Ten people had undergone surgery.
Confirmed appendicitis…
Although no biopsy was performed—so it wasn't a definitive diagnosis—eight of the patients showed improvement after the operation.
Breaking it down further: five were treated with phenol, and three with iodine.
I wasn't sure if this was worth noting as a significant finding, but both phenol and iodine had their drawbacks.
"Hmm."
"They seem to be in pain."
Phenol was quite toxic.
To the point where you could almost see the hair on their skin melting.
So, as Blundell had just pointed out, it was no surprise they were hurting.
"Ugh."
On top of that, the smell wasn't great either.
I wasn't sure if it was a matter of weak stomachs or just general weakness, but…
Either way, some of the patients were really struggling because of it.
Up to this point, I had been feeling quite triumphant.
After all, everyone survived, didn't they?
Well, granted, it had only been three days since the surgery—who knew what would happen next? Plus, some patients still had fevers, so there might still be one or two fatalities.
But so far, it seemed phenol and iodine were about equally effective in terms of disinfection.
However, given the side effects, it was obvious iodine was the better choice.
"It hurts…"
But iodine wasn't exactly painless either.
At first, I thought it was because it touched the wound, but after applying it myself, I realized it stung even on normal skin.
Still, pain wasn't something to worry too much about.
This wasn't the 21st century—it was the 19th.
It wasn't fatal, just painful. Couldn't they endure it?
Hell, this stuff could even cure deadly diseases!
For men, I could just mock them for being unmanly.
Women?
Same logic—call them unwomanly, and that'd be that.
"Pyung, this here…"
But there was a bigger problem.
Liston was staring at the patient's abdomen with a grave expression, not even trying to hide his suspicion of me.
"Surely not…"
Blundell was the same.
If even someone who trusted me as much as Liston was reacting like this, I should feel wronged.
But more than that, I was bewildered.
"Hey, Pyung."
"This… this is…"
"Professor…"
Even Alfred, Joseph, and Colin were reacting this way.
"Oh, no. I didn't know either."
I really hadn't known.
How was I supposed to realize pure iodine could turn human skin yellow?
Sure, it had been yellowish from the first application, but so was Betadine, right?
And that washes off with soap.
But this…
"Are you trying to turn them all yellow?"
"No, bro! Seriously!"
"Well, if you were, you'd have dunked their whole bodies in it. You're the type to go that far."
"No, I—"
"You can't claim innocence."
"I…"
Was this karma?
For some reason, they kept painting me as some kind of villain.
Meanwhile, Blundell was staring at the patient's discolored abdomen—now resembling a character from The Simpsons.
The patient, too.
If it weren't for the pain from the incision, he'd probably have been staring the whole time.
"How am I supposed to meet women like this?"
"That's your concern?"
"Of course it is!"
"A penniless man worrying about women? Besides, remember—you were the one who chose this treatment, not us."
"Tch."
Complaints didn't matter much.
In the 19th century, doctors held near-absolute authority over patients.
Sure, an angry patient might stab you, and the odds of that were pretty high, but…
With Liston around, physical threats weren't a concern.
Besides, hadn't the patient chosen this himself?
"Hahaha! You opened their bellies and they all lived? A miracle! I'm starting to think this miasma-microbe theory might be onto something."
Still, as the one running the hospital, he had reason to worry.
But our headmaster, standing before us, was all smiles.
"Promote this widely. People with belly pain—especially in that, uh, what was it?"
"We're calling it the 'right lower abdomen."
"Right! People who feel like they're dying there actually die a lot, don't they?"
Appendicitis was also a deadly disease.
With a fatality rate of over 60%.
And the remaining 40%?
Most of them suffered chronic relapses before wasting away.
Prevalence varied slightly by gender, but on average, it affected about 7–8% of the population.
Meaning roughly 6% of all people died from it.
And if it ruptured?
Almost 100% fatal.
In that context, this treatment was groundbreaking.
"Those paupers won't be able to pay, will they?"
The headmaster glanced at the crowd of poor patients who'd been left untreated due to lack of money, then shook his head.
"Well, we'll charge the rich more. First, what's that disinfectant called?"
"Phenol and iodine."
"Neither sounds too expensive… Mercury was too costly to use. What if we tried that?"
"Pyung said if mercury were that effective, people would've lived longer already. And he's got a point. Lead, maybe, but mercury? No."
"Fair enough. If the experts agree, that's that. The issue is both have side effects… Let the patients decide. Nobles might be picky, but they won't complain if it's their own choice. We'll just have it notarized."
"So… can we start opening bellies now?"
"Not all of them. Two were failures, right? They're still in pain."
"True. But with only a 20% failure rate, it's worth it."
At Liston's words, the headmaster grinned again.
Appendicitis—or "typhlitis," as it was called—was, after all, a common disease.
Amputations were still being performed en masse, but since my wound treatment method was introduced, the numbers had dropped.
Now, with the addition of these antiseptics, the trend would accelerate.
Sure, the pain would be excruciating, but amputations would become increasingly rare.
A blessing for patients, but a financial blow to hospitals—unless, of course, a groundbreaking surgery like this emerged.
No wonder he was smiling.
Naturally, our Dr. Liston believed that for every loss, there should be a gain.
Even if the other party was the headmaster.
"What about Parliament?"
"I barely managed it. Called in every favor I had—real or imagined. Of course… your reputation and Dr. Pyeong's helped a lot. They agreed. You'll get a chance to speak in front of them."
"Just me? Or Pyeong too?"
"Just you. Why the short answers? You've been like this all day."
"I figured silence was fine."
"Tch. Anyway, go. The MPs won't wait forever."
Parliament.
I was nervous.
And I was just there to observe.
Had I ever attended Korea's National Assembly in my past life?
Sure, Korean politicians were no joke, but British MPs at this time were practically nobles.
How many commoners could there be…?
"Pyung, did you commit a crime or something? Why are you shaking?"
"Wouldn't you be?"
"Don't worry. The princess favors you, and the Duke himself holds you in high regard. Who'd dare criticize you? Besides, we're about to change history. Remember Paris? How the baguette-lovers shit themselves?"
"True. To prevent that…"
"We'll have to follow your advice—wash hands, boil water. But honestly, will our people listen?"
"Not a chance."
They wouldn't, even if it were law.
Unlike Korea, where most citizens completed higher education and college enrollment hit 90%, here, illiteracy was still rampant.
Common sense?
What was that?
Even among the educated, proper debate was often impossible.
"We need laws. Ideally, sewage systems first. I used to think it was just posturing, but now…"
"Posturing? No. It's necessary."
Which was why laws were needed.
Fortunately, Britain's rule of law was well-developed—people knew breaking the law meant serious trouble.
The problem? The lawmakers were 19th-century Brits…
Liston could persuade them, though.
With words—or force, if needed.
"Come in, Doctor. And Dr. Pyeong… Ah, Dr. Pyeong, you can wait here."
"How will anyone see him if he's here?"
"Well…"
"It's fine. Go ahead."
"But it's dangerous alone."
"I have a gun."
"Ah. That's my boy."
I was sidelined.
Technically, I was assigned a lodging inside the entrance, to the right.
Originally meant for stable hands managing MPs' horses, today it was emptied just for me.
But given Britain's rigid class system, the space was cramped, dark, and dirty.
At least I could peek outside, so I stayed half in the light.
Soon, Liston took the podium.
His imposing stature and fine suit (thanks to his recent earnings) made him look impressive.
Up close, he was terrifying, but still.
"The miasma theory is wrong!"
He was passionate.
The MPs, however, looked indifferent.
"Seems unlikely. Rural areas with less stench definitely have fewer cases. If it's microbes, shouldn't they be everywhere?"
"Don't you understand? When people defecate, microbes thrive! They mix into water and cause disease!"
"Such filth in our sacred Parliament…"
"You—"
Liston glared murderously, and the MP fell silent.
But these were British MPs—temperamental beyond reason.
And they outnumbered him.
"Get to the point."
"People must wash their hands! And boil water! Sewage systems must be built first!"
"Hah! Do you know how much that costs? The British Empire sustains countless colonies—without us, they'd perish!"
"Isn't Londoners' lives more important than cost?"
A heavy silence followed.
Not because he'd struck a nerve—these bastards clearly valued money over lives.
They just didn't want to admit it publicly.
Then someone brushed past me—a messenger, rushing to an important-looking MP.
After hearing the news, the MP smirked and spoke.
"Dr. Liston."
"Yes?"
"The French have started sewage reforms. Desperate to win back favor after the July Revolution, no doubt."
"Ah…"
"Surely you're not suggesting we follow them? The Empire has its pride!"
What madness.
I expected Liston to explode.
But instead, he looked resigned.
"That… wouldn't do."
In the end, even he was just another tea-drinking bastard…