A sober Liston is terrifying.
Then what about a Liston high on laughing gas?
"HAHAHA! The Lord has granted me a revelation!"
In an era where the average height barely scraped 160 cm, a mountain of a man towering over 180 cm barreled down the hallway.
While babbling about the Lord.
The sight was…
'The literal embodiment of the Lord of Terror…?'
I'd seen all sorts of horrors since arriving in the 19th century, but this…
This was terror on another level.
Just looking at him was frightening, but knowing exactly what he was about to do made it worse.
"Wait!"
"HAHA! Brother! Thanks to you, I too shall open a belly today!"
"No…"
I'd expected him to attempt surgery eventually.
Surgery is about cutting people open, after all.
And with so many abdominal diseases in this era—especially without proper medicine—surgery was often the only solution.
But not today.
Muttering "Not today" in Aragorn's tone from Lord of the Rings, I sprinted after him.
"Hm? Why not?"
"P-please wait…"
"Why? The Lord commanded me not to hesitate."
"That's—"
That's not the Lord—it's the hallucinations talking!
Watching Liston sway drunkenly from the gas, I felt a migraine coming on.
But there was a way out.
Why?
While research on laughing gas was far from complete, I'd made some progress.
Think about it.
Would I really leave my only anesthetic gas untested?
'Laughing gas is weaker than I thought.'
Without continuous inhalation, the effects wear off quickly.
How did I know?
Once, Colin forgot to administer the gas slowly, and I had to watch a patient wake up screaming mid-surgery.
Imagine anesthesia wearing off with a scalpel inside you.
Colin got punched so hard by Liston he couldn't come to school for a week.
'Stall for time…'
So the answer was simple: delay.
"Doctor!"
"Hm?"
"I understand you're intoxicated by divine grace! But must you run?"
"If the Lord commands, I run!"
"No, no."
Work, brain. WORK!
"W-well, did John the Baptist run through the wilderness? Or did he walk?"
"Walked, probably. Wandered for decades… Ah. The Lord never said to run."
"Exactly! Exactly! You must walk!"
Was this theology sound?
Doubtful.
But it worked because neither of us was in our right mind.
"Hmm."
As I kept stalling, Liston gradually sobered up.
At least enough to shake off the gas-induced delusions…
But one problem remained.
"Regardless, we operate today."
His tone was calm.
His face, solemn.
Yes—he was lucid.
And firmly convinced his delusion was divine truth.
Delusions are only pathological if the person doesn't realize they're delusional…
'Operate…? Does he even have a scalpel?'
Of course not.
He only carried that massive cleaver he called the "Liston Knife."
Trying to reason with him was like reciting poetry to a brick wall.
"A surgeon must use the blade he's mastered," or some nonsense.
'No… This was inevitable.'
The situation was beyond grim—it was apocalyptic.
But who was I?
The King of Positivity.
Any normal doctor would've gone insane or died witnessing this medical circus…
Only I could endure this dumpster fire of a healthcare system.
"May I assist you?"
"Gladly. Your assistance is invaluable."
"Right. And as you saw earlier… perhaps a smaller blade this time?"
"Hm? Ah… Like your incision?"
"Yes."
No, you must make the same incision—
Were you planning something else?!
Oblivious to my internal screaming, Liston gazed into the distance.
"The Lord showed me a cross."
"That's…"
"Surely He meant a cross-shaped incision? For salvation, or such."
"N-no. Let's stick to what we know works."
"Hmm. Ignoring divine guidance feels… wrong."
That wasn't divine guidance!
I bit back the scream.
Instead, I weaponized his own logic.
"My revelation differed. I saw a small blade. That's the righteous path. Would the Lord have crafted abdominal layers pointlessly? Cutting recklessly defies His design!"
"Ah… He does nothing without purpose. But the cross—"
"Must faith be literal? The Lord's will transcends form!"
What am I even saying?
I didn't know.
But Liston nodded sagely.
Maybe madness speaks to madness.
With newfound enlightenment, I returned to the ward reeking of pus, feces, and unwashed humanity.
Yet I smiled.
I'd just cleared a monumental hurdle.
Now throw away that damned cleaver.
It had no place outside amputations—especially not here.
"Ah, may I choose the next patient?"
"Uh… Of course."
"Correct me if I err—though I doubt you'll need to."
My mood soured.
The man who only erred had the audacity to say that…
Yet he wasn't wrong.
Liston was a genius.
"Kneel."
"Huh?"
"Kneel."
"Y-yes."
And a tyrant.
Patients obeyed instantly—no cajoling needed.
A stark contrast to my struggles.
Like a scholarly Lü Bu.
"Where does it hurt most?"
"H-here."
"Ah, wrong spot."
"What?"
Definitely Lü Bu.
When the pain wasn't in the lower right abdomen, he coolly moved on.
A good call.
Upper abdominal pain usually meant enteritis—not our target.
(Though sometimes, it meant something far worse… but even I couldn't handle those cases yet.)
"Where does it hurt?"
"Here."
"Good."
Miraculously, Liston replicated my examination perfectly.
His memory was scary.
"Good. Pain upon release too."
He grinned at the writhing patient.
"Operate here? Or move?"
"Let's move… I'm timid."
"You were smiling while cutting earlier. What 'timid'?"
"This area has… excessive miasma."
I pitied myself for resorting to miasma theory.
Someone—Damien or anyone—needed to invent microscopes soon.
'Wait… High-magnification microscopes might already exist.'
The 19th century was chaotic.
They'd had laughing gas for decades and only used it for parties.
Microscopes might've suffered the same fate.
(Though they'd be useless for parties.)
"Very well. We'll move."
"Yes, Brother."
Beneath his brutality, Liston had warmth—so we relocated to the lecture hall.
The previous patient was already being transferred by Joseph, while Colin and Alfred laid fresh sheets and brought sterilized tools.
They're impressive too.
Obediently following orders without understanding why.
"Shall we move him?"
"Yes."
On the makeshift operating table, Alfred adjusted the gas mask.
Colin smirked, stepping into the assistant's role—unaware the surgeon today wasn't me, but Liston.
'If I falter… the patient dies.'
No question.
Abdominal surgery isn't something you replicate after one demonstration.
For someone with formal training? Maybe.
But Liston wasn't that someone.
I had to guide him—disguised as assistance.
"I'm not fully prepa—urk."
In my focus on Liston, I'd missed the patient's crucial words.
Alfred had already cranked the gas.
'I'll ask later.'
No one else cared anyway—especially with Liston limbering up like he planned to bisect the patient.
"Excellent."
"What's 'excellent'? How will you cut with that?!"
"I can do it."
"What?"
"I'm possible. They don't call me the Amputation Master for nothing."
"But—even you saw—you can't just hack! You've dissected enough to know the abdominal layers!"
"Layers? Must we separate them?"
How to explain?
I abandoned medical reasoning and appealed to his faith.
"Would the Lord have wasted His design?"
"Ah."
Liston repented and set the cleaver down.
Then picked up my scalpel—with clear dissatisfaction.
"What can this toothpick achieve?"
Sighing like a knight stripped of his sword, he adopted a solemn expression.
"But a master blames not his tools. You succeeded with this—so I'll endure this handicap."
Calling a modern scalpel—perfected through 200 years of trial and error—a handicap?
If our roles were reversed, I'd have murdered him.
But I wasn't him, so I just nodded.
"Yes, Brother. Now—here. No, no—too deep! GAUZE! NOW! HE'S BLEEDING!"