"Now, look here."
The crowd was already gathered because of me.
The Montpellier faction stayed out of stubborn pride, but nearly a dozen other cadavers lay abandoned.
The room was emptier than when I'd first started lecturing.
Why?
Because Liston was about to deliver a performance only he could pull off.
Skrrrt—
Sword Master.
Amputation Master.
The man could be called either—his blade work was that flawless. With a single motion, he exposed the entire pectoral muscle.
(Of the cadaver, not his own. Obviously.)
"Oh…"
"Wow…"
The reaction would've been the same if he'd revealed his chest—his skills were no joke.
Thanks to his meticulous dissection of both the pectoralis major and minor, the crowd could now clearly see the nerves branching from the cervical spine into the arm.
"Notice how they converge here… We don't yet know each one's exact function. But—"
Liston paused mid-sentence and glanced at me.
I'd handed him some startling research earlier.
It's a bit awkward to boast, but by now, I had both reputation and wealth.
No, I didn't make money by hacking off limbs like Liston—I sold condoms, performed nasal surgeries, you name it.
And what did I do with that money?
I saved it.
The Korean virtue isn't flexing—it's frugality.
(Though I did splurge, like sponsoring the Brontë sisters and funding my other hobby: historical archives.)
'The "Joseon lore" bit works on Liston, but the others won't buy it.'
Even Liston humors me more than he's fooled.
Still, given my years of dissection experience, I'd dug through colonial loot for anything useful.
Britain's empire-building made it easy—they stole artifacts indiscriminately. The British Museum already hoarded century-old plunder, but since books weren't prioritized, even those "collections" were accessible.
'Feel like dying?'
If anyone complained, I'd send Liston.
And if even Liston couldn't intimidate them?
'Tsk… Must I embarrass you?'
Enter Lord Damien.
Realizing how stacked my connections were, I almost laughed.
Among the excavated records, one discovery stunned me—so much that I wondered if Europeans had already secretly pioneered X-rays or similar tech.
"There was a man named Herophilus," Liston announced, citing the Greek scholar I'd uncovered.
Greek undersold it—he lived 2,000 years ago.
You'd assume his work was primitive, but no.
Herophilus was buried by academia for allegedly dissecting over 600 live prisoners.
"His theory suggests these nerves are segregated—some motor, some sensory. Damage higher up disrupts one function; lower cuts disable both."
"Hmm… Too radical…"
"Who even is Herophilus?"
"A Greek," Liston said flatly.
"Galen is the father of anatomy!"
Ah, Galen. The crowd's darling.
He'd risen as a backlash against "extremists" like Herophilus, when public and religious outrage banned human dissection. So Galen pioneered comparative anatomy—extrapolating human systems from pigs.
And medicine built on those flaws…
No wonder pre-Renaissance treatments were disasters.
'Yet these idiots still cling to those methods.'
As I mused, Liston shook his head.
"Calling a pig-butcher the 'father of anatomy'? That delusion ends today."
"But—"
"Listen first."
"…Yes."
His authority silenced dissent—at least to his face.
"Observe—these three nerve bundles branch here, here, and here."
"Remarkable precision… Do you know these pathways?"
"Heh."
Liston laughed at the awe, probably thinking, 'Obviously.'
(My students and Blundell knew too, though replicating this finesse was another matter.)
"Speculatively, the thumb's nerves govern these movements. The ring finger's control these. The central ones likely facilitate flexion."
"Incredible… This aligns perfectly. A groundbreaking theory!"
"Unless the signals ascend upwards?"
"Possible. But we can't exactly slice live subjects to test it."
The room hushed.
Given Liston's reputation, no one dared suggest he wouldn't test it.
(To his credit, he was both skilled and ethical—by 19th-century standards.)
"But treating injuries with this knowledge will prove it."
"Ah! We'll adopt this method!"
Next, I showcased the vasculature.
Arteries and veins.
Contrary to popular belief, arteries weren't "red"—their thicker walls made them appear white. Veins were indeed bluish.
Dissecting vessels was easier than nerves, and my anatomical knowledge surpassed even Liston's. My work drew gasps.
"How… How is this possible?"
Meanwhile, the Montpellier team's dissections looked like…
Well, not butchered. Yet.
Their cadres were shredded.
"Those who agree we outperformed, stand left. Those who admit we did, right."
Liston smirked at their ruin before dividing the crowd.
Astonishingly, some Paget sycophants tried shuffling left—including a note-taker who'd copied only our work.
"Got a death wish?"
Liston "politely" intercepted them.
"B-But surely—"
"Motherfucker."
One profanity later, even they conceded and scuried right. Others followed, repentant.
"Good, good."
I chuckled, resting Liston's gifted sword on my shoulder.
The rest?
They emptied their pockets before the right-side crowd.
"W-What is this?"
"You did learn from us, no?"
"Well, yes, but this is a forum for exchange—"
"Exchange? What did we gain? We taught you miasma theory, anatomy… Even saved thousands pro bono during cholera. What's your contribution?"
Joseph led the shakedown.
Overshadowed by Liston, but still a hulking 170cm—and armed with a "spare" Liston knife, now rusted.
Nothing's scarier than a rusty blade…
Especially one crusted with human grease and blood.
"H-How much?"
"Daring to price knowledge and lives… How vulgar."
"We'll pay!"
A few right-siders tried defecting, but Liston blocked them.
"Voluntary donations, gentlemen. Voluntary."
His smile turned a man pale mid-step.
"Y-Yes! Our apologies!"
"Apologies? Haha."
With "donations" secured, Liston approached the Montpellier leader—who finally grasped the imbalance.
Their work was garbage.
Competent for amputations, but lacking the precision for advanced surgery.
"We've won the wager."
"This… This is coercion!"
"Coercion?"
"Your swords—!"
"You're armed too. Everyone here is."
Before he finished, Liston cleanly severed the cadaver's intact leg.
"Severed" undersold it—he excised everything but bone. On a live patient, he'd take 30 seconds. On a corpse? Mere seconds.
"So this… is the Sword Master Liston."
The man's knees buckled—not just from fear.
True mastery breaks will.
In this era, a surgeon's skill was measured by amputation speed.
Anesthesia? New this year.
Outside London, proper anesthesia was barely a month old.
"How… How is this clean?"
Seeing such skill in that context was humbling.
Even 21st-century orthopedists would kneel.
(Partly from awe, partly horror.)
"Now, pay up."
"P-Pay?"
"Our wager."
"O-Of course! Name the sum!"
"Not here."
"Wh—?"
"We'll collect at your home."
"M-My family's there!"
"Lucky them."
Villainous? Only superficially.
He meant the man was fortunate to afford a family.
Not that he'd enslave them.
Thus, we returned to London richer and more infamous.
A city of nightmares—but Paris was no better, so nostalgia tugged at me. My pulse quickened.