In the wound treatment room, the approach to treatment had completely changed—at least for the patients under my care.
First, I discarded all the bandages that had been used up until now.
Seriously, if you can't even tell if it's a bandage or a filthy rag, you shouldn't be using it.
Riiip.
Then, clean it.
Scratch.
Cut away the necrotic tissue.
Snip, snip.
Apply maggots.
This is how treatment progressed.
Unsurprisingly, the prognosis for these people was far from good.
"This one… is beyond saving. Let's amputate."
"N-no… please..."
Far too many patients came to us too late.
In stark contrast, those who came to me immediately after injury—first-time patients—fared entirely differently.
"Watch closely."
This wasn't something that could be fixed with treatment alone, right?
Because the very concept of treatment was fundamentally different, the priority was to rebuild my students' understanding from the ground up.
Thus, for first-time patients, I made sure to summon the apprentices to observe closely.
"Hmph."
"Understood."
Joseph, Alfred, and Colin were the ones here.
I would've liked to drag all the others here too, but what could I do?
My skin color and age were still barriers.
The only consolation was that at least these idiots next to me were serious.
"First, we cleanse with clean water."
"But does it have to be boiled?"
"Because if it's hot, the—"
Sigh.
They were sincere, alright, but they either knew too little or had been taught severely wrong knowledge, leading to moments where my patience was truly tested.
'No choice. Absolutely none…'
I silently recited the character for patience three times in my head and continued my 'eye-level' education.
"You don't want miasma to survive, do you? Better safe than sorry."
"Wait, miasma is something that… lives or dies?"
"Wash your hands—do you want patients to live or not?"
"To live?"
"Has it never crossed your mind that maybe, just maybe, things go wrong because the miasma isn't dead?!"
"Hmm. Yeah, I guess you're right."
"You guess?"
I wanted to strangle the little bastard.
But I was the professor, and he was the student—so I had to endure.
Well…
At least this was a hundred times better than them outright refusing to boil water.
"Alright, now wipe it like this. And as you do, examine the wound."
"Examine it…?"
"We have to see where and how it's injured to determine the scope of treatment."
"Hmm… Wouldn't it be simpler to let it rot? I was taught wounds heal on their own."
Pfft.
"Heal on their own, my ass."
If that were true, why would people die or lose limbs?
I laughed dryly while staring into empty space, hoping that whatever higher power was watching would grant me strength.
And perhaps because of that, I kept going without exhaustion.
"This treatment starts with the assumption that what you know might be wrong—so yeah, it has to be different. And hey, senior—think carefully. How are you even still standing here alive right now? Did letting it rot work for the others?"
"They ended up in graves. …Huh. Now that I think about it… you are right again, aren't you?"
Obviously.
At this point, my knowledge was practically absolute.
Sure, even 21st-century modern medicine wasn't perfect—but at least it acknowledged its flaws and kept improving.
Well…
I guess this era's trial and error was necessary for that…
But it took too damn long.
And way too many people died for it.
If I were just reading about it in a book or watching a YouTube documentary—"Folks, the 19th century was like this, lol!"—it'd be amusing. But seeing it firsthand? Not a single chuckle escaped me.
"Right, so watch closely."
Saying that, I poured water over the arm of a patient who had frozen stiff in fear (thanks to Dr. Liston's knife and the overall ward atmosphere) and spread the wound open with my gloved fingers.
"GAH—!"
Yeah, that hurt.
No way around it.
Even in the 21st century, you couldn't avoid this.
Though back then, we'd at least give painkillers before examinations…
"Dissections—you've done plenty of arm dissections, right?"
"Of course—too many to count."
"Yeah, I can even draw the diagrams properly now."
"Same here, Professor."
Either way, once opened, the wound revealed a familiar anatomical structure—so much so that even we were desensitized to it.
The patient had been sliced by a sharp tool in the workshop—maybe a knife, maybe a sickle.
Outwardly, it was just a straight, clean cut, but when spread open…
"Whoa—shit, is that the bone?!"
"The muscle is completely severed too."
"Why's it so deep?"
It was far worse than expected.
If we hadn't checked, we'd have just left it.
And then?
The patient would obviously have needed an amputation.
Why?
Because the damn tools these idiots used—knives, sickles, any kind of blade—were all rusted to hell.
"More importantly, look here—there are fragments stuck inside. Bits of metal, or whatever. We have to remove all of this."
Tetanus?
Even if not, bacterial infection was guaranteed.
I poured more water and carefully cleaned the area, using tweezers to remove the larger fragments.
Ideally, we'd disinfect it with antiseptic, but…
There was none here.
At best, we had—
"Sir, this will hurt."
"More than now?"
"Yeah, probably."
"'Probably'?!"
"Hmm? Should I call Professor Liston instead?"
"N-no! That's not—!"
The alcohol was gone.
Distilled liquor, boiled down for its alcohol content…
To the untrained, it might seem like alcohol was a standard disinfectant anyway, but—
Well, it did kill microbes.
Hell, it could wipe out even skin flora, right?
But that was only for surface use.
"G-GGRAAAH—!"
Pouring it onto mucous membranes or open wounds—tissues beneath the skin—was excruciating.
And it could further damage tissue.
Frankly, using alcohol for wound disinfection was contraindicated—
But we had no choice in this era.
Nothing better existed.
When I told them to find anything else that could disinfect, they brought me honey—
What is this, ancient Egypt?!
Actually, that was still better than—
"Obviously, verdigris (copper oxidation)!"
"Lead is best, actually."
"Let's try pouring mercury!"
The other "disinfectants" these lunatics suggested…
Were they disinfectants, or—
Poison?
No.
Murder.
This was murder.
"He's in excruciating pain—"
"Is this safe?"
"Professor, is this really the right way?!"
So we were forced to use alcohol as a last resort.
And the patient suffered accordingly.
Criticism poured in from the others.
How did I feel watching this?
Honestly?
I wanted to strangle every last one of them.
They had the audacity to barge in with heavy metals as "disinfectants" and then scold me?
You insane bastards.
"You endured well."
"Huuuuhhh…"
"Now—let's assume the miasma is completely dead."
Whatever was there (not miasma) was definitely dead now.
We'd just drenched it in tissue-destroying alcohol, after all.
Thankfully, our low-grade distillation meant the alcohol concentration was weak—otherwise, we'd have seen the tissues visibly shrivel.
Just how terrifying is alcohol?
It kills cancer cells.
'Should I suture it now…? For muscles, suturing would help long-term recovery, but…'
I sighed, eyeing the suture thread I'd been given.
At least it had been boiled and soaked in alcohol, making it the most sterile thing here.
The problem?
Its material—silk thread.
Its woven gaps were perfect for bacteria to hide in.
And I was probably the only one here who understood that.
'Just… approximate the shape. No choice.'
Until something better came along, this was the only option.
Infection prevention now was more critical than the patient's far-off prognosis.
Snip.
Still, even if this was just a rough approximation, I refused to half-ass the suturing.
It was the last shred of pride I had as a former surgical professor.
"Whoa…"
"This is amazing…"
"How does someone use a fishing-hook-looking thing this skillfully?"
Naturally, everyone was in awe.
Even the patient, who had been writhing in agony earlier, was now staring slack-jawed.
There was no local anesthesia in this era—of course it hurt—but he couldn't look away.
Honestly, this level of suturing was something none of them had ever seen.
"Once we're sure there's no infection, I'll close it properly."
Of course, "properly" was relative to them—to me, it was still woefully lacking.
In the modern era, wounds were never closed like this.
Each layer had to be sutured precisely.
But with silk thread, doing that would guarantee necrosis—so this was the best I could do.
"Good. Now, the bandages."
"Wait—do we have to use brand-new cloth?"
"This is wasteful."
"Even I think it's a bit much… though, Professor is well-off…"
The bandages were fresh and unused.
This was basic hygiene—but here, "reusing" bandages was the norm, so the questions came pouring in again.
'Heh… Just wait. The difference in outcomes will speak for itself.'
I wasn't going to bother explaining.
Seeing is believing, as they say.
The results would prove it.
This still wasn't perfect treatment—
But I could say one thing for sure:
The prognosis would be far better than before.
Uncomparably better.
Truly.
—
Anyhow, about two weeks passed like this.
"Well then, let's see."
Following Liston's words, every new patient—no, every other doctor's patient—was gathered in the treatment room.
This was only possible because concepts like patient rights didn't exist yet.
(Also because I paid them. Even then, I was shocked—they worked for coins this small?)
As Liston stepped inside and spoke, the patients treated by the original staff came forward first.
"Hmm… Needs amputation. Schedule it—or we can do it today."
"N-no…"
"This one too."
"Ah…"
"Another amputation here."
"Ugh…"
"This one… should we amputate now?"
"Huff."
To put it mildly, most needed amputations.
At minimum, about half.
Honestly?
I was stunned.
'They only amputated this much?!'
The fact that people survived with this level of "treatment" was downright miraculous.
Humans were tougher than I thought.
Or maybe 19th-century humans were just built different…
'Wait, no—Actually… Is this why the British Empire conquered the world?'
Maybe Brits were just built different.
How the hell do you beat people who can endure verdigris, lead, and rotting wounds?
Makes no sense.
21st-century Koreans would never win.
"Same as usual. Now, let's see Pyeong's patients."
While I was lost in thought, the amputation candidates were led away—faces full of despair.
Maybe because they'd seen that, my patients were trembling too.
But they had nothing to fear.
"Ohhh… Excellent."
"Good."
"Wow."
"Ah, this one doesn't need amputation."
"Nice."
No antibiotics.
No effective disinfectants.
Given that—
About 10% still needed amputations.
A disappointing result for me…
But—
"As expected! I knew you were a genius!"
"Damn it, Pyeong—you are a prodigy