I wasn't the only one steadying myself.
"Hah..."
Dr. Liston was doing the same.
For him, it was rare to show such clear signs of tension.
No, "tension" wasn't quite the right word—
"Damn it."
He was shaking with anger.
It was just unfamiliar seeing him tremble like this.
"Brother?"
"Ah... let's go."
But what could he do?
This whole situation was his own fault.
'Well... it does prove he's a genius, I guess.'
I'd been genuinely shocked when I first heard his idea.
Shocked.
Even if he'd spent his whole life performing surgeries—meaning he'd lived as a surgeon in the *19th century*—there was no way he'd ever done what we'd consider "surgery" in the modern sense.
So there was no way he'd understand the things we prioritized—
Visibility, tactile feedback—none of that would've been part of his practice.
But astonishingly, our Dr. Liston had come up with a way to monitor the surgical site using touch.
"Haa..."
It sounds fancy when you phrase it like "tactile monitoring of the surgical site," but the method itself wasn't fancy at all.
After checking his gloved hand several times, Liston stepped close to me and inserted a finger into the patient's anus.
He prodded around with his index finger before nodding with a deeply irritated expression.
"You can proceed."
"Yes."
Meaning he'd successfully located the prostate.
To be fair, this patient's prostate was so enlarged that anyone could've felt it—so it wasn't that impressive.
The truly impressive part was the concept he'd come up with.
'If this man had been born in the 21st century, he would've been something else.'
It was a stark reminder that the reason these people seemed "backwards" wasn't due to any lack of individual talent—only the limitations of their era.
With a little refinement, this method could even be used on patients with smaller but still symptomatic prostates.
"Tell me if it starts feeling thinner."
"Got it. Hurry up, will you? We just cleaned him—why does it still stink?"
Well...
Because you just stuck your finger up his ass?
Because this is an era where enemas aren't even a concept?
Which is exactly why we have to be extra careful.
"Anyway... please tell me. Avoiding complications is far more important."
"Ugh, fine!"
"Good."
Liston was fuming, but...
At the end of the day, I was the one holding the scalpel.
In the operating room, the surgeon is king.
And as king, I had to remain calm.
Luckily, I'd long since mastered that part.
"Huuu..."
One wrong move, and the patient dies.
How many men had died from sepsis caused by fecal contamination during prostate surgery?
Most people would tense up at that thought, but I felt my racing heart gradually settle instead.
Not because I was insane—
But because every surgeon lives with the feeling of walking on a knife's edge.
You have to get used to it.
Scritch, scritch.
The moment I felt fully prepared, I began slowly moving the instrument.
"Moving" wasn't anything dramatic—just sliding the blade back and forth inside the device.
It was still a very primitive mechanism, more like pumping a syringe than anything else.
'Ugh... this is exhausting.'
Each back-and-forth motion scraped off a fingernail-sized piece of prostate tissue, meaning I'd have to repeat it at least a hundred times to finish.
Not only was the motion itself tiring, but the small size of the instrument made the whole process seem almost comically meticulous.
-Can't you just cut out a big chunk at once?
I could totally imagine how frustrating this must've been for Liston, who was used to hacking off limbs with a single swing.
Of course, he'd shaken his head and said:
-If you cut too much, you might slice into the rectum and kill the patient.
-Why?
So I gave him a perfectly reasonable answer...
And got a "Why?" in return.
Why?
Because if the rectum ruptures, shit spills out...
'Ah, right—they don't understand pathogens yet.'
I'd have to find a way to explain this.
Maybe frame it as "bad energies" in feces or something...
It was a little pathetic, coming from someone who'd been educated in 21st-century science.
I'd even considered just building a microscope, but the moment I thought about diving into physics, my vision darkened and my head spun—so I settled for the "bad energies" explanation.
-What good would it do if shit started leaking out? You'd have to open the abdomen to stitch it up.
-Ah, we can't do that.
Fortunately, they still treated the abdomen with near-superstitious dread.
Granted, that was another outdated notion I'd have to dismantle eventually—but for now, at least it meant they'd stick to this frustratingly safe instrument.
Scritch, scritch.
That said, actually doing this was exhausting and tedious.
Manually rotating the device 360 degrees while shaving off the prostate bit by bit...
Since I wasn't using an endoscope or anything, it sometimes felt like I had no idea what I was even doing.
Thankfully, I'd always been good at anatomy, and the extra studying I'd done for this surgery meant I could visualize it in 3D—otherwise, I might've dozed off.
"What... kind of boring surgery is this?"
"What's he even doing? For a man's surgery..."
"Isn't this the Liston School? Where's the knife?"
"I've never seen such a timid operation in my life."
It was tedious, but to laymen like the reporters, it must've looked painfully dull.
Still, "Liston School"?
Don't just slap "school" on something like that...
That kind of butchery should be relegated to ancient history...
And "timid surgery"?
Huh?
Not cutting into the body is the best approach.
The idea of surgery as some grand, dramatic act needs to—
"Thud."
"Ah."
"It feels thinner. Definitely thinner."
While I was lost in thought, Liston spoke up.
He was pressing his index finger firmly forward inside the rectum.
The pressure transmitted straight to the instrument in my hand.
At this point... it was definitely thinner.
But that alone wasn't enough, so I gently moved the entire device back and forth.
"Oh... the pressure's almost gone."
"Good. Can I take it out now?"
"Yes."
"Hah."
The moment I gave permission, Liston yanked his hand out.
Then he flung the glove aside—only for it to land right in the puddle of patient urine.
"Goddamn it..."
If he'd known the word "fuck," he'd have been spitting it nonstop.
With a face like a demon's, he picked up the glove.
Then his finger brushed against the filthy part, and his expression turned downright murderous as he stormed off to wash.
"Damn it... how... how many are left?"
"Seven."
"Hah."
He cursed nonstop while scrubbing his hands.
Funny how he hadn't been this thorough before getting shit on them.
For a second, I considered how to weaponize this...
But then I remembered there were probably 19th-century doctors who'd wipe off actual feces and go straight back to patients—so I dropped the idea.
Pop.
While musing, I pulled out the instrument and replaced it with the catheter.
This wasn't easy either.
Before, the problem was that it was too tight—now, it was too loose.
If angled wrong, it could twist inside.
Of course...
A loose fit was still far easier than a tight one, so I soon had the catheter securely in place.
"We have to make sure he can't pull this out."
"Yeah."
"We'll tie it down."
Right.
Of course.
I eyed the leather strap—something that looked more suited to a prison than a hospital.
Once that was fastened...
'Not even delirium tremens could make him move.'
Not that delirium was likely—the surgery had been short.
But the painkiller I'd made (willow bark tea) wasn't strong enough to outweigh the risks.
And then there were the people wandering around the hospital...
Doctors, nurses, students, patients—it was like a war of all against all.
Plus, patients' attitudes were nothing like those of 21st-century Koreans, so we had to take precautions.
If you told them not to do something, half would take it as a challenge—what else could we do?
"Alright, we're done."
And with that, the surgery was over.
It might've seemed like nothing, but the tension had left me sweating. I wiped my brow and announced the end.
"Done?"
"Wait... where's the blood?"
"Where are the screams?"
"What kind of half-assed surgery is this?"
The reporters' reactions were priceless.
Bastards.
Did they come here expecting an execution?
Not that executions were rare in this era—London was a city, after all.
Somewhere out there, people were still being beheaded...
And citizens still dipped bread in the blood...
"Sir Damian, what did you think?"
"Very good. Doesn't look dangerous at all."
"Yes, exactly. But just in case, I'll perform a few more."
"Please do. I'm quite pleased."
Thankfully, unlike the gawking reporters, Sir Damian—who'd soon be undergoing the surgery himself—looked not just satisfied but delighted.
Of course he would.
Anesthesia might exist now, but...
In this era, surgery was still more like entertainment—something brutal and extreme.
Need I remind you of our Professor Liston's spectacular operations?
They were so horrifying that anyone seeing them for the first time would've fainted.
"Alright... brother?"
"Hah."
"Brother?"
"Hah."
"Brother?"
"Heh."
Anyway, Dr. Liston and I proceeded with the remaining seven surgeries.
With each one, I found small improvements—inevitable, even with all my practice.
Well...
"Improvements" like remembering to put a basin down before inserting the catheter—but still, things were getting cleaner.
The only thing getting dirtier was Liston's mood.
"I don't want to stick anything in anymore..."
He sighed, staring at his bare, ungloved hand.
Watching this, Sir Damian stood.
"Reporters, you may leave now. It's my turn."
Liston let out another quiet sigh but didn't storm out.
Even he wasn't immune to power.