"Huuuuh…"
Liston's command was absolute.
As if bound by some unbreakable fate, our senior Alfred was completely at his mercy.
That might sound like an odd way to phrase it, but to put it simply—he was dying.
"Switch."
"Ughhh…"
Of course, Alfred wasn't the only one suffering.
Joseph and Colin were taking turns pumping the bellows.
I did feel bad for them.
But I couldn't just tell them to stop.
There was no other choice.
'Septic shock… I didn't expect it to progress this fast. Will he even survive?'
Can he?
Staphylococcus…
That little bastard's vicious.
If we had penicillin, maybe—but all I had was moldy bread.
Had I made any progress beyond that?
No.
I'd asked chemists to analyze its components, but progress was sluggish.
Then again, if it were easy, humanity wouldn't have had to wait until the 20th century for it.
"Hey, Pyeong."
Lost in thought, I snapped back to reality at Liston's voice.
His expression was grave.
It seemed he was finally realizing that people could die from this.
"How much longer do we keep this up?"
"Ah."
I checked the clock—we'd been pumping for ten hours straight.
The only silver lining was that those who'd shown symptoms from the toxin were mostly recovering.
Even the suspected infection cases were clearly doing better than last night.
Maybe because they were young and resilient, or perhaps because they'd been given a diluted dose—either way, their progress was encouraging.
Hell, four of them showed no symptoms at all.
What the hell are these kids made of?
"We should keep going for now."
"Be honest with me. Do you think he'll live?"
"Well… Hmm."
I studied the patient again.
At most, he was only a few years older than me.
His youthful face was now unmistakably deathly pale.
Listening to his breathing, there was no real change.
"I still can't say for sure."
"I see. Hmm… So we keep at it, then?"
Liston glanced at Joseph, who was now taking over the bellows.
Nearby, Alfred and Colin lay sprawled out, drenched in sweat.
If this had been an Ambu bag, it would've been easier—but manually pumping bellows was grueling.
At least the others were recovering, so we didn't have to run around force-feeding water like yesterday.
"Hey! What's the holdup? Go drink your water!"
Well, "recovering" might be overselling it.
More like Liston had latched onto the idea that water was the cure, and now this was happening.
"Eek!"
"Y-yes, I'll drink!"
Some were gulping it down so frantically, you'd think water was the problem.
But I didn't stop them.
They were young, and besides—
Wait.
Aren't the ones pulling through the ones who drank the water?
Would water really hurt them?
No way.
If it did, this world was truly broken.
Leaving the gulping students behind, I turned back to the patient.
'If we do nothing, he'll die.'
His blood pressure was clearly dropping.
Without a proper sphygmomanometer, I couldn't measure it accurately, but…
His pulse was weakening.
And no matter how much we assisted his breathing, if his blood pressure crashed, the oxygen wouldn't circulate.
'IV fluids… Damned if we do, damned if we don't.'
We were past the point of no return.
Had my expression shifted?
Or did he remember our earlier conversation?
Blundell's eyes lit up as he approached.
"Is it the IV? The one you mentioned before?"
"Ah… Yes. But there's an issue."
"Why? I've been wondering why we haven't used it yet."
"You know how even the water we drink contains traces of miasma, right?"
Unsterilized fluids were unavoidable.
For drinking, it wasn't a problem—if it were, humanity would've gone extinct by now.
Or at least, London would've.
"Ah, right. We confirmed that."
"No point denying it now."
Liston and Blundell nodded.
If you ignored the term "miasma," their understanding was almost modern.
Of course, the details were still full of holes, but…
'Huh? Why am I… tearing up?'
Was this what they called "overwhelming emotion"?
The last few months of struggle, the pent-up frustration and despair—all of it flashed through my mind like a reel.
"Hm? What's wrong?"
"Are you alright? You've been up all night."
"I told you he's frail. Should we give him some laudanum? A good sleep would help."
"Or perhaps a bloodletting? Too much humoral congestion."
Ah.
Still so far to go.
Anger surged through me like steam powering a locomotive, my heart pounding.
The tears dried up instantly.
Laudanum and bloodletting?
This era still had too many hurdles to overcome.
"N-no, I'm fine. Let's start the IV. But his chances are still slim. We should notify his family."
"I'll handle that. I'll call for a priest, too."
"What about… the police?"
Objectively speaking—no, however you looked at it—hadn't we killed him?
This was at least manslaughter.
And right as my career was taking off?
People dying was one thing, but if I disappeared from this era too soon…
Countless more deaths would follow before history corrected itself.
Hell, I wasn't even sure if this was the same Earth I came from.
The modern medicine I knew might never arrive.
"The police?"
"Why?"
Contrary to my worries, the two just looked confused.
"Well… a person died…"
"During an experiment. No different from dying in surgery."
"Ah."
Right.
People died here constantly, and the police hardly ever showed up.
The few times they did come, it wasn't about the deaths—it was about us.
"You're not buying corpses, are you?"
Well, donated cadavers were fine, but they'd once interrogated us over grave-robbing rumors.
Unless it was that level of scandal, London's police were too busy to care.
"Understood. Then please call them. Oh, and we'll need more hands for the bellows."
"I'll fetch some."
"Ah… Yes."
Was there any phrase more reassuring than "I'll fetch some" from Liston?
Probably not.
With that, Blundell and I prepped the distilled water while Liston left.
'We can't just inject it straight. Not in this quantity…'
It needed salt.
Precisely measured.
Thankfully, though the units here were a mess, I'd long since adapted.
Still had to mentally convert to scientific measurements, but…
"Why the salt?"
Blundell watched like a hawk, his voice curious.
He was always eager to learn.
In moments like this, 19th-century doctors had a certain romance to them.
It wasn't just about money—they had a sense of mission.
Or maybe just intellectual curiosity?
Either way, it was something more.
"Well…"
Damn it.
How was I supposed to explain this without sounding suspicious?
If I started rambling about osmotic pressure or blood concentration, they'd think I was nuts.
I hadn't done any research on it—hell, aside from dissections, I'd barely—
Wait, I had performed some surgeries.
"Salt preserves meat, right?"
"Ah, true."
Despite my worries, my lying skills kicked in automatically.
"I suspect salt has some effect on miasma."
Pure conjecture.
Well, not entirely—salt does burst most bacteria.
But to link it directly to preservation, I'd have to prove that decay was caused by microbes.
"Hm. Plausible."
To my surprise, Blundell nodded readily.
Was my lie that convincing?
Or had he already theorized that far?
Either way, it worked out.
"Then dump it in. Salt's cheap anyway."
Or not.
I'd been carefully measuring, and he nearly tossed in a handful extra.
"In Joseon…"
"Joseon? Why bring that up?"
"When preserving meat, we measure everything."
"Measure?"
"Ah, I mean—when salting."
Was that even a thing?
Probably not.
Joseon's meat-eating culture wasn't as widespread as here.
But it wasn't like Blundell would know that.
"Ah, I see. Listening to you, I'd love to visit Joseon someday. Sounds like an impressive nation."
"It is impressive."
Ah, national pride.
Mostly fabricated, but still.
Guess I'm Korean through and through.
I puffed out my chest without thinking.
"Anyway, if that's your method, fine. But if salt kills miasma, shouldn't we inject more to kill what's already inside him? Hmm… Worth testing later."
I needed to keep an eye on Blundell.
His eagerness to apply knowledge was admirable for a scholar—but for a doctor?
Doctors practiced on patients.
Injecting salt?
Well…
A small dose probably wouldn't kill him outright…
Would it?
I'd never seen a case, so I wasn't sure.
"Alright…"
Pushing the thought aside, I located a vein.
Luckily, his blood pressure hadn't crashed completely, so it wasn't impossible.
If it had been, I'd have had to go for a central line—which would've raised infection risks even further.
'There.'
I tied a strip of cloth (meant for catheters) around his arm to make the vein bulge, then inserted the needle.
IV tubing didn't exist here, so the needle had to stay in place on its own.
"Hold him steady."
"Got it."
Even without medical knowledge, it was obvious—if he moved and the needle pierced something, he'd die.
The other two rushed over to pin him down.
He was already unconscious, but with fluids entering his system, he might wake up.
That was the real worry.
Last time we'd tried this…
"I'll hold him."
Liston reappeared.
How many people had he "fetched"?
"You two, take over this. Pyeong, pour the water."
"Ah, yes."
One look at the patient told me he wouldn't be moving anytime soon.
Relieved, I began pouring the water.
After a while, the patient started gagging.
"Hold him tight—"
I nearly shouted, then froze.
"Did… you just punch him?"
"Yep."
"Ah."
The patient was out cold again.