Clatter.
The carriage Lord Damien had sent carried a different kind of elegance compared to Dr. Lister's.
No offense, but Lister's carriage screamed new money, while this one had an old-world charm.
And this wasn't just baseless speculation—I knew the context.
"Wow… this carriage…"
"Right?"
I wasn't the only one impressed.
'Ah… I'm exhausted.'
Leaning back, I closed my eyes for a moment.
I couldn't rest like this at home—they'd just whip out knives for bloodletting.
But surely no one would dare brandish a blade here, right?
This wasn't just any carriage. It was Lord Damien's. That had to count for something.
'Yeah… yeah, I'm safe.'
Still, I kept one eye cracked open to monitor Lister.
Thankfully, he seemed disinterested.
Probably because Zemmel wasn't around.
That guy was the true master of bloodletting.
(Though calling bloodletting a "mastery" was absurd in itself.)
—"Stagnant blood must be drained!"
The words I'd heard in my delirium—or maybe earlier—resurfaced.
That bastard always said that.
'How do I make them understand? There's no such thing as "dead blood" in the human body.'
Sure, venous blood looked darker, but that wasn't because it was dead—just oxygen-deprived.
Aged blood cells got filtered in the spleen, while fresh ones were constantly produced in the bone marrow.
'Will I live to see that concept accepted?'
When was that established, anyway?
Would it ever be?
Given the current state of medicine, it felt like a distant future.
'Is this even Earth?'
Maybe it wasn't.
Even accounting for accelerating progress…
Less than 200 years from now, medicine would advance unrecognizably. It was hard to believe.
Damn…
"We've arrived. Please step out."
Lost in thought, I hadn't noticed we'd reached the hospital.
The ride felt shorter—unsurprising, given this was a real noble's carriage.
In this era, nobody dared block its path, whether laborer or lord.
"Hmm."
Was it the laudanum?
Even though I'd been here just yesterday, the place felt… different.
"Still unwell?"
No, that wasn't it.
Seeing Lister's hand twitch toward his knife clarified things.
I was experiencing the emotions of a man who'd narrowly escaped death.
Yesterday, I'd almost been killed—by the very people I trusted.
'I need to prioritize my health above all else.'
The dangers lurking everywhere were too great.
The scariest part? I could die at the hands of someone trying to help.
These people…
If I were on death's door, they'd double down on "treatments."
And if things went really south—
'I'd be buried alive.'
The odds were high.
And if my hearing lingered post-burial, I'd get to enjoy their eulogies:
—*"He's dead."
—"What a waste…"
—"My friend Pyeon…"
—"Should we dissect him? No point letting it go to waste…"
—"No, no. Better to bury him."
Bastards.
But would that be the end?
No.
Graverobbers would dig me up.
As a non-noble, I'd end up in a public grave—and in this era, "public" meant free-for-all.
—"Uh, boss?"
—"What."
—"He's alive."
—"Not anymore."
—"Got it."
Hah…
Too terrifying.
The worst part? This wasn't just paranoia.
Somewhere in London right now, this was definitely happening.
"I-I'm fine."
Forcing a smile, I stepped inside, determined to avoid that grim fate.
Lord Damien was technically "hospitalized," but not in a ward—he'd been placed in my lab.
Given how abysmal actual hospital conditions were, it was the only option.
Dumping a noble of his stature in a filthy ward?
Not just rude—criminal.
Knock, knock.
A servant—one of the guards outside—rapped on the door.
Power really does have its perks.
"You may enter."
"Yes."
The door swung open, and I stepped in.
'Hm.'
Instinctively, I assessed his complexion first.
Normally, I'd check blood tests from this morning, but here? Impossible.
This was an era where the man behind me thought mixing random blood for transfusions was sound medicine.
So I had to estimate his red blood cell count visually.
'Looks stable.'
Mild dehydration—dry lips—but no abnormal pallor.
"May I check your eyelids?"
"Huh? Eyelids?"
Since that alone wasn't enough, I ran through every check I could.
"Why…?"
"It helps assess your condition."
A bizarre request to outsiders, hence Damien's confusion.
Even the "medical team" behind me (if you could call them that) looked puzzled.
'I'll explain later.'
Peeling back his eyelid, I noted the pink hue—a good sign.
"Good. Any pain here?"
"When I move…"
"Move?"
"Yes. Inside. It hurts when this touches it."
"Ah."
At first, I didn't get it—until he irritably pointed at his catheter.
Right. A wound plus a rubber tube inside?
Of course that'd hurt.
"Should I remove it?"
"Sigh."
"I need to examine it. Everyone here's already seen it yesterday."
"Fine… go ahead."
No way to diagnose without looking.
Especially for infection.
"Guh."
I pulled down the covers.
Nobles weren't exempt from 19th-century hygiene—the stench proved that.
'Queen Elizabeth, the "clean freak," bathed once a month…'
For most, getting caught in the rain was their bath.
How had we fallen so far from Roman bathhouses?
Not that I could judge.
I knew the reason.
'They think washing causes syphilis.'
Sounds insane, but—
STDs aren't only transmitted sexually.
Back when syphilis ran rampant, public baths became hotspots for outbreaks.
So people concluded: Bathing = syphilis.
Now? The dominant belief was that washing itself was unhealthy.
No wonder Europe went all-in on perfume.
"No swelling, no heat… excellent."
"Glad to hear it."
Despite my internal ranting, I was still a competent doctor.
This wasn't surgery—just checking for infection.
"My Lord."
"Hm?"
After some routine questions, a servant hesitantly interrupted.
He then explained I'd been bedridden yesterday—even mentioning the laudanum.
'Will he think I'm a drug addict?'
Most here wouldn't care, but Damien?
A real noble.
"Ah. You were quite ill, then. Yet you came here for my sake… How can I repay such kindness?"
"My Lord, Dr. Pyeon seemed quite fond of the laudanum. Chugged it despite simpler options like bloodletting."
Before I could panic, Lister casually brought up the opium.
No, no, NO!
That's not—!
Goddammit.
I couldn't even curse aloud.
"Oh? Is that so? Hmm… I may have just the gift, then."
No. No, no—
Not opium—
"You've heard of morphine, yes?"
"Huh?"
My face lit up before I could stop it.
Morphine?
That existed here?
It was still used in the 21st century—not commonly, but as a potent painkiller.
A double-edged sword due to addiction risks, but—
"Haha! You do like it! Quite the opium enthusiast."
That's not—!
I couldn't correct him.
More importantly—morphine existed in this timeline?
"I've… considered its potential as a clinical analgesic."
"Naturally. An excellent cold remedy."
What.
Why would you—
IT'S A NARCOTIC.
Sure, it suppresses coughs—
But also breathing.
Too much pain suppression makes the body ignore CO₂ buildup—effectively killing respiratory drive.
Repeated exposure? Brain damage from hypoxia.
Far worse than alcohol blackouts.
'One dose won't hurt… right?'
I forced a smile.
A mistake.
"Delighted, I see! As am I… I've some morphine imported from Germany. No use to me—it's yours."
"Ah. Thank you."
My gratitude deepened the misunderstanding.
But I was grateful—
For pain relief.
In a city rife with industrial accidents, where most died in agony with no treatment…
Morphine could change that.
'They could pass without pain.'
Hell, we should've been using it already.
Better late than never.
'Yes.'
Finally, my smile became genuine.