I'd said they were "better off," but that was only after arriving at the hospital.
Being too poor to receive "treatment" here was a blessing in disguise.
Because this era's hospitals were…
Huh?
Staffed by butchers, not doctors.
Avoiding their hands wasn't just luck—it was divine intervention.
'The real tragedy is… their daily lives were already torture.'
19th-century London.
Frankly, in my past life, I'd romanticized Britain.
Land of gentlemen, the British Empire, all that nonsense.
Even children's books made it seem idyllic.
And when I read accounts of 20th-century Brits visiting Joseon, calling it "savage," I'd thought, Wow, Britain must've been thriving by then.
'Aren't these bastards the real frogs who forgot their tadpole days?'
They complained about "the stench"?
Then what's this other smell wafting from the Thames?
Speaking of—
That river's a disaster waiting to happen.
Not that I'm an expert on British history, but…
People drinking that sludge somehow surviving every summer? Unlikely.
'Ah. Focus.'
I shook off the tangent.
Beside me, the illustrious Dr. Reston was making ominous faces while…
Drawing crosses on a patient's abdomen with his finger.
Was this a prayer?
Or marking incision lines?
Common sense said the former, but reality heavily favored the latter.
"Professor?"
"Hm?"
"We should ask about symptoms first."
"Right, right. Got carried away. Heh. Hard to resist when there's a patient."
"Yeah. Heh."
Sure…
What else would you expect from a surgeon?
Still—
Not every patient should trigger scalpel-happy instincts.
"Sir."
"Ugh…"
I halted the caveman's cross-stitching and addressed the patient.
His opened mouth revealed blackened, yellowed teeth—
Few in number.
Poor hygiene played a role, but the Thames was likely the real culprit.
'No. Focus on the abdomen.'
God damn it.
Too many problems—no room to think.
When everything's broken, your brain just… shorts out.
Survival here required selective blindness.
The era was too brutal to fix every issue.
"Your stomach hurts?"
"Y-Yes… but… I'll… work to pay—"
How old was he?
At least twenty years younger than he looked.
Missing teeth, a life of hardship, and malnutrition had aged him prematurely.
In the 21st century, "looking old" meant wrinkles. Here?
His body was as ravaged as a senior's.
I hated these thoughts, but they were unavoidable.
"Don't worry about payment."
"Wh… What?"
"Wh-Why?"
"You're… experimenting on me!"
Despite his pain, he tried desperately to sit up.
Other patients began scrambling away—until Reston blocked them.
"Such drama! We're helping you!"
"N-No free… nothing's free here! Wait—you!"
"R-Reston! The Amputation Master!"
"He'll… cut our stomachs…!"
Normally, Reston's presence commanded respect. Today?
His reputation backfired.
Or rather, the hospital's infamy did.
Reston called them "dramatic," but…
'Wasn't Zemel's latest stunt just days ago?'
This hospital had its "masters":
Amputation Master Reston.
Bloodletting Master Zemel.
Transfusion Master Blundell.
And the worst offender? Zemel.
'Changed his bloodletting "method"…'
I hadn't investigated. No point.
Normally, that many deaths would spark outrage.
But this wasn't a "normal" era.
As the director said, some deaths didn't matter.
Murder might draw police, but hospital casualties? Ignored.
"Calm down! No experiments!"
"Who… who are you?!"
"I'm—"
The panic was overwhelming. Reassurance wasn't working.
Luckily, silver-tongued Joseph had slipped in unnoticed.
"Professor Pyeong? The inventor of anesthesia! Father of Pain Relief! Creator of the Medicinal Tonic! A dissection virtuoso who demonstrated at the Royal Theatre! The youngest medical professor in history!"
A bit snake-oil salesman, but…
Eloquent people sell.
Historically, they sold medicine best—hence the stereotype.
"Oh…"
"Impressive…"
"Well, Reston is a 'master'…"
"But why help us…?"
Joseph's words hushed the room.
Reston gave him a thumbs-up.
For a man who only knew intimidation, this diplomacy was startling.
Seizing the moment, I doubled down:
"Listen. Anesthesia exists now."
(Thanks to you partygoers snorting it for 70 years instead of using it medically—but whatever.)
"A monumental leap for humanity! Yet no one applied it—until Dr. Reston's genius insight."
Let me reiterate: Reston's a savage.
Brilliant potential, but still a savage.
But…
He's my best ally.
Might as well gild his reputation while I can.
"Hah, you flatter me."
See? He loves it.
"Anesthesia buys us time for surgery. And yes—that includes the abdomen."
"Gah!"
"They are experimenting—!"
"Bastards…"
Why so excited about abdominal surgery?
One more cheer, and I'll stab you first.
Prejudice is terrifying.
Once shattered, they'll see—
Cutting open abdomens? Just the start. Chests, skulls—this era's on the brink.
"We're not slicing randomly. We'll assess symptoms first. Dr. Reston's research identified a pattern."
"C-Can we refuse?"
"You can. But without treatment, you'll die. Some here are worse off, no?"
"Well… yes…"
"Look. We're not butchers. We're London's top surgeons. Trust us with your life—once."
I channeled Joseph's silver tongue.
Most remained skeptical, but feverish patients nodded weakly.
It felt like a scam, but what choice did I have?
'Appendicitis causes fever…'
Did I want to cut blindly?
What if it wasn't the appendix but cancer—or worse?
If it was operable, I'd have an excuse: They needed it.
(Not that the law would care, but my 21st-century conscience would haunt me.)
But with laughing gas as anesthesia and Reston as my "assistant," death was guaranteed.
'Gastritis… pancreatitis…'
You can't just cut open every stomachache.
Many were medical, not surgical.
A wrong incision would—
'Ugh…'
Shaking my head, I approached the febrile patients.
Reston scowled.
"Just open all of them."
An unreasonable complaint.
You lunatic.
All of them?
And he'd cross-incise them, wouldn't he?
Yet he calls me the madman.
A *perfect murderer.
"Check symptoms first. You said the appendix swells?"
"Right."
"Wouldn't that cause fever?"
"Overreach. Swelling equals fever?"
Ah.
He doesn't know.
His ignorance is so vast, he doesn't even recognize it.
Damn it.
Masking my frustration, I pressed on:
"Forcing this would backfire. Let's start with these patients."
"Fine. Wait—here."
"Wha—?"
"GYAAAAAH!"
Reston shrugged, then jabbed his finger into a consenting patient's lower right abdomen.
A strike so violent, I feared perforation.
"Ah! Painful, eh?"
'I'd scream too, you psychopath…'
I stared, aghast. Unfazed, Reston began cross-marking the abdomen.
This isn't how—
No, don't press like that!
If it was appendicitis, he'd have ruptured it.
(Was that even possible? With that force? Yes.)
"T-Too rough, no?"
"Really? I barely pressed."
"That was 'barely'?"
"Harder, and I'd puncture them. Want a demo?"
"N-No."
After calming him, I approached another patient.
Proper posture first.
"Bend your knees."
"Why…? Amputating?"
"Your legs? No. Relaxes the abdomen. Bend them."
"Huh?"
Come to think of it, Reston had poked without this step.
Meaning the abdominal muscles were tense—
Terrible examination.
Time for a lesson.
I made Reston compare abdominal rigidity between patients.
"See? Softer now, right?"
"Wow. Different. How'd you know this?"
"My mother taught me."
A risky question, but if Reston's the Amputation Master, I'm the Bullshit Master.
"Ah."
Then or now, no one probes deeper about "mother."
'Now… palpation.'
Steeling myself, I prepared to examine the abdomen.