"Hahahaha…"
The laughter still seemed to echo in my ears.
No, I was actually laughing.
"Right, right. If you're thirsty, drink water. But remember—if you drink, you'll vomit again. You're ignoring real treatment because of instinct."
If Liston had resorted to brute force, I wouldn't just be bewildered—I'd be crying by now.
But thankfully, Liston held some respect for me.
Because of that, our poor students could gulp down water despite everything.
'Where did this idea that you should resist drinking when thirsty even come from…?'
Wait, isn't thirst a sign of dehydration?
Huh?
Do they not know how terrifying dehydration is?
People die from lack of water.
Don't they know humans are 70% water?
…Ah. Maybe they don't.
"Hey, hey, you're drinking too much. Didn't you have diarrhea earlier? If you drink this, it'll happen again."
Regardless of my thoughts, Liston kept spouting nonsense.
Of course, since I wasn't saying anything aloud, it made sense…
But I could guarantee one thing:
Even if I argued, the outcome wouldn't change.
"S-Sorry, Professor. My throat was burning."
"Well, experiencing a patient's suffering firsthand isn't bad either. So, despite everything, patients must be starved."
"Y-Yes."
"That's how they survive. You lot are healthy, and if things go south, well—"
Liston glanced at his beloved scalpel—no, sword—whatever that massive blade was supposed to be.
"If things go south, I'll cut you open."
Not to kill, of course, but to bleed them.
'Sigh.'
Practically the same thing.
"Yes, thank you!"
The student expressed gratitude and chugged the water I'd been boiling and distilling this whole time.
Did that idiot even realize I was the one he should be thanking?
Well, technically, I was the one who started this mess… but I never intended for it to go this far.
"By the way, are the others in that room still fine?"
"I'll check on them before bed, just in case."
"Good idea. Seeing these guys, I doubt the others are faring much better. And…"
Liston wasn't just spouting nonsense nonstop.
He suddenly looked around at his own stomach and then at the others—those who'd drunk the boiled water—before continuing.
"Your theory seems correct. That… strangely shaped thing really might be miasma. Though that doesn't mean the air theory is entirely wrong…"
"Right, right."
Just when things were going well, he had to slip up.
Why wasn't the air theory entirely wrong?
'Well… airborne pathogens do exist. Bacteria, viruses…'
If an infected person coughed, sneezed, or defecated right in front of you, sure.
But generally? No.
I wanted to say no, but logic forced me to concede.
Saying this made me sound ignorant, but listen—
"Actually, I'm even more convinced now that it's in the air too."
Blundell.
Ugh.
"Right? The smelly water had more miasma—that's been proven."
"Exactly. Boiling and distilling reduced the smell and the miasma. This is a discovery of the century."
Linking smell to miasma—unbelievable.
'I was worried I might be advancing medicine too fast, but I guess not.'
This wasn't easy.
Really not easy.
Half-resigned, yet grateful things had progressed this far, I listened to the conversation.
"We should write a paper on this. Ah, Pyeong, don't worry—I'll include your name. Actually, why not come to the Paris conference with me?"
"Hah. Should we? But will those savages even understand our theory?"
"We'll prove it right there."
"Ah, a very simple method indeed."
Paris.
A city I'd never visited in my past life.
This might be a weird bias, but higher-ups considered American conferences for study and European ones for leisure.
You needed a certain level of seniority to attend—something I never achieved before dying.
'Speaking of proof…'
I didn't want to ask for details.
There was a very high chance…
They'd just repeat what we were doing now.
What was Paris's river called again?
Ah, right—the Seine.
But was the Seine as filthy as the Thames?
In history classes, London was the only city mentioned for pollution…
'Maybe I should go. No, no—what am I thinking?'
Living surrounded by 19th-century minds was turning me into one.
This wasn't how people should be.
Good lord, feeding sewage to innocent—
Were they innocent?
Suddenly, all the insults I'd heard about the French came to mind.
If even half of those were true, the French weren't human.
'Would it be so bad to feed them? Our students drank it too.'
Lost in these dark thoughts, I stood up.
Our students drank it.
Some of them were racists.
No, actually, aside from my loyal followers, most were somewhat like that.
I hated them all…
But not enough to kill them.
"Ah, shall we go?"
"Yes."
"Let's go together. Come on, move!"
"Yes!"
As we got up, Liston and Blundeld—who'd been brainstorming even worse ideas for the Parisians, like feeding them rat droppings—followed.
With three professors leading, the rest trailed behind.
The students didn't look as cheerful as us.
The first batch's symptoms were improving, but their condition still looked awful.
Two Thames-water drinkers had even soiled themselves—of course they weren't happy.
Creak.
Not like we could say we were fine either.
And the real concern wasn't the fakers—it was the ones who'd actually get sick.
"Ugh…"
We told them to speak up if they were in pain, but that was a mistake.
If it hurts too much, you can't speak.
In the ER, the noisy ones usually weren't in real pain.
(Of course, kidney stone patients would stab me for saying that, but when vitals are crashing, people can't talk.)
As someone who'd done trauma shifts, I knew this well.
"They have a fever."
"Huh. Strange."
"What is?"
"Shouldn't the first batch be weaker? But these ones look worse."
Ah.
Right. That would seem odd.
Because they didn't know about toxins.
'Sigh…'
How to explain this?
After a brief struggle, I decided to dumb it down for them.
It might cause misunderstandings, but…
Wasn't there some truth to it?
"Couldn't the first batch have improved because they vomited and had diarrhea earlier?"
"Aha! Just like Hippocrates—"
"No, no, not the four humors theory."
"Huh? Why not? Vomiting and diarrhea expel excess fluids."
"But… isn't it because of the miasma? If it were just excess fluids, why would drinking miasma cause this?"
"Huh? Uh…?"
Yes.
Liston was stunned.
Watching this giant man freeze mid-thought was almost funny.
(Of course, familiarity made it seem that way—he was still terrifying.)
I pressed on.
"What if vomiting and diarrhea expelled the miasma… so they improved?"
"Uh… That does make sense…?"
Liston short-circuited completely.
Good.
There was nothing he could do here anyway.
Unless someone started a riot—but the only "riots" possible here were more vomiting and diarrhea.
And no one could stop that.
'Fever… a sign of infection. Not good. But at least…'
It wasn't a high fever.
Sure, diagnosing by hand was primitive, but they weren't burning up.
Where was the thermometer when you needed it?
Oh, wait—there was one.
But it was so inconvenient.
And slow.
Who knew thermometers required this much science?
'Only two with fevers—both from the corpse group. Hmm… staphylococcus.'
The Thames group, despite their explosive diarrhea, had no fever—probably because their gut bacteria were tough for this era.
No fever meant the bacteria hadn't entered their bloodstream.
(Of course, diabetics might not spike a fever even during infection, but if someone that young had diabetes in the 19th century… well, any death would count as natural causes.)
A cruel thought, but true.
Insulin wouldn't be discovered for decades.
"Drink! Drink while you're still conscious!"
"If I drink… I'll vomit again…"
"But you'll absorb some! That dilutes the… the miasma inside you!"
"Ugh. This… absurd… Ghk."
If they lost consciousness, we'd have to resort to IVs.
But that was risky.
(If shock set in, we'd have no choice—but until then, they had to drink.)
The savages resisted, but it was fine.
Liston, now out of his stupor, smacked the back of their heads.
Watching them reel from the blow was so satisfying.
"You wanna die?"
…For a second, at least.
No, but still—
"You wanna die?" to someone who might actually die?
If they did die…
Liston would probably just shrug.
Our boss was that terrifying.
"I-I'll drink."
"Good. Should've said that earlier."
"Y-Yes."
(He'd already hit them instead of asking, but that detail seemed forgotten.)
The victim, unable to forget, glared resentfully—but didn't complain.
It looked too painful.
Probably forgot their stomachache for a moment.
"You lot not drinking?"
"W-We'll drink."
"You heard earlier? Miasma likely caused this. So, as Pyeong said, drinking water is the treatment!"
Oh—
This was why I liked him.
During that brief freeze, he'd understood.
This young man had potential.