Abdominal examination.
At first glance, it might seem trivial.
Isn't this just poking bellies at hospitals?
But—
Even the simplest exam rests on an ocean of knowledge. A fact I couldn't forget.
"Does this hurt?"
"N-No… It's fine."
The patient was docile.
Why?
Because the guy next to him got stabbed in the gut.
Not literally punctured, but…
Even in hindsight, the speed and force were knee-weakening.
Reston was born in the wrong era.
A few centuries earlier, and he'd have rewritten the British royal lineage.
"How about here?"
"Still… nothing."
"No, Pyeong—here. He said this hurts."
As Reston pointed out, I'd been avoiding the key area.
Deliberately.
With 21st-century knowledge, I wasn't fumbling.
Palpating the most painful spot last prevents muscle guarding—tensing from anticipated pain—which skews the exam.
A nuanced concept, hard to explain here…
"Ah, your mother was wise. Then again, no ordinary woman could birth a genius like you."
Today, "Mom taught me" was my go-to excuse.
Luckily, Reston and the others were too "refined" to question it.
(Their inner thoughts? Unknowable. But now was all that mattered.)
"Now… here?"
"GYAH!"
After checking the epigastrium, left lower/upper quadrants, and right upper quadrant, I finally pressed the right lower quadrant.
The reaction was dramatic.
A scream.
And I hadn't even pressed hard.
Same force as before.
"See the difference?"
"Huh. Clear as day… Hm. So this is how."
Reston lacked knowledge, not intelligence.
He grasped it instantly.
The others too.
If they hadn't, they'd be better off ditching medicine for manual labor.
"Watch closely."
"There's more?"
"Sir—does it hurt more when I release?"
"GAH!"
Pain on pressure? Tenderness.
Suggestive of inflammation.
But rebound tenderness—worse upon release—was far more telling.
If the peritoneum still hurt after decompression?
Significant localized inflammation. Likely pus or abscess.
'Ultrasound would be ideal…'
Not foolproof, of course.
Even with imaging, you sometimes remove a normal appendix.
But this was better than blind exploration.
Marginally.
I glanced at Reston.
His cross-marking flashed in my mind.
Absolute madman.
A cross incision? On a living person?
"Why's releasing painful?"
Reston was fixated.
Not wrong, just…
He kept pressing and releasing his own abdomen.
(Obviously, no pain—no peritonitis.)
'Can't blame this on Mom…'
Even I couldn't spin that lie.
But as the Bullshit Master…
"During dissections—"
"Go on."
"Not the supplier's cadavers… but our hospital's… productions."
"Ah."
God damn it.
Living here corrupted me.
"Productions"?
"In those cases, the abdomen often contained pus, no?"
"Most do."
Reston and the others nodded, as if this were obvious.
No! That's NOT normal!
Peritoneal pus meant systemic infection.
Even in the 21st century, that was dire—with advanced antibiotics.
Here? Where "antibiotics" meant moldy bread?
Hopeless.
'And "most"? That's proof of hospital-acquired infections!'
Supplier cadavers didn't show this.
Most people didn't die of sepsis—
Unless this hellhole caused it.
"Imagine that pus… compressed, then released. Wouldn't that hurt?"
"Hm… Plausible. Pus is painful."
"Exactly."
"That's your insight?"
"You're truly a genius."
Even I cringed at claiming credit for rebound tenderness.
I looked away—only to meet the patient's gaze.
His expression had softened.
He didn't understand, but…
Hearing Reston call me a genius? Reassuring.
'Time to upgrade from "genius" to "supergenius."'
Not for ego.
For the patients.
Really.
"Anyway… localized pain here suggests pathology."
"I see. So we open it."
I checked the patient's face again.
Despite "opening" being mentioned, he looked calmer.
Supergenius meta it is.
In this era, trust in abdominal surgery?
Half-miracle, given this science-superstition hybrid age.
"Let's go."
"Go? Not here?"
"Here?"
I'd assumed we'd proceed, but Reston balked.
Everyone did.
"Why move him? Bring the tools here."
"Logical."
Had they given any other reason, I wouldn't have been so offended.
But logical?
Joseph…
This bastard, cosplaying a scientist…
I bit back curses, scanning the room instead.
'Jesus…'
How…
How is it this filthy?
Pus, maggots, flies? Standard.
A hospital without those would feel off.
But this ward?
Feces smeared on walls.
Who wouldn't want to scrub that?
"You know I'm… oddly delicate, right?"
The horror drained my anger, leaving only fear.
19th-century savages terrify me.
So I crafted a plausible excuse.
The Bullshit Master delivers.
"Right. No need to do it here."
"Familiar settings reduce errors. I'm… afraid of mistakes."
"Ah… That flaw of yours. Unbecoming of a doctor."
Surgery in a shit-smeared room is "unbecoming," you lunatics.
It's not delicacy—it's sterility—
No.
Sterility?
A pipe dream here.
I just wanted a visibly clean space. When will they—
"Focus. Operate. Or I will."
Lost in thought, I got Reston's usual shock therapy.
Him?
A cross incision?
With no sterilization, no negative pressure—just wide-open contamination?
That's murder.
Not that it'd be new for him.
Reston's body count probably filled trucks.
"R-Right. I'll do it. I've… refined some techniques during dissections."
"Oh? Show me. First time for me too. But this incision—best visibility. Familiar from cadavers."
Those were dead bodies, you maniac.
No one living gets a cross incision.
Yet his reasoning almost made sense.
Familiarity. Visibility.
Crucial for surgery.
He did have moments of brilliance.
Hence his reputation.
"W-Well… Do we need to open everything? The pathology's here."
"An incision is an incision. The cross shape's elegant."
He's aesthetic about this?
Lord, if you exist—strike me now.
"We're here."
Divine intervention skipped me.
Instead, we entered my "OR"—a small lecture hall.
Where I'd performed Lord Damian's prostate surgery.
My meticulously maintained space.
(Meaning: windows shut, swept, no bugs. Still the cleanest here.)
"Here."
I moved the patient to the table.
A VIP treatment, compared to the usual stage-top operations.
"Colin?"
"Ready. Next surgery—"
"You assist. Alfred rotates."
"Yes!"
Once positioned, Colin brought the gas tank.
A few cranks, and the patient was under.
Meanwhile, I scrubbed with soap, gloved up, and wiped with chlorinated lime.
Not sterile, but better than nothing.
The team followed suit.
Then—scalpel in hand.
Hah.
Nervous? No.
Excited.
I'd missed this.