"Sigh…"
Hernia surgery.
Honestly, it's really not a big deal.
Well, if the intestines get strangulated and start rotting, that's a different story, but usually, it doesn't come to that.
Especially in a place like South Korea, where if you just look around the city, you're guaranteed to find a decent hospital.
Me?
I was a professor at one of the top hospitals, so that says it all.
"Nervous?"
"Huh? Yeah."
But right now, just as Joseph said, I was nervous.
You might think it's VIP syndrome since the man was essentially a VIP, but that wasn't it.
Not that he wasn't a VIP—I'm not that ungrateful.
'It's always like this, isn't it?'
I'd considered doing it at home but wondered if our village even had a treatment room.
You never know.
In many ways, this place was more livable than London.
Of course, part of that impression came from the fact that the artisans who used to make a living here had already gone bankrupt and fled to London's slums…
"Should we take him to Dr. Listen?"
"Huh? No, no. Let's do it ourselves."
Anyway, after checking out the so-called "treatment room" they'd mentioned earlier, I felt like the kimchi I'd eaten was about to come back up.
I'd honestly thought I'd walked into a slaughterhouse.
The smell was that bad.
And that was their treatment room?
I hurriedly turned around and headed back home.
The one saving grace was that Joseph no longer asked irritating questions like, "What's wrong? Why not do it there?"
—"I don't know for sure, but under a microscope, there'd probably be tons of miasma."
Good kid.
So what if the terminology was off?
As long as the intent was right!
"We have to do it here."
With newfound determination, I stood up and looked down at the dining table.
Even if there were kimchi stains on it, from now on, this was our operating table.
"Let's scrub it clean."
"Huh? Uh, yeah."
"It's for your dad. We should be extra careful."
"Uh, yeah. But is this really necessary?"
Did the phrase "your dad" go in one ear and out the other?
Or had I unknowingly become an ungrateful bastard?
I gave him a look.
In response, Joseph made an unfairly wronged expression and retorted:
"No, think about it. The miasma on the floor is just sitting there, right? It moves. It's alive."
"It's tiny, though…?"
"It could transfer to our hands."
"Then just don't touch it?"
"Heh heh."
By that logic, why bother keeping operating rooms sterile?
Why drape the area or wear scrubs?
Just wash your hands and operate.
Apparently, this kid still didn't realize how often—and how severely—people ignore minor movements when focused.
'Should I curse at him?'
One "fuck" here, and he'd turn docile again.
I was considering it, but it ended up being unnecessary.
"Let's clean it together."
"Sure. Just tell me what to do."
His parents had stepped in.
I wasn't sure if that curse was even a thing in Joseon at this point, and I had no desire to confirm it right now.
Besides, this was Joseph's house.
Even if I wasn't exactly returning in glory, I had to at least try to act respectable.
"That said… I'm not good enough."
"Well, you are a bit clumsy. But somehow, you're great at surgery."
Gotta endure it, right?
Yeah, endure.
They say patience three times over can even endure murder.
And right now, I was realizing that saying might literally mean murder.
Anyway, whether moved by my patience or not, Joseph joined in scrubbing the table clean.
Thanks to that, we now had an incredibly clean—honestly, the cleanest I'd seen in the 19th century—dining table. No, operating table.
"Sir, can you lie down here?"
"Huh? Uh, yeah. Slowly… Ugh… Once it's out, it doesn't go back in easily."
"This really isn't a demon, right? Should we call the priest?"
No, it's not.
So please stay still, ma'am.
If the priest comes, this man is dead.
—Heretic! How dare you try to solve a demon's work with a blade, without even faith!
—Huh? So you're saying these are intestines? Then I shall perform a blessing.
The first scenario was the worst, the second the best, but both made me dizzy just imagining them.
And given the high likelihood of either happening, I had to stop it at all costs.
"No, it's not a demon."
"Sigh… But what if it is? If we open his stomach and something comes out…"
"If you're really worried, why don't you sit over there and pray?"
"Ah, right. I should. Oh dear, this is all because he sold liquor."
You knew this was a brewing household before coming here…
Wait, shouldn't you at least put down your wine glass before saying that?
For a moment, a near-filial line popped into my head, but I held back.
Now wasn't the time.
"Ugh…"
I looked down at the man, who was grimacing in pain from the effort of lying down.
Normally, he'd be in surgical gowns, but we didn't have those, so we just stripped him.
Well, we left his bottoms on.
The surgical area did include that part, but…
If I told him to take them off now, he'd probably start believing in the "hernia demon" theory too.
If this were an era without anesthesia, it'd be even worse—but thankfully, it wasn't.
Joseph had brought along some laughing gas (why the hell was this just lying around the village?) while we were out earlier.
"Dad."
"Yeah?"
"Sleep well."
"Huh? Uh… yeah…"
By now, no one was better at administering gas than Joseph.
Travel in this era was dangerous no matter how short, so I'd brought my surgical kit just in case—but even then, his precise dosage was something I wouldn't dare attempt.
Swoosh.
"Good heavens! What are you doing?!"
Anyway, I pulled down the unconscious man's pants.
His father, who'd been watching, gasped and stared at me.
Then, without realizing it, he glanced down at his own lower half—and seemed to concede defeat.
His tone carried less reproach and more inexplicable defeat.
"For the surgery. It's bulging out here."
"Can't you just expose that part and do it?"
"No. Joseph? Explain miasma to him."
"Ah, Father. You see…"
Seizing this rare chance to show off, Joseph launched into an enthusiastic explanation.
Of course, it was riddled with holes—but that made it even better.
For someone with zero foundational knowledge, like his father, it was impossible to follow.
People with some education—those who'd received higher learning—would demand a clearer explanation in situations like this. But in this era, people usually just resorted to faith.
"Ah, I see."
His father, nodding with a face that clearly said "I understand nothing," was no exception.
"Right, exactly. So, could you go make sure no one else comes in? Just pass us the alcohol."
"S-Sure."
Watching his retreating back, I turned to clean the surgical site again.
Being Caucasian, the man had a lot of hair, so there was plenty to shave.
"That much…?"
"Tsk tsk, miasma."
"O-Oh, right."
Using "miasma" as my all-purpose weapon for the time being, I roughly shaved the area and picked up the scalpel.
I'd scrubbed thoroughly.
It'd be fine.
If I just monitored him for two or three days before leaving, it should be fine.
Dr. Listen and Alfred weren't unreasonable—they wouldn't complain if the carriage was a little late.
Sssk.
With that thought, I made the incision.
Strangely, all worries about infection and such vanished.
Now, I could focus solely on the surgical site before me.
Swoosh.
As expected, the inguinal ligament was stretched.
With gloved fingers, I gently pushed the herniated intestines back into place.
The man twitched slightly—probably from the stimulation.
If I'd nicked a blood vessel or something, what would've happened?
It reinforced my need to find a muscle relaxant before attempting more complex surgeries.
Sssk.
Separate from that thought, my hands were already moving.
If the ligament was stretched, all I had to do was tighten it.
Luckily, since we'd caught it early, simple sutures were enough to significantly narrow the gap.
Overdoing it could damage the structures that normally pass through, so moderation was key.
Of course, that wasn't hard for me.
"Done."
"Already?"
"Yeah, it's simple."
"As expected… You're amazing at surgery."
"Well, yeah. I am the best."
"Exactly. No wonder you became a professor."
Was it because it was his father's surgery?
Seeing how cleanly it was going, Joseph seemed to be in a good mood.
"My friend's a professor! Hahahaha!"
Ah.
Never mind.
This bastard…
He must've inhaled some gas while trying to get a closer look at his dad.
Thankfully, even in his dazed state, he'd stumbled to the opposite side of the room…
'Well… it's over. Closing up now…'
I turned off the gas, waiting for the man to wake up.
"Uh… ugh."
After about ten minutes, the man groggily came to.
"Are you okay?"
"Uh, yeah… When's the surgery?"
"It's done."
"Done? But usually, surgery…"
Given that his reference was the square's public surgeries, this would feel different.
For a while, he muttered in disbelief before drifting back to sleep.
Meanwhile, I explained the situation to the coachman, who laughed heartily, saying he'd wanted more alcohol anyway.
He was already wasted—I worried he'd drink himself to death—but shockingly, he stayed perfectly fine despite being drunk for the next three days.
The man?
He was lucky too.
Whether thanks to the alcohol or not, he recovered without a single sign of infection.
"Leaving now?"
"Yeah."
"Paris, huh…"
If anything, now he looked the most pained.
Sailing must've been truly horrific.
"I shouldn't be like this."
Watching Joseph and me prepare to return to London, the man suddenly remembered something important and rushed inside.
Then, with an expression so secretive even his wife couldn't see, he handed me something.
A talisman.
I'd never seen one here before, but it sure looked like one.
"Father…?"
Joseph trembled with betrayal as he stared at his dad.
And for good reason—despite being a devout Quaker who only ever drank, he was now handing out talismans?
"At sea, these things are necessary…"
"How could you—?"
"Listen. Even the Puritans who went to America took these with them!"
"What?"
So even those who'd sought religious freedom couldn't shake off superstition.
The fear of the sea sank even deeper into my heart.