…"
"Outside" meant other abdominal organs.
And scraping them equated to watching someone die in front of me—no, killing them with my own hands.
"The problem is, there's only one way to confirm."
In the 21st century, a prostate ultrasound would suffice. But here?
Digital rectal examination. Gloved finger, rectum, and hope for the best.
"And I'm… not exactly proficient yet."
I stared at my fingers with palpable unease.
A prickling sense of being watched made me turn—only to find my students glaring.
"Wow. They look ready to murder me."
If there'd been an axe nearby, they'd have split my skull without hesitation.
I couldn't blame them.
"You're doing what?"
Joseph's face, twisted in disbelief, flashed in my mind.
"What… did you just say?"
Even Colin, who'd been scrupulously respectful since my professorship, looked like he'd seen a demon.
Granted, without context, their reaction made sense.
Hell, even with context, it was infuriating.
I'd been a med student once, too.
Back in the 21st century, ultrasounds handled diagnostics—but you couldn't just shove one up someone's rear without screening first.
Here, without imaging tech, finger exams were mandatory.
So I'd ordered them to "drop trousers and brace against the wall."
Cue mutiny.
"Doctor."
"Hm. So it's non-negotiable, then."
"Even for you, this is— Wait, is that a scalpel?! Put it down— No, I didn't mean raise your fists—"
Of course, their rebellion was short-lived.
Once Liston stepped in, physical persuasion became inevitable.
Not even hardened criminals resisted him—let alone medical students.
"Listen, you brats. I've peeled peppers with my bare hands. What's a little ass-baring?"
Alfred's presence helped, too.
The man who'd endured humanity's first catheterization for science.
A living martyr.
"Alright, here we go—"
"Ngh—!"
"GAH!"
Thus, I palpated their prostates.
Not just asymptomatic ones—these were young, meaning small and firm.
A critical reference point.
I wanted to examine Liston's (a likely middle-ground sample), but—
"Why are you staring at me?"
—the murder in his eyes dissuaded me.
Instead, I turned to Professor Blundell.
Blundell glared back, but to no avail.
Once, his face alone would've terrified me.
Now? I'd grown stronger.
"You're up."
"You absolute bastard—"
With Liston's assistance, I checked Blundell's prostate, too.
"Ah. That's the texture."
Blundell had no symptoms, but his prostate was undeniably larger than the students'.
"Let's set the threshold at twice this size."
A clear benchmark would simplify patient selection—and marketing.
"Safety first. Safety first…"
Overambition could backfire catastrophically.
Not just for the patient, but for my sanity.
But the bigger issue?
"Everyone's getting their balls chopped off…"
The shitstorm Harry had unleashed.
Though nobles now whispered about "permanent impotence" post-surgery (thanks to Sir Jamie's sacrificial misfortune), the general public remained obsessed.
Thankfully, Liston had rounded up prominent veterinarians to curb the butchery—but a definitive solution was needed.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Pyeong. We hear you're performing a groundbreaking procedure today?"
"Ah— Yes. Dr. Pyeon. My colleague Dr. Liston and I will demonstrate our new technique."
"How exciting!"
I intended to make this unmissable.
The director, initially aiming for a small showcase, had invited journalists—a testament to my rising status.
Professor.
Anatomy-show maestro.
"Isn't he the one who co-discovered anesthetic gas with Dr. Liston?"
"Indeed. And they say he's cured syphilis."
"Syphilis? Preposterous. Malaria, maybe."
"Rumors, but… the police do refer patients to him."
"Oh? Interesting."
"Why? Ah, judging by your receding hairline—"
"Nonsense!"
I eyed the journalists—several discreetly adjusting hats to hide syphilis-related baldness.
My reputation had grown.
Willow-bark painkillers. Condoms. Phantom-limb treatments.
19th-century London owed me more debts than it could repay.
"The real issue is reckless surgeries. Now, let's examine the patients— Wait, are you all staying?"
This wasn't a standard consultation.
We stood in a lecture hall, not an exam room.
And the procedure required dropping trousers for finger insertion.
"Of course."
"Journalists must witness facts firsthand."
Their resolve was unshakable.
War correspondents wouldn't balk at a medical exam.
"It might be… graphic."
"Hah! We've followed troops into battle!"
No use arguing.
What followed would've been unthinkable in the 21st century:
Public rectal exams.
But human rights here were… flexible.
Especially with Sir Damian seated among the press—
—the nobleman, patron, and future patient himself.
"Alright, Group One: trousers down."
"What?"
"Excuse me?"
19th-century laborers were accustomed to indignity.
Some were whipped at work—despite not being slaves.
Yet even they hesitated.
"Trousers. Now."
"But—"
"This is absurd."
Their shock was brief.
Paid by Sir Damian, they complied—grumbling, but compliant.
"Ngh— You madman!"
Resistance flared during the actual insertion.
Even medical students had revolted over this.
"Hush. Stay still."
"Guh—"
Predictable.
Which was why I'd brought Liston the Enforcer.
A single "hush" silenced protests into whimpers.
The journalists, meanwhile, reacted differently.
"Good heavens—"
"What is this?"
Sir Damian's face was priceless.
"Just wait…"
I endured their judgment through ten exams, identifying four patients with prostates twice Blundell's size.
"This group, please. Your symptoms are severe, yes?"
"Aye. Miserable."
"Meanwhile, you have no symptoms. Money's tempting, but this surgery is terrifying."
I also found two with abnormally small prostates.
"How could you possibly—"
"You think I'd do this without reason?"
Amidst the stunned silence, I smirked—locking eyes with Sir Damian.
As expected, he looked thoroughly pleased.