"Hey, Pyung."
"Ugh… Forget it. Just forget it."
Emerging from Parliament, I was clearly sulking.
No, seriously—
What kind of people were these?
No matter how much I despised the baguette-lovers (the French), refusing to do what was necessary just because they did it first? That made no sense.
"Well, they said there's no money. Seriously."
"The British Empire has no money? That's… absurd."
"No, it's true. We're hemorrhaging silver in trade with Qing."
"Qing…?"
Why was Qing involved? The sudden historical reference threw me off.
Of course, Liston wouldn't notice my confusion.
Besides, the way he had just caved in Parliament was… a far cry from his usual domineering self.
It was unsettling.
Liston looking deflated? That alone was worth quietly observing.
So I listened with a straight face as he passionately ranted about things I already knew.
"Tea. Damn tea. Tastes great, doesn't it? But it only comes from Qing."
"Sure, but does that mean the Empire's broke?"
"Broke? Those bastards buy nothing from us. Meanwhile, we're shelling out silver for silk, porcelain, and tea. So tell me—do we have silver or not?"
"Ah… So they won't even fix the sewers?"
"They could, but they say there are more pressing matters. As if London only has one or two problems."
"Right…"
I glanced out the window of Liston's carriage.
The London outside was a city of ash-gray gloom.
Some of it might've been the dirty glass, but I knew the grime ran deeper.
This place wasn't just troubled—it was a mess from top to bottom.
"Anyway, let's do what we can. Starting with boiling water by district."
"You were the one who said our citizens wouldn't listen."
"The ones close to us will."
Liston raised a fist.
The same fist that had seemed so small in Parliament now looked as imposing as ever.
One punch from him could kill a man—MP, prime minister, even the King.
(Of course, I'd die too, but ordinary citizens didn't have that luxury.)
"Well, I suppose that's true."
"If we can show them that those who listened survived the next cholera outbreak, maybe they'll change their minds."
"Shouldn't that be proof enough?"
"Paris was proof enough too. Did they listen? Barbarians, the lot of them."
"Hmm."
If even Liston was starting to see the 19th century as backward, he was becoming a true scientist.
A good thing.
The sewer issue was disappointing, but…
Realistically, that would've taken years anyway.
Bullying people into boiling water was something we could do now.
Fine. Look on the bright side.
What else could we do?
Maybe being in the 19th century forced patience and acceptance—because despite my earlier frustration, I was calming down fast.
"Hmm."
"Ugh."
Unfortunately, that calm didn't last.
After getting out of the carriage, we headed for the emergency room.
Not by choice—the driver had gotten confused and dropped us there.
London's streets were a maze, so mistakes happened… but if even a regular driver messed up, he was probably drunk.
No wonder so many patients got hit by carriages.
Since I couldn't scold him without seeming suspicious, I'd let Liston handle it later.
As we stepped inside, I was met with a horrifying sight.
"Ugh…"
"Agh…"
At first, I thought they were injured.
Their jaws were rotting away—but in any other hospital besides ours, that wasn't too unusual.
This was 19th-century London (and Paris), where even minor wounds could fester.
But two cases? That demanded attention.
"What do we do with this?"
The attending physician just kept muttering, switching between patients.
It wasn't just the treatment daunting him.
Their clothes were ragged.
No—not just ragged.
Decomposing.
Could these patients pay?
Of course not.
"Pyung. Jaws are our specialty…"
My interest was piqued.
Something told me this was tied to my knowledge.
As I moved toward them, Liston stopped me.
Or tried to.
"What?"
"Nothing. But the money—"
"What about it?"
"I'll cover it."
Guilt over earlier events made him follow me with a sullen look.
(Though to everyone else, he just looked terrifying.)
Besides, he had once aggressively taken a dog-bite patient from this ER.
No wonder the attending physician instinctively backed away.
Not that I blamed him—the patients were horrifying.
A rotting jaw?
Gruesome to look at, and no clue how to treat it.
19th-century medicine had no solution for this.
"Patients."
"Ugh…"
The two only groaned in response.
A woman in similarly rough shape answered instead.
"Yes?"
"How… did this happen?"
"No idea… They didn't show up for work, so I checked on them. Found them like this."
"Work? Where?"
"The factory."
"Which one?"
Even a "proper" answer wasn't reliable.
Most workers had no education, let alone medical knowledge, so extracting useful information required patience.
This was something I needed to work on too.
During consultations, the doctor had to adapt to the patient.
"Matchsticks."
"Ah, damn it."
The word slipped out—luckily in Korean.
(Only Liston could've understood.)
"Not one of the factories I threatened."
He gave a half-hearted excuse.
"That was the rubber factory. Condoms."
"Obviously, you'd step in there. But…"
"White phosphorus matches are profitable. And… do you really think these backward Londoners would've heeded your warnings? Even if some did, I never expected this."
"Hmm… This is bad."
Liston looked grim, but probably not as much as I did.
Staring at their melted jaws, I imagined countless more victims.
Damn it.
The curse slipped out again.
Didn't white phosphorus gas obviously look toxic?
Even if not, it didn't just cause chronic poisoning—acute symptoms too.
And despite warnings through Liston and the headmaster, they still used it?
"Um… Can they be treated?"
"Treated…"
Treated.
Right. Focus on the patients in front of us first.
(Though I would use every connection I had—headmaster, duke, whoever—to shut down these damned match factories.)
'After Parliament today, I see why they call it the "Sick Man of Europe."
These bastards really valued money over lives.
White phosphorus matches were used by the military, too…
Maybe society would dismiss these workers' suffering as a "necessary sacrifice."
"So… will you try?"
Regardless, the patients came first.
"Ah."
"Hmm."
The sight made me sigh.
The only relief was that the upper jaws looked intact.
The lower jaws? A disaster.
Poor dental hygiene likely sped up the decay—existing cavities had spread as the bone weakened.
"Rotting" didn't even cover it.
This wasn't ordinary tooth decay.
This was…
"Amputation?"
Seeing the rot, Liston's fingers twitched toward his scalpel.
He still carried it despite rarely using it now (outside limb removals).
Technically illegal, but the police classified it as a "medical tool."
"Eek!"
The attending physician, who'd only taken one step back earlier, now fled outright.
"No?"
When I hesitated, Liston double-checked.
I wanted to say no.
But sadly, this couldn't be saved.
"We have to cut it."
"I'll do it. One clean—"
"No, no. Wait."
If no other option existed, a quick amputation might've been better.
But—
How could someone live without a lower jaw?
And had Liston even done this before?
Even skilled surgeons struggled with unfamiliar anatomy.
"Have you?"
"Learned it in training."
Would jaw resection even exist historically?
Without white phosphorus, probably not…
"You have?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
Surely not just for fun?
Cutting up a living person's—
Hmm.
Actually, I couldn't be sure.
Different times.
Liston's training would've been 10–20 years ago—even more barbaric.
"Why? A shaving cut gone bad. Why anyone shaves is beyond me."
"Ah…"
Shaving.
So he'd accidentally cut off a jaw.
I'd assumed beards were just fashionable, but maybe there was a practical reason too.
"So, amputation?"
"No, not yet."
"Done it before" wasn't enough.
First, we had to decide how much to cut and how to do it.
Ideally, we'd preserve some chewing function.
Cosmetic loss was unavoidable, but functional reconstruction mattered.
'Flap surgery? No. Impossible.'
The first reconstruction method that came to mind was flap surgery—grafting tissue (or even bone) from elsewhere.
I'd heard of jaw reconstruction using leg bone after cancer removal.
But I'd never done it.
Had no idea how.
'Think… Hmm…'
No. That wouldn't work.
Another approach was needed.
Lost in thought, I alternated between the two patients.