After conducting rectal examinations on a whopping 30 subjects—worth three billion—I managed to narrow it down to eight people who, at the very least, wouldn't cause trouble even if I operated on them.
Among the remaining candidates, there were as many as 10 who seemed to have absolutely no symptoms whatsoever.
It was a moment that perfectly illustrated what welfare in 19th-century London was like.
Of course, that was just my opinion…
"Hey! Why not me?!"
A kid who looked way too young to even have prostate problems was shouting.
Right at me, no less…
Had I been alone, it would've been terrifying, but not now.
"Got a problem?"
"N-no… It's just…"
Thanks to Liston, whose mere presence made people admit fault even when they hadn't done anything wrong, the complainers were swiftly thrown out.
Of course, some tried to resist subtly—not enough to provoke Liston, but enough to avoid being dragged out easily. Those were mercilessly tossed out by the soldiers Damian had brought.
"So, these eight are suitable for surgery?"
Only eight patients remained in the lecture hall.
All of them were old and exhausted.
At the same time, a faint stench of urine wafted from their clothes.
The wealthy could mask their body odor with perfume, but for people like these, perfume was nothing short of a luxury.
For those struggling just to survive, something like perfume was unthinkable.
"Yes, I'll be performing surgery on these eight."
"Hmm… Still more than I expected. But they do seem to have the most severe symptoms."
The reporters occasionally directed questions at me, but most of their chatter was among themselves.
Not that I had anything to hide, so I heard every word.
"What the hell is this nonsense…?"
"There are records of estimating prostate size like this. It's been known for a long time."
"But deciding whether to operate based on size…?"
"Shouldn't they just do it if the patient's uncomfortable? Well, that's the surgeon's call."
It wasn't a productive conversation.
It just served as another reminder of the limitations of this era.
'Right… There's no such thing as surgical indications yet.'
"That's the surgeon's call."
In a way, that phrase could be seen as a mark of trust—but in this era, it was downright terrifying.
It basically meant they'd do whatever they felt like.
There were no standardized treatments, no established procedures.
Surgeons just performed whatever operation they wanted.
Sure, that might've slightly increased the chances of new surgical methods emerging, but it also meant the risk of catastrophic mistakes skyrocketed.
'Well, that's something to fix gradually.'
Another issue to add to the ever-growing list.
For now, I pushed future concerns aside and called the first patient.
"You've fasted, correct?"
"Ah… yes. But why…? I'm starving…"
Like the others, the first patient was an elderly man.
People in the 19th century already looked older than they were, but this man seemed even more aged.
He looked well over 80.
No—more like he'd just crawled out of a coffin.
"You did fast, right?"
"Uh… yeah. I didn't eat, but…"
"Good."
Yelling at someone like him was out of the question, and being overly strict wouldn't help either.
'If this were a different surgery—something involving the abdomen—I'd have hospitalized him and starved him properly… But this isn't that.'
Thankfully, it wasn't.
Prostate surgery…
As long as nothing went wrong, it shouldn't affect anything else.
Plus, I'd already been very conservative in selecting patients, and I had no intention of pushing my luck during the procedure.
'At least anesthetic gas hasn't been linked to vomiting yet.'
Well…
I couldn't say for certain since we hadn't done enough cases—medically speaking, the sample size was too small—but…
I vaguely remembered a news article about people getting high on anesthetic gas.
It didn't seem that dangerous.
It wasn't like they'd ingest much anyway.
'Life must've been hard for him… His teeth are a complete mess.'
At this rate, he wouldn't live much longer.
They say diet is half the battle when it comes to health, and that's especially true for the elderly.
'Well, for now, this works.'
While I was lost in thought, the assistants—Joseph, Alfred, and Colin—brought over the surgical tools, freshly boiled and sterilized.
The operating table was already set up inside, so nothing too heavy needed to be moved.
Still, having to do this for every surgery was going to be tedious.
Naturally so…
Concepts like sterilization and disinfection were still foreign in this era.
'If the professor says jump, they jump. That's power…'
But I was the professor, and they were the students.
Even in the 21st century, the power gap between professors and students in medical schools was enormous—here, it was even worse.
Since I practically held half their medical licenses in my hands, it couldn't be helped.
Clatter.
The surgical tools were placed beside the operating table.
The reporters, looking fascinated, immediately crowded around.
I could understand why—they'd never seen instruments like these before.
But…
"Ooh…"
"This is…"
"Do not touch them."
"So finicky."
"It's not finicky—"
"Ah, got it. Some kind of superstition, right?"
Superstition, my ass.
If they touched them, I'd have to boil everything all over again.
And boiling alone didn't guarantee 100% sterilization…
'Stay calm… Breathe.'
I took a deep breath, recentering myself.
I had to keep my cool.
The testicles of countless Londoners depended on me.
Not to mention my reputation.
With Princess Victoria—no, the future queen—potentially becoming my patron, I couldn't afford any mistakes.
'Honestly, even if a few died, this era probably wouldn't care…'
But just because the times were cruel didn't mean I had to be.
"Sir, please lie down here."
"Uh… okay."
The patient glanced at Damian before complying.
Only after Damian nodded did he finally settle onto the operating table.
Just how much had they paid him to trust a doctor he'd never met before with an experimental surgery?
I shook my head, refocusing.
"Let's put him under first."
"Right."
Colin quickly moved, placing the mask over the patient's nose and mouth.
I hadn't mentioned it, but the mask had undergone some improvements.
While working on the catheter, I'd asked the chemist to tweak the design, and while it was still primitive compared to what I was used to, at least it minimized the risk of bystanders getting accidentally anesthetized.
"Urk…"
Soon, the patient lost consciousness.
The way he slumped made it clear—older patients reacted differently from younger ones.
'Definitely can't drag this out…'
If this took too long, I'd end up producing a corpse with a shredded prostate.
And I wasn't joking—it could literally happen.
"Position him."
"Yes."
With the help of Joseph and Alfred—who had trained extensively on cadavers (and occasionally themselves) to become competent assistants—I removed the patient's pants.
Then, I spread and secured his legs.
Not exactly a sight I'd ever wanted to see.
No, more like one I'd hoped to never see.
But medically, this was correct.
The most important thing in surgery was…
Visibility.
"Disinfect first—bring the alcohol."
"Yes."
Originally, I'd planned to sprinkle chloride of lime, but Alfred argued that if it stung on the hands, it'd be unbearable on more sensitive areas.
'Is alcohol okay?'
I wasn't sure.
But it had to be better than chloride of lime.
I wiped the surgical area thoroughly with alcohol-soaked cotton, then shaved the hair.
"What the hell is this?"
"Why would you do that?"
The already unpleasant sight was becoming even more grotesque.
The reporters began murmuring.
'Ignorant fools.'
I wasn't usually this elitist, but…
This time, I'd make an exception.
No, seriously—this was all for sterilization and cleanliness.
No matter how well you cleaned, hair could still harbor bacteria.
And I highly doubted this man had been diligent about hygiene.
Who knew what kind of germs or viruses were lurking there?
"Catheter."
"Here."
Once everything was disinfected, I put on gloves, gripped the penis firmly to straighten it, and slowly inserted the catheter—a product of the chemist's sweat and Alfred's tears.
"Couldn't we have done this under anesthesia too…?"
"Quiet."
"Tch."
Ignoring Alfred's grumbling, I pushed it in steadily.
"Hngh!"
Then, I hit resistance.
'Ah… The prostate. An enlarged prostate!'
It was unmistakable.
All three rubber materials slid in smoothly, but the stiffest one had been the right choice—anything softer would've snapped.
Even now, it felt like…
"Hah!"
With a sharp push, something gave way, and the tube advanced further.
Splash.
Urine, previously blocked by the prostate, gushed out from the bladder.
'Should've put a basin down…'
Catheters usually had collection bags—I'd forgotten.
And since the lecture hall had wooden floors, the pungent smell would linger.
Who usually…
Ah, Liston.
"Damn it."
I glanced back to see Liston glaring at me with a murderous expression.
If I kept looking, I wouldn't just fail the surgery—I'd be lucky to survive.
Quickly, I turned my attention back to the patient.
Once enough urine had drained, I removed the catheter and inserted my secret weapon—the prostate crusher.
"Ugh."
"Agh."
Amid the reporters' gasps, the instrument plunged in and locked into place.
'Alright… I can do this…'
I steadied myself as the room buzzed with murmurs.