"Wait… Listen to me for a moment."
Jean-Pierre strode into the chaos. Alone, he'd have been swallowed whole—but he had Liston at his side.
"Thugs…!"
"Even Qing gangsters? Jean, what the hell is this?!"
And yes, Qing gangsters too.
Before the Opium War, the West still saw Qing China as an indomitable power. Perhaps that's why East Asians faced slightly less discrimination here.
Then again, these bastards are obsessed with tea and porcelain. Of course they'd gawk at a tough guy from that 'mystical land.'
…Wait. No. I'm a proud Joseon man.
Lost in my gangster roleplay, I'd blurted something odd—but they took it at face value.
"Move."
"Ghk—!"
Thanks to Dr. Liston, a single glare parted the crowd like the Red Sea. Jean-Pierre and I reached the center unimpeded.
The late-arriving policeman muttered in awe:
"Incredible… A true swordmaster's presence."
He seemed dazed, but that wasn't unusual. Most people in this era were a few screws loose.
"Now—hear me out."
"That's why we're here."
"You're wasting our time!"
"Cholera! We just got word—patients are still drinking water!"
Jean-Pierre's voice was hoarse from diarrhea and the recent beating. The crowd fired back, but our translator kept pace.
"Ugh."
A collective sigh. Not just mine—everyone's. That mattered. I wasn't suffering alone anymore. They, too, were beginning to grasp the truth: miasma wasn't vapor but living pathogens.
"Listen to me!" Jean-Pierre shouted again.
Normally, a man who looked half-dead (like Jean-Pierre) would command attention. Basic human decency demanded it.
But this was Paris.
"Boo!"
"Hiss!"
"Guillotine!"
"Too far! Just tie him up!"
I rarely swear, but—
What the actual fuck?
They're yelling guillotine without even hearing him out? The only word I caught without translation was guillotine—
"You fucking—"
Liston stepped forward.
He'd been tying his shoelaces, head bowed, so the sudden movement was jarring. Towering a full head over Jean-Pierre, he snarled obscenities, scanning the room with a predator's glare.
Silence fell.
Moments ago, they'd jeered at a man pleading with his last breath. Now? One look from Liston, and—
…Maybe Britain is better than France.
My heart tilted from baguettes to tea-drinkers.
Liston turned to a bewildered Jean-Pierre:
"Translate exactly what I say. These bastards won't listen to reason."
"Ah…"
Jean-Pierre's face twisted. He probably wanted to argue that French intellectuals could be reasoned with—but the crowd's behavior made that impossible. Reluctantly, he nodded.
"Alright. Those who'll hydrate patients, stand right. The rest, left—but know this: if you pick left, you answer to me."
"Did he really say that?"
"He did."
"Hm. Fine."
The crowd buzzed—but shockingly, few protested. A handful, but negligible. One even glared at me, muttering about Qing gangsters.
The group split. Predictably, left dominated.
"Listen close, frog bastards." Liston's voice dripped venom. "Miasma isn't air—it's living organisms!"
"Boo!"
"B-Blasphemy!"
"You defy centuries of wisdom!"
Every word Liston spoke was fact—yet the backlash was instant. The French had spine, I'd give them that. Men jabbed fingers at Liston's face, unafraid.
(No bloodshed, though. Too many to fight, and even Liston knew they'd need these doctors later.)
"Microscopic organisms were documented centuries ago! We ignored them!"
"Where's the proof they cause disease?!"
"Right here. We tested it. Jean?"
"Ah… We drank the water. The Seine."
"What? Raw?"
"Raw."
"Christ."
Even 19th-century Parisians knew drinking straight from the Seine was madness. The crowd leaned in, equal parts horror and awe.
"Our British friends boiled and distilled it. Under the microscope—what do you call them? Microbes?"
"Miasma."
"Right. Their water had almost none. Ours? Teeming. Result? We got sick. They didn't."
The murmurs grew. Some even shuffled right.
This was the age of reckless experimentation—drinking the Seine earned respect. A retrospective epidemiological study couldn't have matched this impact.
…A true teacher.
I vowed to emulate Liston, watching the tide turn—
Until he spoke.
"Hold on."
The doctors stiffened. Even Jean-Pierre startled.
"Who's that?"
"Corail. A Montpellier graduate—Hippocrates scholar. The foremost authority."
Jesus.
Why study a man who died 2,000 years ago? If it were about his tenacity despite limited knowledge, I'd applaud—but clearly, that wasn't his angle.
"Living miasma? Why would God create disease-causing organisms?"
"Rats cause the plague—that's common knowledge."
"Rats are inherently vile! And your logic is flawed!"
"Tch."
Corail's presence was formidable. Even Liston hesitated.
"Think! You mentioned the plague—but rats don't directly infect patients! The stench where they fester spreads illness! Have plague victims touched rats?"
"Well… no."
Liston deflated. It was agonizing to watch.
I wanted to intervene—but risking a French mob's wrath?
…I'd end up on the guillotine.
"Exactly! Miasma is airborne!"
"Grr—!"
Liston shook his head violently—then slammed his fist into the wall.
Centuries-old stone crumbled to dust.
"W-What are you—?"
"See this powder? Invisible—but it exists."
I thought he'd lost his temper. Or worse—pulled a Samson, ready to bring the building down.
But his next words stunned even me:
"Perhaps plague miasma is airborne—too small to see. But cholera? It's in water. The medium differs, but both are miasma!"
How many here grasp the weight of this?
How many realize this moment will reshape medical history?
A lonely thought. Probably only me.
Respiratory (airborne/droplet) vs. waterborne transmission—a 20th-century concept, mid-century at earliest. And he's already there?
From a few hints?
Overwhelmed, I burst into applause.
No one joined. Not even our team.
Fine. Liston could explain later.
"What nonsense is this?!"
"Not nonsense—sound deduction!"
"Hippocrates would roll in his grave."
Despite Liston's brilliance, Corail and others dug in. Though a few more shifted right—intuitively sensing something.
I wanted to drag the rest over—but Liston surprisingly retreated.
"Professor?"
"Hm? Oh, them?"
"Yes."
"They'll experiment. Good. The Thames isn't pristine either—London could face this soon."
"Then we must—"
"No. Let survival rates prove we're right. That'll crush resistance."
"Ah."