I had to stop this.
Not just because the patient was a noble.
For others…
Even if not immediately, I could intervene later—drag them back by force if necessary, with Liston's help.
'But this is irreversible. That ointment… copper oxide…'
What would happen if applied?
I had no idea.
There probably weren't even case reports.
But based on modern medical knowledge…
The odds of tetanus or equivalent fatal infection were obscene.
Judging by the color, it might already be too late.
"Wait."
I stepped forward, mustering courage.
He looked high-ranking, but…
'I know Sir Damian, Liston, the director… and though we've never formally met, even Princess Victoria.'
Courage doesn't come from nowhere—I mentally listed my connections to steel myself.
"Hm?"
Naturally, the noble's face twisted slightly.
An Asian face was bound to draw suspicion here.
The one mercy?
No overt racism—just the usual disdain for lower social strata.
And crucially, I was dressed properly for this damned island's standards.
"I'm Dr. Pyeong. A student of Dr. Liston… and currently, though unworthy, a professor."
"Ah… the Oriental doctor. I've heard of you. But this isn't the time—I'm rather busy. Hence my visit here."
He gestured around with his cane.
This was no place for nobility—the stenge alone confirmed it.
"The smell… the director claims it kills people. We'll speak later."
After a dismissive wave, he turned back to the doctors.
But my eyes stayed locked on the neon-green ointment.
Doctor #1 scooped a glob onto an unwashed instrument—last used on another patient.
'I'm saving a life here.'
If this went wrong, amputation would be the best-case scenario.
Death was more likely.
Heavy metal poisoning, sepsis—
"One moment. My intervention isn't baseless. With due respect—"
"What is this? You're testing my patience."
"Enough! Just because Liston favors you doesn't mean you can disrespect his lordship!"
"A life is at stake!"
Screw it.
Time for bluntness.
Even if I had to play the "exotic Joseon wisdom" card.
My outburst froze the room—whether from shock at my audacity or the content, I didn't care.
The doctors stared like I'd grown a second head.
I pressed on.
"This ointment—it's made of copper and lead. You're aware?"
"Vaguely."
"It's poisonous. In my homeland, Joseon—far from here—our medical science surpassed others."
"Hoh. Surpassed Britain?"
I nearly punched the smugness off his face.
You people—
Even in the 21st century, you couldn't hold a candle to Korean medicine.
Now?
Now you're a joke.
"Not in all fields, but in wound care? Absolutely."
"Hmm."
"Otherwise, how could I earn a professorship so young?"
(Liston's influence and my anesthesia work helped, but details were irrelevant.)
Doctors #1-3 bristled but stayed silent.
Interrupting a noble mid-conversation? Only another noble—or a madman—would dare.
"Intriguing. Go on."
"Joseon once used similar ointments. Green…"
Green meant nature.
Nature meant life.
People always associate green with health, right?
I spun the lie on the spot.
"Green symbolizes vitality. Yet strangely, patients who used it rotted limb by limb."
Tetanus.
Rare in modern Korea, but historically, few diseases rivaled its lethality for the wounded.
And here they were cultivating it.
For centuries.
"Have you witnessed such cases?"
"A servant lost his leg that way. Am I next?"
"If untreated? Almost certainly."
As we spoke, I examined the wound.
The old ointment obscured details, but necrotic tissue was visible at the edges.
Debridement was urgent.
'Would they call it heresy?'
Likely.
These "scientists" clung to tradition like dogma.
A true scientist's loyalty isn't to their beliefs—it's to truth.
New knowledge should erase outdated ideas, not fossilize them for centuries.
"Grant me twenty minutes."
"Twenty… Hmm."
The noble deliberated.
If he refused, so be it—I'd warned him.
His attendants would drag me to Liston later, and that leg would be gone.
"I've heard of you. Remarkable things."
"You flatter me. I'm still learning."
"No, no. Very well—proceed."
"Thank you."
"It won't hurt?"
Pain?
Well…
First, I'd wash it.
Then scrub the necrotic tissue with wet gauze.
After assessing the damage, excise the rot until it bled.
'How did Alfred react again?'
Even after half a year, his screams haunted me.
For a 19th-century man, his pain tolerance was abnormally low.
(If it weren't, he'd have cried during his catheterization.
He did shed tears—but from frustration, not pain.)
'That monster screamed…'
I'd tested the procedure on myself. Agony.
Clearly, 19th-century humans had inhuman pain tolerance.
Which meant what I was about to do bordered on torture.
'Heh.'
No matter.
I'd come prepared.
"What's… that?"
"Anesthesia. Inhale this, sleep, and wake healed."
"Oh? No pain?"
"None."
"Then proceed."
"At once."
As I retrieved a small gas canister, attendants cleared a bed—if you could call it that in this maggot-infested room.
Two even sacrificed their jackets as makeshift sheets.
The hygiene was appalling, but options were limited.
"Rest here briefly. I'll fetch my specialized tools and an assistant."
No way I'd use their instruments or those filthy bandages.
"Can't you use what's here?"
"No."
"Very well."
Thankfully, something in my gaze convinced him.
Outside, I sprinted for sterilized tools and collared Joseph loitering nearby.
(Not that he followed willingly.)
"You've got cloth in my room. Boil it thoroughly and bring it."
"Why? Just tear a curtain or sheet—"
Curtains and sheets.
Heh.
Maggot-ridden rags versus moldy linens.
A perfect tie for "best ways to kill a patient."
"Just bring it."
"I'm busy."
"Want to learn dissection or not?"
"Cheap shot. Fine."
Grumbling, he bolted off at the mention of dissection.
Back inside, I faced the noble alone.
'That bastard…'
'Who does he think he is?'
'Daring to slander our ointment!'
The doctors' mutters reached me, but I ignored them.
Their retreat when I didn't react was a blessing.
'Fools…'
'Let him fail.'
'String him up afterward. Dissect him too.'
Good.
I needed privacy for what came next.
Every step—sterilization, debridement—defied 19th-century "science."
They'd call it witchcraft.
(And yes, even "scientists" here believed in possession.)
Novels love portraying modern protagonists thriving in medieval times—
Bullshit.
Fiction is structured bullshit, but this? Unreal.
"Hmm."
"Asleep. We must hurry—time is limited, and we need to finish before he wakes."
I administered the barest minimum of anesthetic (though "minimum" was guesswork) and poured water—
Boiled and cooled, but still lukewarm.
Maybe even hot.
No one pre-boiled water here.
'Good. Anesthesia holds.'
Ever the optimist, I took it as confirmation and began cleaning.
I'd planned to use gauze, but—right—none existed.
So I gloved up and prodded.
The necrotic area was larger than expected.
Damn it.
Slice.
The scalpel excised dead tissue.
One attendant's eyes bulged—then fixed on the ceiling when he saw the bloodless rot.
No time to wonder why.
This "surgery" (a generous term) was routine for me.