"Ah... don't draft your articles until my surgery is over. Write only what I dictate afterward."
"Huh? No—even for you, Sir Damian, this is too much—"
"Do you know who pays your salary?"
"What? I work for William—"
"And who does William work for?"
Sir Damian was truly an impressive man.
Even with his pants down, he could command such authority.
If it were me, I'd have scrambled to cover myself before speaking.
'Well... if he were strapped to the device, he wouldn't be so bold.'
Even if it weren't Damian but William IV—the current King of England—once stripped naked and strapped into position, legs spread...
What dignity would remain?
He'd be lucky not to be laughed at.
"U-understood."
"Good. Now, get out."
Perhaps aware of this, Damian dismissed the reporters before his legs were spread.
Though reluctant, they obeyed—after all, their livelihoods mattered more than journalistic pride.
"Now, Sir Damian."
"Hmm. Should I brace against the wall...?"
"Yes."
"Hah. What if I can't have the surgery after this?"
"There's always a chance."
Well...
Given Damian's age, the risk was significant.
Not to mention, the stench had grown stronger since he'd removed his pants.
Three hours was a long time for an elderly man with an enlarged prostate—likely diabetes too.
If he'd relieved himself before entering, it might've been different—but if that were possible, why would he need surgery?
That's why he was here.
"But don't worry too much. Just... ahhh for me. It'll help you relax."
"Ah... ahh."
"Oh my. It's very large. You definitely need surgery. It'll take time, but it'll be safe."
"Ah, understood. Now... take it out."
"Ah, yes."
As expected, it was massive.
I wasn't a urology specialist, but this was textbook case material.
At this size, a catheter might not even fit.
'Well... the anesthetic gas should relax him a bit.'
We still weren't using muscle relaxants.
I knew about curare—
Those European imperialists had scoured the globe during the Age of Exploration, even bringing back the poison Amazonian natives used on their arrows.
A dose of that would paralyze your breathing—deadly, obviously.
'But it is a muscle relaxant.'
Used alone, it was a terrifying poison.
But combined with anesthesia? Perfect.
Of course, that required ventilators—which we didn't have yet.
Not that I expected a mechanical ventilator.
This was an era that tossed human rights out the window—you could just force someone to manually pump a bellows for hours.
The real problem was the lack of tubing to deliver the air effectively.
'Still, if we managed this well with catheters... maybe I could commission something...?'
Lost in thought, I glanced at George, now handling the anesthesia.
I made sure to teach all my students equally, regardless of their future specialties.
I hoped they'd someday proudly call themselves my protégés.
"Seems done."
George pressed his knuckles firmly against Damian's sternum.
If anyone doubted how painful that was, I invited them to try it themselves.
It was the most effective way to check for pain response in emergencies.
Given George's strength, if an old man like Damian stayed still, it meant he was either dead or properly anesthetized.
"He's not dead, right?"
"Huh? Oh, no—he's breathing fine."
"Good. Just watch that."
"Yeah, don't worry. Our team hasn't lost anyone to this yet."
"Right."
"Our team" and "yet" were... unlucky phrases.
But I let it slide—these kids had always been tactless.
Especially about death.
In an era where death lurked around every corner, even medical students spoke of it far too casually.
"Legs up."
"Yeah."
"Yes."
Ignoring their remarks, I proceeded.
Ensuring visibility—the foundation of surgery—I began. Between cadavers and practice, I'd done this over ten times in just days.
Was I untalented, or just lacking surgical intuition?
It should've been easier by now, yet I felt oddly tense.
'I have to do well...'
All lives mattered equally—no debate there.
But this was different.
Why?
If something happened to Damian, I was dead.
And so was everyone else here—except Liston.
"Hah..."
"I'm the one who should be sighing."
Liston, ever unshakable, barely glanced at Damian.
He was too busy staring at his own hand—dreading what came next.
'I should teach him the word "fuck."'
Then I'd get to hear Liston swear perfectly in context.
The thought eased my nerves slightly.
"Alright, let's begin."
I coated the catheter with lubricant and pushed it in.
"Pushed" was an understatement—it was more like yanking taut and jamming it in.
"Hah... no matter how many times I see it, I can't get used to this."
As Liston said, it looked brutal—but doing it any other way would've hurt more.
How did I know?
We'd tested it on ourselves.
Yeah.
Most repressed painful memories—but we remembered.
'Pain is the mother of growth,' por so they say.
Not sure if this applied, but the adrenaline helped—the catheter slid in smoothly.
Splash.
A torrent of stagnant urine gushed out.
The stench was overwhelming.
"Whoa."
"Sir Damian..."
Some attendants looked moved—they'd never imagined their master's bladder could hold so much.
"Now then."
After draining the urine, I replaced the catheter with the prostate crusher.
The catheter had already dilated the passage, and the metal instrument slid in even easier.
Once fully inserted, I glanced at Liston.
He nodded—then shoved his thick, calloused finger inside.
"Ah, reached it."
"Yes, I felt it too."
"Then... hurry up."
"Yes, yes."
With Damian's size and Liston as my "monitor," I could work confidently.
I became the old man shaving prostates, rotating the device carefully.
Scritch, scritch.
At first, I considered being more aggressive—but quickly dismissed the idea.
One wrong move, and boom—perforation.
We'd all be dead.
Scritch, scritch.
As I worked, I soon felt Liston's finger nearing the instrument.
"You too?"
"Hey, you as well?"
Confirming our alignment, we withdrew in unison.
Liston bolted to wash his hands, flinging his glove aside.
Then he turned to me.
"Mind if I toss these gloves?"
"Sure. They'll give you more if you ask."
"Good, good."
Why even ask?
He'd already thrown them outside.
Regardless, I stayed put—I still had to reinsert the catheter.
Otherwise...
'The catheter might be fine, but the incision site could adhere.'
Adhesions were no joke—when separated tissues fused unnaturally, it could block the passage.
Surgery for an enlarged prostate, only for the urethra to close up?
Unacceptable.
"Hah!"
After reinserting the catheter, I addressed the attendants.
"Tie him down."
"Tch. A refined man like him wouldn't—"
"Would you stay dignified with this in you?"
"Ah. Understood. We'll tie him quietly."
They secured Damian tightly—so much so that his first question upon waking wasn't about the surgery but the restraints.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"Your attendants tied you, sir."
"My attendants...?"
"Yes. They feared you'd pull it out. Look—your hand's already reaching."
"It's uncomfortable. Too uncomfortable."
"It can't be helped. You'll need this for at least three or four days."
"Three or four days? Hah."
"The surgery went perfectly. Once this is out, you'll see a new world."
"Hmm... Oh? This is how it feels?"
His irritation was short-lived.
The surgery had worked—and without urine in his bladder, the sensation was strangely comfortable.
The discomfort faded as Damian marveled at the novelty.
"Good, very good."
"I'm relieved. I'll check on you three times daily. If anything feels off, let me know immediately. I'm staying at Alfred's."
"Yes, yes."
After checking on the other patients, I stepped outside.
Spring had just begun when I'd enrolled—now summer was fading.
A chill wind blew...
"Hey, why are you shaking?"
"D-dunno. Is it that cold?"
"Huh? You're burning up."
Seemed I'd overworked myself.
Probably caught a cold...
Nothing to worry about—
"George! Colin! Pyeong's sick!"
"Surgery?"
"Is it?"
"B-bloodletting!"
—Never mind.
Now I was worried.
God knew what these lunatics would do.
In this era, seeing a doctor increased your chances of dying.