"Let's go, then."
"Yes."
The hospital director was impatient by nature.
Running a hospital required decisiveness, after all.
Plus, this was 19th-century London.
With people like Liston and Blundell under his wing…
"Ordinary" wasn't in the vocabulary.
Clatter.
The director flung open the door to a treatment room.
It was supposedly an outpatient ward, but…
The boundaries were blurred.
On nearby beds, patients writhed beside squirming maggots, and no fewer than three doctors were crammed inside.
They weren't teaching or learning—just treating patients en masse.
Personal privacy?
Unless you were nobility, that concept didn't exist.
"Here. This is where we usually treat injuries."
"Ah…"
Injuries…
'Then why does it smell like rotting flesh?'
These were just wounds.
Look—that patient who just left.
Their bandage (if you could call it that) was wrapped around a papercut-sized slice on their thumb.
'They'd have been better off staying home.'
Ignoring my thoughts, the director announced to the other doctors that I'd be observing and suggesting improvements.
"Hmm."
"Hrrrm."
The discontent on their faces was textbook—the kind worn by self-proclaimed experts who believed they were the authority in their field.
I couldn't blame them.
If some random upstart waltzed in to "improve" my work, I'd be pissed too.
But I was right.
Even if I didn't know their methods, I knew they were wrong.
Why?
If they'd been doing things right, London wouldn't be crawling with amputees.
"I look forward to working with you. I'm Dr. Pyeong."
"Hrrrm."
I bowed politely anyway.
But this bastard—
He refused to shake my hand.
Fine. Time for the trump card.
"I'm like a brother to Professor Liston."
"O-oh! A pleasure."
Summoning Liston.
Whether they resented me or not didn't matter.
These guys knew better than anyone what Liston was capable of—he was the one amputating the patients they created.
Rumor had it he'd even wielded a greatsword in emergencies. Thankfully, I'd never witnessed that.
"Let's keep this civil."
"Right… Will Professor Liston be joining us?"
"If I call him."
"P-please do."
"Gladly."
Their exaggerated reaction suggested they hadn't escaped unscathed.
'Did he hit them?'
Now that I looked closer, one doctor's face was slightly misshapen.
A fracture that hadn't healed right.
Then again…
What did "healing" even mean here?
'Another thing to fix… later.'
Too many problems, too little time. For now, I focused on the task at hand.
"Next!"
One of the doctors barked.
It was unclear whether he was summoning a patient or a corpse, but in walked a man clutching his arm.
"Agh…"
"How'd this happen?"
This was no papercut.
A deep gash ran from his forearm to his bicep—likely an industrial accident. The only mercy was that it wasn't too deep.
"Hmm. Let's clean the blood first."
Oh.
Cleaning?
'…I'm getting emotional over basic hygiene. How did I get here?'
Cleaning wounds should be standard.
But here, it wasn't.
'Wait—'
With water, right?
What the—
"AAAGH!"
"Pain means it's working."
"Ghk—!"
The doctor dismissed the screams as routine and grabbed a rag—
A filthy rag, crusted with blood and pus from previous patients—and scraped it across the wound.
No, "cleaning" was too generous.
This was inflicting damage.
The bleeding worsened—
"Good. Now we can see. Hmm… Doesn't need sutures."
A small mercy.
(Though "mercy" felt like the wrong word.)
At least we agreed on no stitches.
For very different reasons.
I wouldn't sew up a wound this dirty without antiseptics or antibiotics—that was murder.
'Moldy bread…'
I briefly considered my penicillin work, but—
Mass production was impossible, and its potency and side effects were unreliable.
The antibiotic concentration varied wildly, and so did the toxins.
Until a real scientist (i.e., not me) refined it, it was a last resort.
"Bandages!"
The doctor motioned for a bandage, and an assistant produced a yellowed strip of cloth—likely torn from a curtain.
'Wow.'
The situation was spiraling too fast to intervene.
'I'll treat that patient privately later.'
I memorized his name. After observing a few more cases, I'd track him down.
Otherwise, he'd die.
From a minor wound.
No—not die.
'He'll lose the arm.'
'Are these bastards taking kickbacks from Liston to create amputation cases?'
'Is there an amputation cartel?'
As I entertained conspiracy theories, another patient entered—already bandaged.
The wrappings were yellow.
"How do you feel?"
"Worse. It hurts more than before."
No surprise.
Given the "treatment" I'd just witnessed—
*Rustle.
Even the doctor seemed unfazed.
I expected this, but he had no reaction to his patient deteriorating?
Are you human?
"Ghk—"
When the bandage came off, the wound was revealed.
'God damn it.'
"Bad" didn't cover it.
The initial injury might've been manageable, but now—
Had they poisoned it?
The stench of Staphylococcus flooded the room.
—Smells like death…
—Debridement?
—Yeah.
The memory of my residency days surfaced vividly.
Now they'd take it seriously, right?
Would they finally act?
'Are they considering amputation already? It's too soon… but given this era's standards…'
"Ah, nicely fermented."
Fermented—what?
"This is how healing works."
"O-oh, really?"
Another doctor chimed in, praising the maturation of the wound.
The first doctor puffed up proudly and rambled about "natural healing."
The patient, reassured, brightened—
"You wouldn't understand yet."
The third doctor sidled up to me, oozing condescension.
"Wounds need that odor… and a bit of pus to heal properly. Only fools panic over it."
"The… evidence?"
"Evidence? This wisdom has been passed down for centuries. That's evidence enough."
"Ah."
You—
Motherf—
I swallowed the curses rising in my throat and stared out the window.
Dust (or maybe pollution) clouded the glass, blurring the outside world.
Or maybe the sky itself was just that filthy.
This was London, after all.
'…Is this even Earth?'
I glared at the hazy sun—barely bright enough to sting my eyes.
'Yeah. Fuck this. I knew it.'
I hurled silent profanities at the sky.
This couldn't be Earth.
Not when "medical wisdom" like this had survived unchanged for centuries.
"It's perfect as is. Let it be."
"Ah, thank you, Doctor!"
"Of course."
No chance to protest.
The patient thanked them, rewrapped his putrid bandage, and left.
'They don't even have clean bandages.'
Every strip of cloth here was recycled. Not that it mattered—they were all contaminated anyway.
"Attention! The next patient is important."
"Ah… Lord Jude?"
"Correct."
"Do we have the ointment?"
"Yes."
I tried to intervene, but the staff blocked me.
The doctors grew tense as attendants ushered the nobleman inside.
"Stay quiet. This is aristocratic care. Money talks, understand?"
"…Understood."
Aristocrats.
Even in modern times, nobility existed—Britain still had royals, didn't it?
But they held no real power now.
Here? Different story.
Nobles were above the law. Cross one, and you died.
"Long time no see."
The lord handed his coat and hat to an attendant, then rolled up his trousers and hoisted his leg onto the table.
"The bandage came loose, so I rewrapped it at home."
"We could've visited you."
"I was passing by. No need for fuss."
"Of course."
The bandage was cleaner—almost new.
When removed, its effectiveness became clear.
Without filth trapping pus, the wound had improved.
Except for one detail.
'Is that… green? Pseudomonas?'
Pseudomonas was green, but not this neon.
Was it supposed to glow?
'Infectious disease wasn't my specialty, but…'
This lord's survival odds looked grim.
Green pus—
Wait.
A doctor unrolled an "ointment"—its color matching the infection.
"Wh-what is that?"
It wasn't just vibrant. It had particles.
Grit?
"First time seeing this, eh?"
The smirking doctor—let's call him Doctor #3—chuckled.
"Oxidized copper and lead."
"…What?"
I must've misheard.
Why—
Would you put heavy metals in ointment?
"Powdered copper oxide and lead, mixed with oil. Works wonders on wounds."
What planet are you from—
What is wrong with you people?