I couldn't tell if it was the water or just humanity's sheer resilience, but…
'His breathing's improving…'
Since when did saline infusion work this well?
If it were always this effective, modern medicine would've had a 100% survival rate.
But reality?
People drop dead constantly.
Even with cutting-edge equipment and our best efforts.
'Is this even Earth?'
Are these people actually human?
No wonder I kept having these thoughts.
How else could this make sense?
This is recovery?
"Haha. Water truly is a panacea."
Too stunned by the miracle before me, I stayed silent.
Meanwhile, Dr. Liston—who'd not only removed the intubation tube but also handled the sutures—let out a hearty laugh.
His skills were impressive.
How was he already this proficient after such brief training?
His only quirk was obsessively aligning severed tissue during sutures. Fix that, and he'd be a master surgeon by any standard.
No wonder he was once a swordmaster.
"Indeed. Seems so. Hmm."
Liston could afford to say such things.
As a surgeon working closely with me, he could prevent most disasters before they happened.
And surprisingly, he had a meticulous side.
Granted, his credibility took a hit after force-feeding everyone that questionable concoction yesterday…
But for a 19th-century doctor? Hell, he was overly cautious.
'That man…'
Blundell, in contrast, was far more reckless.
Hadn't he mixed blood into treatments before?
On top of that, he dreamed of preventing live burials—noble, but…
Since I'd given him a stethoscope, he'd calmed down… but his past antics blurred the line between confirming death and ensuring it.
Since when was "stab the heart to check for blood spray" standard procedure?
'That guy would inject pure water without blinking… The problem is…'
Now that he'd latched onto this, he'd likely push hydration therapy for everything.
Normally, that'd be disastrous.
What if someone needed actual medicine or surgery, and he just gave them water?
'…Wait. Is this better?'
For the 19th century, water might genuinely be the best option.
Compared to their usual "treatments," it was practically revolutionary.
These bastards…
They didn't diagnose based on theory—just imagination.
"Are they all recovering now?"
"Yes, it seems so."
The hydration therapy was working.
The first two days had been hell, though.
Distilling water was grueling, and I couldn't give poorly made batches to patients.
But withholding fluids from those vomiting and dehydrated wasn't an option either.
Explaining the science was impossible, and my exhaustion…
"—You fucking morons! Boil the water!"
I snapped.
"—'Fucking'? Don't know what it means, but it rolls off the tongue. A curse?"
"—Yes, sir."
"—Listen up! You fucking morons! Boil the water! Move!"
And thus, I awakened a demon.
Mr. Fucking.
Liston's new title.
Some words carry weight—even without knowing the meaning, his delivery made people flinch.
English curses lacked that punch.
"—I like this."
Now, Liston used it daily, as if his mouth would grow thorns otherwise.
Crude as it was, we pulled through.
"Gentlemen."
Liston gathered the twenty test subjects with a solemn face.
Not a single casualty.
The experiment itself was unethical, but… no one died.
"You've done well. Medicine has advanced because of you. The very concept of miasma will change."
He patted the shoulder of the frontmost student—the one who'd suffered the worst fever and diarrhea.
Even now, something unholy stained his trousers.
Yet he stood proud.
Pathetic? Maybe.
But hold your head high. You've earned it.
How would history remember this?
Perhaps as the birth of germ theory.
If so, who cared about a little shit-stained clothing?
These men had risked their lives—and succeeded.
"Now, to the director."
"The director?"
Liston cut the celebration short and marched out.
The hall still reeked, despite the patients' improvement.
"Yes. He must be informed."
"Ah. Right… Let's go."
This was urgent.
The director—a man whose title seemed his only job—was a heavyweight in London's social circles.
His endorsement could elevate the city's medical standards overnight.
"—So miasma isn't air, but… living creatures?"
"—Not entirely non-air. There may be variants. But the dangerous kind? These."
Liston barged into the office and slapped down a crude sketch of bacteria.
I'd intentionally drawn them ambiguously—distinguishing E. coli from Staphylococcus would've confused them further.
"Hmm."
The director frowned as Liston recounted the experiment.
"You fed it to them?"
"—Yes."
The director paled at the brutality.
For a moment, I remembered why he held his position.
Just a moment.
"—Why not test it on criminals first? Safer."
"—That costs money."
"—Ah."
You absolute demons.
Satan's interns.
"—The weaker ones vomited and had diarrhea within three hours."
"—Pathetic."
I intervened before the conversation derailed further.
"—Sir, it's not weakness—it's the miasma's effect."
"—Ah! And oddly, the ones who purged first recovered fastest."
"—Really? The weak ones…?"
Liston shot me a glance, then corrected course.
"—The miasma's density decreased in them."
"—Ah… expelled through bodily fluids? Hippocratic."
"—No, no. Not like that."
His expression turned downright disdainful as the director quoted outdated theories.
"—How dare you look at your superior like that?"
"—Why wouldn't I?"
"—Most wouldn't. Explain, then."
He repeated my earlier explanation verbatim.
"—So these 'creatures' exit the body, reducing symptoms?"
"—Yes."
"—Plausible. And those who drank diluted water had no issues?"
"—None."
"—Couldn't they just be stronger?"
"—Blundell drank it. So did Pyeong here."
"—Ah. Then…"
Things were going smoothly… so why did I suddenly feel insulted?
"—Fascinating."
The director studied me, nodded, then frowned.
Liston had once mentioned the man was "sharp in his prime."
Given the era, that likely meant literally.
'Surviving this long as a doctor…'
House calls were practically suicide missions.
No wonder medical schools taught horseback riding—not for prestige, but escape.
And when escape failed? You fought.
By that metric, Liston was born for this job.
"—The theory holds. We'll publish. Lead author?"
"—Pyeong."
"—Heh. You're fond of him."
"—I've learned more from Dr. Pyeong than in my entire career."
"—Fair. But… expect backlash. Too radical. Some may attack."
In the 21st century, "attack" meant academic criticism.
Here?
Literal attacks.
People had been institutionalized—read: murdered—for less.
"—I'll escort him."
"—Good. Pyeong—listen. I value you. Never go alone."
"—Understood."
"—And… a conference in Paris?"
"—Yes."
"—Huh?"
This was news to me.
Liston would attend conferences, but…
"—Taking Pyeong could be risky post-publication."
"—We'll replicate the experiment there."
"—Replicate…? Ah. Force-feed dissenters?"
"—Yes. French pride will ensure volunteers."
"—Those frogs would. Reckless bastards."
"—Precisely."
"—Very well. Pyeong's wound treatments have reduced amputations. And he's earned it… Go. But be careful. The Channel's no joke."
"—Are you telling me that?"
"—No—Pyeong. You could swim there, couldn't you?"