What is the purpose of dissection?
No—I should rephrase that.
This isn't the 21st century. It's the 19th.
What was the purpose of dissection?
"Alright, alright. Stop focusing on those savages. Listen to me."
Montpellier.
A university with a grand name… yet somehow, the field of medicine had fallen into the hands of those who made it anything but grand.
"Dissection is a means to fully understand the human body. It must be conducted with reverence. Now, the scalpel."
Right. Fully understand the human body.
There had been a time when that was the goal.
Especially in an era where science and religion were still tangled together.
We might assume Western academia was purely practical, but that's just another form of Orientalist fallacy, isn't it?
They're human too—naturally, they were trapped in abstract illusions to some degree.
"Look here."
On top of that, education remained strictly apprenticeship-based.
While the printing press had advanced, illustrated medical atlases weren't exactly mass-produced.
Ironically, the few high-quality anatomy books that did exist were mostly collecting dust in noblemen's libraries—not hospitals or medical schools.
In short, whether it was dissection or anything else, learning required direct mentorship…
While this had its drawbacks—slow, inconsistent training—the real problem was how excruciatingly gradual knowledge spread.
Snip.
Even after nearly 200 years of formal dissection, they were still stuck at this rudimentary stage.
"Look at that… Just look."
I'd already glanced over.
They were hacking away with no regard for anatomy.
For someone as tall as Liston, the sight must have been especially jarring.
And by now, he'd become quite skilled at dissection himself.
Of course, trickier areas like the face or skull were exceptions, but when it came to limbs or the abdomen, he was remarkably proficient.
"What a mess."
Honestly, he hadn't even been at it that long.
Not just in terms of time—he was always busy.
Yet the moment Liston picked up a scalpel, his entire posture changed.
He positioned himself naturally for optimal comfort and visibility, meticulously separating layer by layer as he opened the abdomen.
'The purpose of our dissections… is to clearly understand human anatomy, and beyond that, to grasp the mechanisms of disease and methods of treatment in clinical practice.'
A clear objective makes the path forward clearer.
And among those walking that path now, Liston was undeniably a genius.
"Hmm…"
"Mmm…"
Even with untrained eyes, the difference was impossible to miss.
The others here weren't stupid—just woefully ignorant.
Well, some were idiots.
"Here—use your hands!"
The guy elbow-deep in a freshly decaying cadaver, digging around barehanded…
Did he have multiple lives to spare?
Even so, he'd probably be dead by tonight.
His hands were already scarred—looked like he'd cheated death at least eight times.
At that point, any normal person would've realized something was wrong…
"Whoa… Incredible. The intestines just spill out like this!"
"Right? Now cut here—see?"
"Ah, feces is coming out!"
"This is Montpellier at its finest!"
Seemed they'd bet everything on their prestigious name.
A fancy name, and the rest… well, lacking.
Why the hell were they slicing open intestines mid-dissection—
"Ugh, fucking smell."
We'd grown numb to foul odors by now.
Anatomy labs, the cholera outbreak—stench was unavoidable.
But the reek of feces from the cadaver was something else entirely.
"Haha! This is how you properly examine the intestines. Those British cowards with their gloves—too scared to do real dissection, eh?"
A Montpellier provocateur.
I expected Liston to snap—but surprisingly, he held back.
He only muttered to me:
"A surgeon speaks with his blade."
And just when I thought he'd lose it, he restrained himself again.
"Let's show them something they've never seen. The true form of dissection."
"Ah… So that's what you meant."
"What did you think I meant?"
"That we'd just start cutting them all down."
"That… would be the easier solution."
As if beheading over a hundred doctors was easy, this medieval knight and I resumed our dissection.
Snip.
First, I made a cross-shaped incision through the peritoneum and began exposing the liver.
Most of them were at least glancing our way—except Montpellier's resident imbecile—so "showing off" was the right term.
"Here—this is the gallbladder. Its distended state suggests the deceased hadn't eaten before death. Now, if we carefully detach it like this…"
Both Liston and I worked close together, scalpels in hand.
The precision of our movements alone would've put most dissections to shame.
Slice. Slice. Slice.
I isolated the gallbladder in seconds.
With a clear understanding of anatomical layers and proper visibility, it was effortless.
"This is the bile duct. It connects the gallbladder to… here. Roughly twelve finger-widths long, leading into the intestine. And behind this—"
"Ah, I've already freed the pancreas."
"Wow. Impressive."
"Of course. No one wields a blade like me."
The pancreas was tricky—soft and slippery.
But Liston made it look trivial, separating it in moments.
I almost wanted to recruit him as my assistant.
"Now, the pancreas secretes pancreatic juice into this duct here, correct?"
"Right. Digestive enzymes, presumably."
"Exactly."
I nearly mentioned insulin—a surefire way to get myself burned at the stake.
Surprisingly, diabetes had been known long before the 19th century.
A disease where urine turned sweet, the body withered, and death followed.
A cure?
Insulin wouldn't be discovered for another hundred years.
Even in the 21st century, diabetes was terrifying—but here, it was a death sentence.
Though, in an era where few could afford to overeat, it wasn't as prevalent…
"Next, the liver."
"Right."
The liver—a massive organ with countless functions.
And when it failed, the consequences were catastrophic.
Tap. Tap.
Even in this era, one condition was recognizable: cirrhosis.
Coincidentally, this cadaver had it.
Well…
Not a coincidence.
It was everywhere.
'What caused it? Hepatitis B? C? Or just alcohol?'
Like London, the poor here were forced into brutal labor.
With no worker protections, injuries and illnesses went untreated.
Medical care?
A pipe dream.
Even if they did receive treatment, hospitals could turn non-fatal conditions lethal.
'Yet another reason for gloves…'
My gaze drifted to the Montpellier group.
Their cadaver's liver—also cirrhotic—was being handled barehanded.
What viruses lurked in that organ?
'If not today, he'll die eventually.'
I wished I could warn them—but it was pointless.
And the Montpellier lot?
They never listened.
Their stubbornness had already cost lives…
"You see, some livers look like this, others are smooth. There's a difference."
"Exactly. There must be a reason."
"Then we'll uncover it."
"Right."
Truthfully, we didn't fully understand either.
The only silver lining? Fear of miasma had bred a hygiene obsession—hence the gloves.
Liston had even ordered more, terrified of tearing them mid-procedure.
"Here's the portal vein."
"Such a fitting name. All the body's veins converge here…"
"Proof of the liver's importance, no?"
"Right. It must do something we don't yet grasp."
Liston glanced upward—toward whatever god he believed in.
"These vessels are the hepatic artery and vein."
"Incredible. Such complexity in one organ."
"Next—"
"The spleen."
"Yes."
We continued chatting while systematically isolating each organ, preserving every vessel, nerve, and duct.
A few here might have managed it—but none as methodically as us.
How could I be sure?
"Uh…"
"How are they so fast and precise?"
"Their commentary alone is unsettling. Something's… happening."
Because every dissection—except Montpellier's—had stopped.
Normally, Liston's presence alone implied brute force would be involved.
Today, pure skill held everyone's attention.
"They say that Asian has a royal patron…"
"There's something uncanny about him."
"His hands—how does he move them like that?"
No wonder.
Most organs were already exposed—yet still connected by intact vessels.
A sight few had ever seen.
The first time we did this, even the dean rushed over.
The princess later sent a letter—"I must see this in person."
I'd worried it might disappoint her… but now, that seemed laughable.
"Oh…"
"Unbelievable."
"Is that… the kidney?"
"It—it appears so."
One by one, the retroperitoneal organs were revealed—still tethered by their ureters.
"God…"
"How…?"
The tension must've gotten to the Montpellier surgeon.
He approached, scalpel in hand—then fell silent.
I understood.
He hated this.
Us. This situation.
But any observer would instantly recognize the truth:
We were on another level.
"You…"
"Here to learn?"
Liston, never one for subtlety, baited him outright.
"Nonsense! Don't mock me! Dissecting like this—typical British perversion! Let's settle this physically!"
As expected, he erupted, challenging Liston to a brawl.
Liston just laughed.
When it came to brute strength, even I had to concede defeat.
"Fine. What's your wager? Your life?"
The mood veered into noir territory.