Just moments ago, the thugs who had been shouting, "Drinking water will kill you!" suddenly changed their tune to, "If you don't drink water, you'll die!"—and the shift in atmosphere was nothing short of dramatic.
"Yes, yes, we'll drink!"
"Right away!"
They had already been on the brink of death from thirst.
Those with fevers, in particular, were suffering even more as their mucous membranes dried out from the heat, leaving them parched.
"Ugh…"
But they were too weak to move actively.
Left like this, they would've surely died.
There was no other outcome.
In this world, only the strong survive…
'No—no, wait. That's too much like Liston's thinking.'
Snapping out of it, I handed out distilled water to the feverish students.
'Starting tomorrow, I should mix in some salt, too.'
This was one of the advantages of oral hydration over IV fluids.
With IVs, you had to carefully measure concentrations.
It wasn't like this era had no means of measurement, but still, the idea of further tampering with the water made me uneasy.
In a time when the concept of sterilization was practically nonexistent—let alone the methods—the more I interfered, the higher the chances of people dying. It wasn't an exaggeration.
"Drink."
"Y-yes, sir."
Their fevers had spiked even higher in that short time.
'This… Someone might actually die.'
That headline would be perfect.
Well, not that it'd ever make the papers.
I wasn't sure if that was a relief—in the 19th century, death wasn't exactly a rare occurrence.
Besides, if a medical student died in the pursuit of scientific progress, the police wouldn't even bother showing up.
Hell, if it became a big enough story, they might even come to praise us.
People died all the time during anatomy practice, after all.
At least we were strict about enforcing glove use, which had somewhat improved survival rates. But other medical schools outright banned gloves, calling them "the path of heresy."
'Let them die, then.'
I sighed deeply and focused on getting them to drink.
It wasn't that there was almost nothing else I could do—this was literally the only thing.
If they reached a point where they couldn't swallow—whether from pneumonia requiring intubation or impaired consciousness risking aspiration—then IV fluids would be unavoidable.
But based on past experience, that was still out of the question.
Delaying it as long as possible was the best course.
"Ugh…"
"That's it, keep drinking."
I patted the head of one student burning up with fever and left some water behind.
By the time I finished tending to them, it was already midnight.
The ones who had drunk water had since been relieving themselves—or vomiting—all over the place, filling the lecture hall with a foul stench.
"Damn it all."
Even Liston couldn't take it and bolted outside.
"That stench undoubtedly contains miasma."
"Uh… well…"
What would happen if I disagreed?
No idea.
But one thing was certain—nothing good.
"It… does seem that way."
So I played along.
To be fair, places reeking of decay did tend to harbor germs and viruses.
If people could just learn proper sanitation, maybe London would become slightly more livable.
Trying to look on the bright side, I followed Liston and the others back to the lab.
I'd left instructions for Blundell—or whoever woke up first—to ring a bell if anything happened.
The cord was designed to be long enough to reach even from underground, so it easily stretched all the way to the lab.
"Whew."
"Was all this really necessary? They'll recover once they drink water anyway."
After a final check to ensure the bell worked, Liston let out a hearty laugh.
His confidence suggested he genuinely believed that water alone could cure all infectious diseases.
'If this keeps up… he might start water torture next.'
Was I exaggerating?
If that thought even crossed my mind, I clearly still didn't understand 19th-century London.
Here, anything imaginable could happen—and things beyond the imagination of a 21st-century person occurred daily.
"W-well, it's not yet conclusive. And if water alone can heal them, then medicine…"
"Exactly! I'm developing a new hypothesis: Clean water is the ultimate medicine."
Oh.
That sounded familiar.
Even in the 21st century, there were frauds who spouted similar nonsense—usually while peddling some "miracle" product alongside it.
'Liston's sincere, at least. He's not in it for money…'
But the truly dangerous ones were the true believers.
At least with hidden motives, you could address them—but pure delusion? No cure for that.
'For now… he won't do anything extreme.'
There was no immediate solution, and if I didn't sleep now, I might not get another chance. So I lay down.
I seemed to be the only one thinking ahead.
The others had also settled in, but sleep was the last thing on their minds.
They chattered away like middle schoolers on a field trip.
"If this is proven… Ha! I'll truly leave my mark on history."
"Won't we all? We participated—no, led this experiment!"
"Hahaha! Right! And it's all thanks to Pyeong!"
"Thank you, Pyeong!"
"We owe you!"
Yeah…
Gratitude was nice and all.
But sleep…
You're the ones who fed them that weird concoction!
Infectious disease patients were already high-maintenance, but whatever they'd been given had pushed them into complete unpredictability.
"Hahaha!"
"HAHAHA!"
"HAHAHAHA!"
Meanwhile, these idiots just kept laughing.
It was almost unsettling.
Like, hello? The patients you force-fed are vomiting, having diarrhea, and writhing in pain in the next room.
Some are burning up with fever, and—
"Should we sleep now?"
"Yes."
Finally, Liston—who held near-absolute authority—yawned while gazing at the dimming moon, and the others fell silent.
From now on, speaking meant death.
By whose hand?
Liston's.
If I had that kind of influence, I could've changed this era twice as fast.
I sighed, channeled my frustration into a silent prayer, and tried to sleep—when the bell rang.
No way.
They'd been quiet until now.
I'd assumed either the Thames water was weaker than I thought or 19th-century people were just tougher.
Ding-ding.
Just as I was about to sleep, the bell shattered that hope.
"Tch."
I wasn't angry at whoever rang it.
Just at the situation.
Screech.
But what could I do?
I was a doctor, and there were patients.
Patients whose condition I was largely responsible for, by most people's logic.
'Goddammit.'
Swearing internally, I got up.
I wasn't alone.
These 19th-century doctors might've been ignorant, but their passion rivaled any 21st-century physician's.
Screech.
Anyway, I entered the room where the bell had sounded.
I'd prepared nearly every tool I'd modified or invented since arriving at this hospital, ensuring we could handle emergencies even at dawn.
Water?
Thanks to Joseph, Alfred, and Colin—whom I'd worked like slaves—we had plenty.
No matter what happened, we were ready—
"Professor! He can't breathe!"
—or so I'd thought, until I saw the selfless martyr who'd rung the bell despite his own very concerning symptoms (judging by the bulge in his backside).
The gasping student on the floor looked familiar—one of the feverish ones.
Still burning up.
"Stethoscope!"
The crude stethoscope I'd originally made just to determine life or death answered my call.
It sounded almost magical, but no, Joseph just handed it over.
I put it on and immediately stripped the patient's upper half.
'How could you not even remove his clothes when he's struggling to breathe…?'
Ugh.
I sighed but held back.
Nitpicking now would get people killed.
'Shit—his intercostal muscles are straining!'
A clear sign of acute respiratory distress.
Left untreated, cyanosis would set in, then death.
'Pneumonia…'
The stethoscope revealed muffled lung sounds.
Luckily, it didn't seem severe pneumonia—but I couldn't be sure.
Honestly, my last proper auscultation experience was as an army medic.
In modern hospitals, they'd just order imaging.
"Intubate!"
"Huh? But this is—"
"No choice! Anesthetize him!"
"R-right!"
Colin scrambled for the anesthetic gas.
As the machine whirred, I poured liquor down the patient's throat.
Pure alcohol would've been better, but it kept vanishing.
I had no idea how they stored it in the 21st century.
After some vigorous scrubbing, the filth finally came off.
Ugh.
Let's just clean this!
'This is insane…'
Even the famously fastidious Queen bathed only once a month!
"Scalpel!"
"Yes!"
"Hold him down!"
"Yes!"
With Joseph—who'd matured from a bumbling assistant into a proper doctor—helping, I made an incision down the patient's throat and inserted a metal tube.
If it corroded inside, heavy metal poisoning would follow, but we wouldn't leave it in long.
Besides, survival came first.
"Attach the bellows!"
"Yes!"
I connected the tube to a blacksmith's bellows—since 19th-century rubber technology couldn't produce anything like an Ambu bag.
Whoosh.
Once set up, we started pumping.
This wasn't high-concentration oxygen—just assisted breathing—so the effect wasn't as dramatic as modern ICU ventilators.
At best, it helped counteract the respiratory suppression from his fading consciousness.
Now what?
As I worked, Alfred—pumping the bellows—asked with a hollow look:
"Hey, Pyeong."
"Yeah?"
"How… how long do we keep this up?"
"Ah."
No machines here.
Reading my hesitation, Liston answered for me:
"Until I say stop."
"Oh."