Clip-clop.
The usually talkative coachman had grown quieter. At first, I thought he was tired, but his expression suggested something closer to unease.
Why?
He'd already seen what we intended to show him—even glimpsed the deeper layers. Besides, hadn't we proven our capabilities to the local police?
'Well… we've been traveling for days now…'
It made sense for exhaustion to set in. Even I was starting to feel the strain. Sitting still while moving wasn't as effortless as it seemed. Maybe that's why wanderers were once seen as people who endured hardship.
"Whoa there."
In any case, we crossed the Seine, passing the Île de la Cité with its morgue exhibition, and continued down a narrow, chaotic road. Calling it a "mess" would be an understatement—not that it was a literal dung heap (though, technically, it was). But by now, we were long past being shocked by filth.
'Damn… we're gonna run someone over…'
The road was so cramped and winding that almost hitting pedestrians became routine. Some we did clip, but they barely reacted beyond a wince. Vagrants, perhaps? Too afraid to speak up, knowing worse pain might follow if they caused trouble.
Given the skyline and river, the Industrial Revolution should've been in full swing here… Yet the wealth gap seemed as stark as London's, if not worse.
"We're here."
After a long ride, we finally arrived at the hospital where we'd be teaching. Like most European buildings, it had an old-world grandeur—stone masonry with undeniable charm. Did that make me excited? Not really.
"The Royal French Academy of Surgery… Fancy name," Liston muttered. Though far from fluent in French, he could stumble through reading it. And being sharp as he was, he'd improved enough during our stay to decipher the sign. The "Royal" title did lend an air of prestige.
"Welcome, Dr. Liston. It's been a while."
As we lingered outside, someone emerged with an entourage—a professor and assistants, mirroring our group. Though in our case, the "assistant" (me) was actually the professor…
"Ah, long time indeed."
Luckily, the man spoke some English.
"I'll wait here," the coachman said. "Once your schedule wraps up, I'll take you to the hotel."
"Right. Thanks." Liston handed him a tip and followed the man—Pierre, as I caught from their exchange. Jean-Pierre. So quintessentially French it almost sounded like an alias.
Inside, the lobby was lavish. France might've lagged behind the British Empire, but its colonial holdings weren't insignificant. The mainland's opulence was beyond comparison, hoarding Europe's richest lands. The most striking feature, oddly, was a portrait.
"Ah, this must be Dr. Pyeong," Pierre said.
"Yes. I mentioned him in my letters. A remarkable friend—an aristocrat from Joseon."
"Ha! No wonder he carries an air unlike other Asians."
As they chatted, they gestured to the portrait I'd been studying.
"This man is the reason French surgery exists today," Pierre declared, pride gleaming.
Now that piqued my interest. How extraordinary was he?
"Felix, originally a barber. He was ordered to treat Louis XIV's hemorrhoids."
"Ah."
Hemorrhoids.
Right—I'd stumbled across this in my predecessor's research. He'd pioneered hemorrhoid surgery. Before him, they'd just… burned them off. Since hemorrhoids are vascular tissue, cauterizing them often meant burning the anus too, leading to fatalities. Felix developed a method to ligate and excise them.
"He couldn't operate on the king directly, of course. So he practiced on others. Seventy-five died. But the result? Modern hemorrhoid surgery."
"Ah."
I'd wondered how he'd dared perform experimental surgery on royalty. Turns out, he hadn't—just sacrificed dozens to perfect it. And here his portrait hung, honored. If I were French, I'd have considered revolution.
"Anyway, this way."
Pierre led us down a dim corridor. The flickering gas lamps felt eerily familiar.
"Since we're at a surgical academy, let's start with dissection."
"Naturally. And who better than me?"
"For limbs, yes. But with anesthesia now, we ought to explore… elsewhere."
"Ha! This one…"
So we headed to the dissection lab. The two professors traded competitive jabs, though even the French conceded Liston's supremacy in amputations. That said, Liston had since learned from me—now, no one outperformed him in dissection.
What truly intrigued me, though, was the state of French dissection hygiene.
Squeak.
A rat scurried past.
An actual rat.
I blinked. Yep. A rat.
"Ah…"
"Why the shock? It's expected," Pierre said, as if I were overreacting.
'Well, expecting cleanliness here would be naive…'
I shelved my misplaced hopes and stepped inside.
The usual sights awaited: swarming flies, rotting cadavers, and haphazard dissections so chaotic they seemed designed to maximize horror.
"Pyeong."
I was about to leave when Liston called.
"Yes?"
"Fresh cadavers are arriving soon. Perfect chance to show your skills."
"Oh… Really?"
"Indeed. By tomorrow, at least four more will be procured. These here are… subpar."
"Ah, understood."
Not now, then. We can leave.
Relieved, I turned to go—but something about his wording nagged at me.
Procured cadavers? How did he know? Was there an execution scheduled?
"This is France. Expecting legality from them is asking too much," Liston whispered, reading my expression.
Given London's own gray areas, I'd thought England was no better. But Pierre's silence spoke volumes—some hierarchies transcended borders.
We toured lecture halls next, learning some surgeries were even performed in theaters. A weaker version of me might've fainted, but now, it was just routine. I observed with detached calm.
"Ah, look at the time!" Pierre suddenly exclaimed, brightening. "Say, Liston—any interest in literature or music?"
His tone carried a mocking edge. Their earlier warmth had curdled into rivalry. If this kept up, Liston might throw a punch.
"Some," Liston lied, nodding stiffly. His face screamed indifference.
"Splendid! There's a club my artist friends frequent. Care to join?"
"After dinner."
"Of course! Though those lot drink more than they eat… But we can't do that, especially not to our British guests. I insist you sample proper French cuisine."
"Hm."
At the mention of food, Liston's pride faltered. The British might cook poorly, but they knew good food when they tasted it. Even the most shameless among them wouldn't defend their own cuisine.
Plus, Liston, for all his flaws, was decent enough to concede.
"My treat."
"Ah, much obliged."
Pierre's generosity carried a whiff of pity—poor British souls—but as a Joseon native, I took no offense. The meal was exceptional.
Not that it rivaled 21st-century fare. Frankly, even instant ramyeon with milk back home outshone this era's dishes.
"Wow…"
"Incredible…"
"How is this…?"
Those were my thoughts. The others' reactions were embarrassingly awestruck, their attempts to downplay French superiority crumbling with each bite.
Liston, too, sipped French wine with refined gestures.
"Delicious."
"Compared to British food?"
"Ours is trash."
"Are you drunk?"
"Just honest."
He'd practically committed treason. But the meal was that good.
The trouble came afterward.
"Shall we head to the club? It's held in different spots—tonight's is nearby."
"Lead on. What's it called?"
"The Club des Hashischins."
"Hashish. Exotic."
"Isn't it? Like the scent of desert winds."
Tipsy and animated, they strode through streets unfazed by potential danger—because even French thugs fled at the sight of Liston.
But my mind snagged on one detail.
Hashish… Why does that sound familiar?