I returned home—well, Alfred's home, though it might as well be mine now.
Given that both owners owed me their lives (and continued to benefit from my presence), I could stay here comfortably.
'This thing… costs more than a commoner's yearly salary, doesn't it? Well, of course. It's treated as a toy—that alone inflates the price.'
I stared at the microscope on the desk.
Lord Damian had handed it over without mentioning its value, but Lister filled me in on the way back.
"This is obscenely expensive."
Even Lister—now a full-fledged limb-amputation maestro raking in fortunes—hesitated to buy one casually.
'A pure luxury item.'
Everything about it screamed costly.
Grinding glass lenses for precise magnification?
Mounting them in a brass frame?
None of that came cheap.
But the real reason for the exorbitant price was simpler: Microscopes were seen as useless playthings.
If they had practical applications, mass production would've driven costs down. Instead, only bored aristocrats owned them.
Of course sellers jacked up the price.
'The bigger problem? No slides.'
I'd planned to examine bacteria from my hands immediately, but placing skin directly under the lens proved hopeless.
Rubbing a cloth against the stage didn't work either—the uneven texture made focusing impossible.
'Who'd believe me if I said, Look, germs!?'
'Can I make slides? Probably not…'
Too difficult. Cutting glass that thin? Preparing tissue samples?
'Not happening today. Wait—rainwater. Leeuwenhoek used rainwater, didn't he?'
Proverbs about learning from history exist for a reason.
I abandoned the slide idea and headed outside.
No rain, of course.
If it had rained, I might've spared a thought for the deity (probably) who sent me here.
But no matter.
'The Thames…'
The river cutting through London sounded picturesque—until you smelled it.
"Rancid" didn't begin to cover it.
Raw sewage? Dumped freely.
With London's population bursting past sanity, the Thames had become…
'At least it's just shit. Just shit…'
Except it wasn't.
Industrial waste—unfiltered, toxic—flowed into the river alongside human filth.
And people drank this.
'Humans are not fragile.'
They refuse to die, no matter how hard the universe tries.
"The Thames…?"
The coachman's horrified reaction was justified.
His face screamed "I'd beat you senseless if you weren't the boss's savior."
(Don't call it paranoia. 19th-century London earned its reputation.)
"It's for medical progress."
"Progress my arse—!"
"Dr. Lister's involved."
"Ah."
His expression shifted dramatically.
Lister?
That Lister?
"Y-you mean… the Dr. Lister?"
The man who'd been puffing up in defiance moments ago now hunched like a scolded dog.
Fear breeds manners.
"I'll… take you there."
"Good. Let's go."
The carriage rattled forward.
Our mansion stood in a relatively clean area—the stench hadn't hit yet.
Human lungs probably filtered the worst of it.
'Living air purifiers…'
'God help us.'
Soon, the scenery turned grim.
Haphazard industrialization had birthed factories wedged directly against homes—including phosphorus match plants.
'Those idiots… I told them white phosphorus matches are lethal—!'
The fumes alone could melt bones.
Hans Christian Andersen's Little Match Girl wasn't fiction—it was a warning.
'Should I intervene…?'
Thanks to him and Lister, London was slightly better, but capitalism ruled this era.
Money over lives.
Cheap, fast-igniting white phosphorus matches were everywhere—especially outside London.
France? The originators.
Scandinavia? Andersen (a Dane) wrote the damn cautionary tale.
"Ugh—!"
The stench snapped me from my thoughts.
Not just foul—lethal.
'Can anything survive in this?'
I'd assumed the Thames would teem with bacteria, but now I doubted.
The river looked post-apocalyptic.
Black, churning water.
A stench that clawed past covered noses.
"Hurry up!"
Even the coachman—Lister's fear forgotten—yelled to leave.
I couldn't blame him.
The Thames was Hell's tributary on Earth.
"Sir! Don't—you'll die!"
I grabbed a metal canister and sprinted to the bank, scooping murky water as the coachman watched from a safe distance.
'God, it's worse up close.'
Medieval London had managed the Thames.
In the early 1800s, millions of salmon thrived here.
Now?
'The salmon are extinct.'
Yet no one cared.
The river only grew filthier.
"Gah—!"
I staggered back to the carriage, canister in hand.
The few people nearby looked dangerous—but too weak to approach.
A small mercy.
"You're… drinking this?"
"Are you insane?"
"Let's leave."
The coachman bolted.
The jostling nearly spilled our liquid nightmare.
'I'd rather bathe in piss.'
At least that wouldn't dissolve my bones.
Historical records claimed every fish species in the Thames would go extinct by the century's end.
Today might've been that tipping point.
---
Lab – Alfred's Mansion
"Pyeong, what the—UGH!"
"What is that—GAG!"
Alfred and Joseph recoiled as I entered.
The stench was spectacular.
'All for science.'
I repeated that mantra as I rushed to my room, placing a drop of Thames water under the microscope.
'I'll scrub this thoroughly before returning it.'
Damian would likely stash it back in storage, but no one enjoys rancid gifts.
'…Wow.'
I rarely talk to myself, but the sight stole my breath.
Bacteria—too many to count.
Diverse.
Thriving.
The most obvious?
E. coli.
Why E. coli?
Because it lives in shit—and the Thames was mostly shit.
'Christ, it's like staring at a toilet sample.'
But other, unidentifiable microbes swarmed alongside them.
All dangerous.
'Not yet.'
Warning London about the Thames could wait.
First—sterilization.
"Hey, get over here!"
"Ugh… Why?"
"It reeks—"
"Just look!"
I summoned my students.
"What is this?"
"My theory?"
I almost said germs.
Caught myself just in time.
"This might be… miasma."
"Pfft—it's Thames water! If this much miasma existed, we'd all be dead!"
We are dying!
Tens of thousands yearly from waterborne diseases!
I clutched my chest, steadied my voice, and summoned the greatest tool of the 19th century:
Bullshit.
I am its master.