The medical community in Paris was sharply divided—split cleanly in half.
On one side, the so-called Hippocratic faction, led by Corail from the prestigious and centuries-old University of Montpellier School of Medicine.
On the other, the "Swordmaster faction"—no, the Surgeons' faction—represented by Dr. Liston from London, myself, and Dr. Jean-Pierre.
Though it was said to be an even split, the reality was that the physicians—who firmly believed that internists were the only "real doctors"—outnumbered us.
It was frustrating…
But strangely, Liston and Blundell seemed to find it almost amusing.
"Imagine if this disaster had happened in London."
"Exactly."
Taking advantage of a short break, the two stepped out of the ward and washed their hands thoroughly with soap and water we had prepared beforehand.
And no—they weren't doing it because I told them to.
They were doing it voluntarily.
'To think the day would come…'
The realization was so overwhelming that I took a sip of the wine beside me.
If anyone criticized me for drinking while working in a hospital, I'd just shrug and say, "What else am I supposed to do?"
The water in Paris right now… was utterly untrustworthy.
Typically, cholera—a waterborne disease—would spread in localized outbreaks, centered around contaminated areas and their surroundings. But this time, it seemed the entire Seine River was compromised.
Which meant cases were erupting everywhere—chaotically, unpredictably.
To cope, we had resorted to primitive measures: letting water sit for several days to allow sediment to settle, then carefully distilling it…
'Sigh.'
But was that really feasible?
Time was already tight, and securing enough clean water was nearly impossible.
We were too busy trying to keep patients—many on the brink of dehydration or shock from relentless diarrhea—hydrated.
That's why most of the medical staff had turned to alcohol for hydration.
"Ugh… I'm drunk. Drank too fast 'cause I was thirsty…"
Beside me, Joseph staggered, his face flushed.
Watching him, I couldn't help but think, "Sure, water's scarce, but is this really the solution?"
But we couldn't just take water meant for patients.
Or… give alcohol to the patients instead?
No, that wasn't an option either.
The city was engulfed in catastrophe.
Though I don't know if this counts as a silver lining, a sight unimaginable in the 21st century was unfolding before us.
"More would've died if this happened in London."
"Hate to admit it… but you're probably right."
Colin and Alfred were both working tirelessly, barely keeping their composure.
Luckily, by now, the rest of the medical staff and assistants were well-trained in administering fluids, so those two alone were enough to handle things.
This gave Liston and Blundell the luxury of continuing their conversation.
Of course, from the perspective of Paris as a whole, this scene was far from ideal.
Clatter—
Even now, a horse-drawn cart passed by the hospital.
A single ox strained to pull it—for good reason.
The back was piled high with corpses.
And that wasn't the only one.
Further down, another cart of the same kind rolled by.
If anything, those loaded onto carts were the lucky ones.
Some households had been wiped out entirely, leaving corpses to rot inside their homes.
"We have far more people back home… and the Thames is just as horrifying. If my memory serves, the amount of miasma I saw under the microscope back then wasn't much different from here."
"I remember the same. Chilling, isn't it? Any news from London?"
"None. But… could any proper message even get through at this point?"
"True…"
Paris had become a massive graveyard.
No one dared approach.
Who in their right mind would risk delivering anything here now?
"Either way, we'll have to do something when we get back."
"Like what?"
"Convince Parliament. The Thames… the sewage system needs fixing. It wasn't this bad when I was a boy."
"You're right. It wasn't. Yeah…"
As they murmured, their gazes drifted toward the hospital across the street.
At this point, it was hard to tell if it was still a hospital or had turned into a morgue.
Rumors said patients sent there received no real treatment—just left to die.
And yet, many there still claimed what they did ¹was treatment.
"They say drinking (water) just makes the diarrhea worse…"
"Anyway, shall we go?"
"Yeah. God, I'm exhausted."
"We have to push through. But at least new cases are slowing. We just need to focus on the existing ones now."
"Right… Pyeong muttered earlier—said it'd be over in three or four days, max."
"Must have experience from Joseon, then."
"Seems so. What kind of place is Joseon? Must be even more advanced than Qing."
"Exactly. My lifelong dream is to set foot on Joseon soil, you know?"
Ah, so they overheard me muttering.
I only said that because I knew the natural course of cholera.
At this rate, whenever I say something unusual, they'll just assume "It must be a Joseon thing."
Unintentionally, Joseon was becoming a land of mystery and wonder…
"Oh."
Just then, Blundell, who had just put his gloves back on and re-entered the ward, suddenly paled.
Come to think of it, he'd forgotten his mask…
"I think something got in."
"Huh? What did?"
"That."
What else could it be?
I felt like I'd been doused in cold water.
I immediately pulled on my gloves and mask and rushed to Blundell.
"Did you swallow it?!"
"Uh… No? Maybe? I don't know… What do I do?"
Blundell pointed at the patient in front of him.
I was about to check when—the patient suddenly pulled down his pants and let loose.
I've heard monkeys and tigers fling feces to insult their enemies…
But this wasn't deliberate.
Just a… cultural difference, I suppose.
In any case, that wasn't the pressing issue.
Blundell was.
"Gargle with water first!"
"Huh? Uh—"
"No, wait—alcohol! Get the alcohol!"
"Why? For amputation?"
"What? No, not for cutting—"
"Then what?"
"It's just—"
That alcohol had disinfecting properties…
They wouldn't know that yet.
"In Joseon—"
"Joseon?"
"—we use alcohol to disinfect wounds. At the time, I didn't understand why, but looking back, they must have known through experience that alcohol kills miasma."
"Ah! Then it must be true. Joseon's alcohol isn't the only kind that works, right?"
"Probably not."
"R-Right."
As I wiped Blundell's face—now speckled with brown stains—I handed him the liquor I'd been sipping.
Luckily, we hadn't just stocked wine—there was also cognac, strong enough to be useful.
Not quite flammable, but…
It should be enough to kill any bacteria from the splatter.
"Hurry!"
"Ugh…"
With a look of sheer dread, Blundell began gargling the alcohol.
First washing hands, now this…
It was astonishing—but in hindsight, inevitable.
These people were completely redefining their understanding of miasma.
Now terrified of pathogen exposure, they'd been further shaken by one critical incident:
A medical staff infection.
One of Jean-Pierre's students, if I recall.
He hadn't liked our teachings much.
"Gloves? Really?"
"Wash my hands? Why bother?"
After scoffing like that, he contracted cholera—and now rested in the graveyard.
Had this happened before, they'd have dismissed it as bad luck.
Or blamed "bad air."
But not anymore.
Even without my input, everyone here now understood:
"The miasma in the feces entered his body and killed him."
'Heh.'
The thought made me smile involuntarily.
"Are you… laughing?"
"Ah—no, I'm not."
Blundell stared at me, horrified.
Beside him, Liston wore a similar expression—"I give up with you."
I didn't mean it like that!
I'm actually a very kind person, okay?!
"Anyway, Professor, you should rest."
"Rest? Why?"
"Well…"
Infection by pathogens isn't guaranteed, even upon exposure.
First, yes—you have to come into contact with the pathogen.
Whether it enters through the mouth, nose, or an open wound…
But does exposure always mean infection?
If so, humanity would've gone extinct long ago.
Luckily, our bodies have defenses—saliva, stomach acid—chemical weapons against microbes.
And even if those fail, immune cells step in.
But that battle depends heavily on…
'How do I explain immune function being tied to physical condition?'
The concept of immunity wasn't entirely unknown.
People had observed for millennia that survivors of a plague rarely caught it again.
Even Dr. Jenner's smallpox vaccine had been around for decades.
But still…
Immunology remained shrouded in mystery.
"In Joseon… we make sick people rest. No concrete proof it helps, but—"
"If Joseon does it, it must be right."
Thankfully, invoking Joseon worked.
And I saw it—Blundell's faint smile.
He must be exhausted too…
I'm barely holding on, and he's older than me.
An obstetrician by trade—he shouldn't even be here, risking his life in this experiment, only to get hit by flying feces—
"Go. Rest."
"Y-Yeah. Thanks."
"Drink water, not alcohol."
"Got it."
With that, Blundell practically fled to his room.
(He hadn't gone back to the hotel—Paris wasn't just disease-ridden; civil order had collapsed. Liston might survive outside, but Blundell would be robbed and killed within ten minutes.)
And honestly? This place was the cleanest.
After their epiphany about miasma, the entire staff had developed something akin to OCD—scrubbing floors nonstop.
Once, they soaped the floor so much I nearly slipped to my death.
"Alright, let's go."
"Yeah."
"Only a few days left."
"Right…"
"Wear your mask."
"I've got two on."
And so, we prepared for the final battle.
Our hospital's mortality rate stood at around 10%.
Already, that was far lower than any other hospital.
Once this crisis ended and analysis began, the entire landscape of medicine would shift.