In no time at all, the lecture hall had become—quite literally—a disaster zone.
Sulfur flames burned on one side, while hydrochloric and sulfuric acids greedily ate through the floor on the other.
'Is this hell?'
It certainly looked like a depiction of it...
But we were 19th-century men—hardy enough to momentarily ignore even this chaos.
The sulfur fire would burn out soon anyway, right?
Of course, questions followed.
"Alfred. What on earth possessed you to bring sulfur?"
"I heard the ancient Egyptians used it."
"The Egyptians? Those uncivilized—"
The remark didn't end well.
For us British to call the Egyptians uncivilized… That was rich.
Even to the Romans, ancient Egyptian ruins were relics of an older time—their brilliant culture deserved respect.
That aside, sulfur fires were… problematic.
This was toxic gas.
I tossed the remaining sulfur into the fountain outside, eliminating half the hellish scenery.
You might think that would pollute the fountain, but at this point, it couldn't get much dirtier.
Hiss—
An ominous sound followed, but we had far more pressing matters.
I turned my attention to the dishes containing mercury, carbolic acid (phenol), and iodine solution.
Depending on the results of this experiment—
No, perhaps more accurately, depending on how I framed them—our hospital might start slathering patients with mercury from now on.
'I have to stop this…'
Looking again, phenol…
That might be acceptable.
It was potent enough to be used as bleach, but it was still employed for disinfection even in modern times, right?
Just not on people…
'Mercury… that's…'
But mercury?
Absolutely not.
Future textbooks would definitely include a section on this:
"The atrocities committed by the Eastern shaman Kim Taepyung and his associates."
Instead of Minamata disease, we'd have London disease.
As I waited with a pounding heart, Liston—the least patient among us—made the first move.
"Hand me the microscope."
Until then, our artist had been diligently sketching the miasma, undeterred by the hellish surroundings.
He was doing a decent job.
Despite the microscope being monocular (not even binocular) and unstable, he struggled to keep observing.
Probably had no choice.
"H-Here."
The bowing artist handed over the microscope, and Liston peered into the dish, expecting to see sterilization.
"Hmm."
First up was mercury. His expression turned ambiguous.
"What's wrong?"
Blundell snatched the microscope, eager to see for himself.
He, too, pulled a dubious face.
Unable to resist, I stole a glance.
'Ah.'
Couldn't see a thing.
The mercury was obscuring everything.
'They're probably all dead.'
If there were pathogens that survived mercury and could infect humans?
That would be Doomsday.
But I feigned ignorance.
"This… is hard to evaluate. The mercury's blocking the view of the miasma."
"Tsk…"
"Well, damn."
"I had high hopes for mercury… What a shame."
Disappointment hung in the air.
They'd really wanted to smear mercury on patients.
Never mind that they'd done so before and regretted it.
'Speaking of which… Killian… Is that bastard still alive?'
I'd never forget the sight of that burly, notoriously tough sailor weeping like a child, vomiting and convulsing.
Seizing the moment, I pushed further.
It used to be harder, but ever since I mastered the art of bullshitting, logic just followed naturally.
"Also, mercury's expensive, isn't it? Disinfection requires liberal use—if we rely on it, either the hospital or the patients will go bankrupt."
"Ah, true."
"Didn't consider the cost."
"Ah…"
"My apologies. My family's well-off—I didn't think about pricing."
Joseph, who'd brought the mercury, scratched his head, sealing mercury's fate.
Now, only two remained: carbolic acid and iodine.
With my future knowledge, I knew iodine was the superior choice.
But I couldn't just say that.
'Worst case… We experiment.'
No choice.
We'd just have to test them on patients.
Neither would kill them immediately.
But the pain and side effects would differ.
"Let's see. Oh."
"Ohh."
"Definitely…"
"Carbolic acid's quite effective!"
As I examined the dish, the miasma had visibly diminished.
The artist, spurred by Liston's firm pat on the back, hastily sketched the scene.
Whether it was the carbolic acid or the Thames water's properties, the boundary between treated and untreated areas was stark—making it easier to draw.
The miasma's density was completely different.
"Hmm."
"Iodine's… not bad either?"
"Impressive."
"This is a close call."
Next was iodine's turn.
Unsurprisingly, the miasma in the iodine-treated dish was completely annihilated.
This solution was that potent!
No wonder even the 21st century used povidone.
'Huh?'
Why do I remember it as povidone, not iodine?
Was it… an improvement?
Is that why it became povidone?
What was improved?
A sudden unease crept in.
But refinement meant it was widely used, right?
Probably nothing catastrophic.
Besides, povidone was practically a miracle disinfectant.
Applied directly to wounds, it didn't hurt much and caused minimal tissue damage.
For bare skin? The safest option.
"Alright, let's try these two."
Without me needing to intervene, a test disguised as a competition began naturally.
I knew this was primitive.
But…
'Even Edward Jenner would look like a mad scientist by 21st-century standards.'
Born in the 18th century, Jenner pioneered the first vaccine.
How was his smallpox vaccine proven?
By injecting an 8-year-old with fluid from a cowpox-infected woman, then exposing the child to smallpox two months later—with no ill effects.
Not satisfied, he repeated the process with samples from multiple smallpox patients.
All this without any theoretical foundation.
Even now, we don't fully understand why Jenner's method worked.
The genetic similarity between cowpox and smallpox viruses wasn't discovered until the 20th century.
'But we can't do that now. We lack the knowledge to ethically experiment… Not when people are dying.'
Regardless, anything—phenol or iodine—was better than operating without disinfection. Killing pathogens (not "miasma") drastically improved survival odds.
"Enough dawdling—let's go!"
"Huh? Where?"
I hadn't expected immediate action.
But hesitation wasn't Liston's style.
He stomped straight into Zemel's treatment room.
Inside was the usual bedlam.
Patients complaining of stomach pain were being bled, induced to vomit, or given laxatives.
Not a single clean procedure in sight.
"Tch."
Liston was the one sighing this time.
Misery only stings when you see it.
Welcome, Liston.
To the hell that is the 19th century.
"This is a mess…"
But he refrained from causing a scene in someone else's clinic.
"Yet some patients recover like this… Hard to fathom."
It wasn't politeness—just residual, vague faith in the ancient trio of bleeding, vomiting, and laxatives.
To surgeons, internal medicine remained a mystery.
Physicians would rage at the term, but… what could we do?
"Ah, here we are."
We moved to a quieter corner.
There, patients too poor to afford treatment lay abandoned.
"Before we start—how many died last time?"
Liston asked bluntly, right in front of living patients.
Insensitive, but typical for the era.
Death was a constant shadow.
Coming to a hospital at all?
Meant half had already given up—patients and families.
Their faces showed no reaction.
"About… 40%?"
"Not bad. Same as last time?"
A 40% mortality rate was horrific.
But this time, I agreed with Liston.
'Considering we operated without proper sterilization…'
I'd at least used chlorinated lime. Liston's methods were unknown—probably sloppy.
My surgeries had a 20% death rate; Liston's exceeded 60%.
I kept quiet to avoid ruining the mood.
"Well, let's see if we improve. Now…"
Liston, eager to disinfect and cut, licked his lips and surveyed the patients.
He looked like a shopper browsing goods.
The patients, sensing this, tensed.
"You. Lie flat."
"Huh?"
"Flat."
"Y-Yes."
Liston prodded their abdomens.
Some looked confused.
"Ack—ahh!"
Others winced in pain.
Liston's grin widened.
"Heh."
"Wh-Why…?"
A likely case of appendicitis.
Meaning surgery was needed.
Meaning they could survive.
Had they gone to Zemel, they'd have bled pointlessly before ending up in a pauper's grave or on a dissecting table.
But the patient didn't know that.
All he saw was a hulking thug leering down at him.
"P-Please! Spare me!"
"Pay up if you—oh, not us. Carry on."
No salvation here.
Zemel glanced over, saw the penniless patients, and turned away.
The others didn't even look.
"We're trying to save you. No need to fear."
"L-Liar! You're Liston! And that's T.P. next to you! I know you'll just dissect me! Aaaah—!"
"Brother?"
"Too loud."
A mercy, perhaps.
The patient fell silent.