A week.
No—ten days.
My prediction had been slightly off, so our suffering dragged on longer than expected.
Of course, did that mean the crisis was completely over?
Far from it.
It had only reached a lull.
Patients were still trickling in.
'And this… isn't because anyone did anything right.'
If this had happened in 21st-century South Korea, it wouldn't have escalated like this in the first place.
With proper sewage treatment, water purification, and sterilization—how could it?
No, even before that, drinking water and sewage systems were completely separated.
And yet, something like this still happened?
Even then, it would've been manageable.
Epidemiological investigations and quarantine measures would've been deployed immediately.
But here?
The administrative capacity didn't exist—nor did they even understand why such measures were necessary.
The reason things were stabilizing now was simply because everyone who could get sick already had.
Given the lack of proper statistics, the reported numbers were likely severely undercounted.
But still, over the past three weeks, the number of patients seeking treatment for diarrhea in Paris hospitals was estimated to be over 20,000.
'The population here is around 600,000, right?'
That meant 5% of the population had fallen ill.
And cholera isn't even airborne—it's waterborne.
In fact, the most accurate transmission route is fecal-oral—from feces to mouth.
Considering diseases with this mode of transmission rarely spread explosively, the scale of infection here was staggering.
"Ugh…"
"I thought I was gonna die, honestly."
Either way, having to treat that many patients left us completely drained.
Even the indestructible Dr. Liston collapsed after a single drink.
Ah, looking closer—it wasn't alcohol but opium tincture.
Still, given his size, he could probably handle a whole bottle, but in his current state, passing out was inevitable.
"Haaa…"
Me?
Did I fare any better?
I feel like I'm about to drop dead…
The only silver lining—no, what kept me going—was that our group made it through alive.
Other doctors?
They didn't wash their hands—got sick.
Didn't wear masks—got sick.
Got splashed and shrugged it off—got sick.
Many died.
And that was despite us doing everything we could—replenishing lost fluids as properly as possible.
Toward the end, even that became nearly impossible.
Filtering and distilling water… wasn't a simple task.
Some later patients had to be given alcohol instead of water.
'Already dehydrated, and now alcohol… No wonder more died.'
Explaining that alcohol metabolism requires water was impossible for 19th-century minds.
But with no alternatives, I even gave them low-proof liquor myself.
Goddammit…
"I wonder if London's alright."
Though the crisis was winding down and we'd soon return, the mood was far from celebratory.
People were still dying—and we were too exhausted for cheer.
So we just leaned against the walls, drinking whatever was at hand.
Even Blundell—whether from drunkenness or genuine worry—looked pale.
"London?"
An abrupt question, but in my dazed state, I humored him.
"Yeah. This time… how should I put it? Hygiene—realizing how crucial hygiene is."
"Right, right."
Hygiene.
Hah.
HAHAHAHA!
Who'd have thought these guys would be the ones talking about hygiene?
I burst out laughing—though quietly, since outwardly laughing in this situation would make me seem insane.
"What about London? Paris is a mess, but the Thames… ugh… goddammit…"
Blundell muttered curses under his breath.
Understandable.
The Thames was a sight that invited swearing.
For starters, not a single salmon had been caught this year.
Of course…
The idea of fishing in that water was horrifying to me, but back then, the concept of bioaccumulation of toxins didn't exist, so it was plausible.
Either way, Blundell ranted for a while before continuing.
"Who's to say it won't happen there? Just luck it hasn't yet. The Thames is filthy year-round… The miasma in that water—it's enough to jolt me awake at night."
"You wake up because you need to shit, no?"
"No… If I drank opium tincture, I'd sleep just fine."
"You 'rested' with cognac once and pissed yourself… I had to clean it up while keeping it a secret from Pyeong…"
"You bastard—why're you spouting drunk nonsense with your eyes closed?! No! I did not piss myself! I didn't even have cholera!"
"Then why'd you steal Pierre's pants?"
Whatever Blundell said, Liston—high on opium and alcohol—just giggled and rambled.
Had he gotten violent, Paris' death toll might've spiked today, but luckily, Liston wasn't the aggressive type.
Right now, he was just burritoed in a blanket, eyes closed, mumbling.
Blundell must've been livid trying to shut him up…
"Ah, everyone's here."
Just then, Pierre walked in.
Having treated patients while shitting himself from the start, he looked noticeably gaunt.
But he endured, driven by sheer determination to protect his hometown, Paris—still working tirelessly today.
"Mmph!"
Blundell, displaying surprising strength, clamped a hand over Liston's mouth and turned to Pierre.
"Actually… there's a meeting scheduled tonight with the Montpellier faction. As Dr. Pyeong requested, we've properly recorded the numbers—both admissions and fatalities."
Pierre had prepared statistical reports.
Nothing groundbreaking—hospitals should've been keeping these records anyway.
But with so many dying, it seemed they'd stopped bothering.
Thanks to me, though, we at least had basic records.
The Montpellier side? Doubtful.
"Also, as Dr. Pyeong suggested, I inquired with the cemeteries and compiled rough data. Though it's inevitably imprecise…"
"Mass graves?"
"Ah, how did you know?"
How?
Coffins aren't exactly easy to produce.
And people were dying by the hundreds.
In an era of mass production, maybe—but not here.
And judging by the carts piled with bodies, it was obvious.
"How could they do that to people?"
—"Shouldn't the corpses of the poor be treated no differently than those of animals?"
Remember, I serve as a consultant for Dr. Liston and the London police.
Given the era, "consultant" might sound sinister, but no—I'm just there to help.
Anyway, I once heard the morticians say that.
Whoever said it deserved a slap—but shockingly, the chief inspector nodded in agreement.
At the time, I thought, "Typical London, disgusting."
But after coming here, I realized—it's not just London.
It's the spirit of the age.
"Well, understandable."
"Yes, too many died. No time to even ask names. The meeting's in a few hours—rest for now, and I'll notify you later."
"Thank you."
"No, thank you, Dr. Pyeong."
The way he kept calling me "Dr. Pyeong" almost felt mocking—but seeing him bow deeply, I doubted it.
Either way, after resting as suggested, we boarded a carriage to meet the Montpellier faction.
The streets were eerily empty.
The beggars shouting for coins, the orphans trying to pickpocket them, the vagrants using stolen children to beg—all gone.
'They were the first to die…'
No wonder people said the poor were no better than animals.
For them, death wasn't just a risk during catastrophes like cholera—it was always close.
Even in London, the corpses of the poor—even murder victims—were often collected and buried together.
"The empty streets are nice."
Unlike me, the coachman—who'd stayed safe thanks to us (in exchange for boiling water)—seemed pleased.
Admittedly, the ride was smoother.
The river looked slightly cleaner too.
With less sewage flowing in, it made sense.
But knowing it was the result of mass death, I stayed silent, somberly gazing at the quiet streets.
Clatter—
The coachman, not expecting a reply anyway, just kept driving.
Our destination? A police station.
Why there?
Because not meeting there would've been disastrous.
In this era, "discussions" prioritized persuasion—with no restrictions on methods.
Including physical force.
Naturally, the Montpellier side suggested the station.
Our side had a swordsman and a Qing gangster, after all.
"Now, now…"
Upon entering, officers directed us right—where Corail, the patriarch of Montpellier, stood.
A master of Hippocratic medicine—the more I thought about it, the more infuriating it became.
I already knew what nonsense he'd spew.
'But… it's fine.'
We had Liston.
Freshly rested, no less.
Even if logic failed, he could persuade with force—and logic was on our side anyway.
"First, regarding the records submitted by the Royal College of Surgeons… I'll summarize. For the record, I maintain neutrality toward both factions."
The mediator wasn't a policeman but someone else—distinguished.
'François Pierre Guillaume Guizot. A rising politician.'
The coachman whispered it to me.
His prestige was such that both sides stayed silent.
But not for long.
"The Royal College of Surgeons and those employing similar methods report a mortality rate of roughly 10%. In contrast… Montpellier's exceeds 60%. Any rebuttal?"
Before François could even finish, Corail stepped forward.
"Fraud! 10% for cholera? Speak sense!"