"Uuuugh..."
"Nnngh!"
"What did they say?"
"That you're terrifying."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"Ah."
After standing there for a while, I noticed the patients' expressions darkening.
Come to think of it, in any culture, staring at someone unblinkingly is rude, isn't it?
"Pyung."
"Yes?"
"Put the knife down first."
"Huh? Oh, this?"
"What else? It's that new scalpel you were so proud of getting."
"Ah."
And if you're holding a knife while doing it, that goes beyond rudeness.
Speaking of which, this scalpel was exceptionally well-balanced.
It was made from high-quality steel—you could tell just by looking.
'I was genuinely horrified back then...'
Now I understood why steel was the backbone of all industries.
Has anyone ever had their scalpel snap mid-surgery?
Probably not in the 21st century.
Unless you accidentally scraped bone with it.
But back then? It just snapped while cutting through muscle.
"Well, what can you do? It's a small blade."
Watching this, Liston made some infuriating comment...
Meanwhile, Blundell, while searching for the broken piece, said something equally frustrating:
"Why bother looking? It's not like we can reuse it."
What an obnoxious thing to say.
As if they'd care about inflammatory reactions to foreign objects.
We were lucky to even have the concept of pathogens, even if they called it "miasma."
I got so lost in nostalgia that I went off-track—but the blade in my hand now was genuine quality.
Sent by Gauss, Sophie Germain's friend, from Germany. It was even mathematically calculated to withstand significant force.
"Operating right now is impossible."
A good blade was one thing, but surgery was another.
I stepped away from the patients and spoke to Liston.
He looked puzzled.
"Why?"
Pure curiosity could sometimes come off as cruel.
This was one of those times.
'He's probably thinking, "Why complicate it? Just cut it off."'
The discovery of anesthesia was revolutionary.
Across Europe and America, new surgical techniques were flooding in.
Combined with our near-perfected antiseptic methods, progress was rapid.
Liston himself had become quite skilled at abdominal surgeries.
But just because technology advanced didn't mean people's mindsets automatically followed.
This... required time.
'Don't get angry. You can't afford to.'
Who'd have thought I'd ever feel like yelling at Liston?
But I'd get used to this expression too.
I saw hope here.
Yes—everything changes eventually.
"You said you've done this before, right?"
"Yeah. A few times. Four, at most?"
"How many survived?"
"Hmm..."
I clung to hope for a second before letting it go.
His face said it all.
This bastard had no idea.
"You don't know?"
Still, I asked—for fairness.
"Nope. Oh, but I did see one on the street once. Still alive."
"Really? How were they?"
But fairness was irrelevant.
Doctors back then were experts at cutting and running.
Even our medical college still taught horseback riding—because you needed a fast escape when patients died.
Joseph, Alfred, and Colin were at the stables right now.
"Not exactly 'fine,' obviously."
I'd have to discipline those brats later.
"How bad?"
"Let me draw it..."
"Hmm."
"Roughly like this."
"How did they live?"
"No clue. But I know where they live."
"How?"
"Begging. They lasted a while, though."
From this conversation, it was clear that jaw resection at this time was a mess.
Honestly, I'd expected as much.
"Can you bring them here?"
"Bring them? Too much troub—"
"We need to refine the method. Surgery without anesthesia versus now—it's completely different."
"Oh. Right. We have anesthesia now..."
Liston had probably planned to grab someone and start cutting immediately.
Typical for doctors of this era—even with anesthesia, their first instinct was "endure the pain."
Luckily, Liston was open-minded enough to rush out.
Meanwhile, I headed to the dissection lab.
'Huh.'
No maggots or rats this time.
Well, they were probably somewhere, but at least they weren't lying around.
Liston's hygiene obsession had turned the place upside down.
The scrubbed floors still bore stubborn stains, but it was much better.
Humming, I approached a fresh cadaver.
We'd improvised a formaldehyde substitute, but it wasn't perfect.
Fine for teaching anatomy, but inadequate for developing new surgical techniques.
"He's... smiling..."
"Don't make eye contact! They say he's scarier than Liston."
"He crushed those baguette-eaters in Paris with shit, remember?"
Strange whispers followed me.
Glancing back, I saw students scattering like rats.
Crushed them with shit? What slander.
We saved a city drowning in filth!
'First, resection from here... to here.'
I marked the cadaver's face with dotted lines.
The patients' joints, at least, could be preserved.
Removing the central-right portion might work, but—
'If we take the bone too, structural integrity collapses. Reconstruction is impossible here.'
In the 21st century? Doable.
Here? No way.
Even with antiseptics, infection risk was too high.
No heparin for anticoagulation either—grafting tissue from elsewhere was reckless.
The solution? Reposition surrounding tissue.
"Brought him."
While I was planning, Liston shoved forward a confused, trembling man.
"S-Sewage treatme—!"
The man was petrified.
Understandable.
Half of 19th-century doctors had conducted inhumane experiments—or were willing to.
And we were in a dissection lab, surrounded by cadavers.
"Ah, I didn't mean to drag him here. Just have him say 'Ah.'"
"Aaaah!"
"Say 'Ah.'"
"AAH!"
"Say 'Ah,' or Pyung might kill you."
"Ah."
I don't know why my reputation keeps worsening...
Either way, I used the scalpel (backward) to depress the tongue and examined the mouth under lamplight.
'Nothing inside. Probably malnourished—though even with food, it'd be similar.'
The 21st century had liquid nutrition. Here? No such luxury.
This couldn't continue.
"Repositioning is our only option."
"Reposition what? You kept saying that earlier."
"The tissue. Like this."
"Hmm."
"Will this even work?"
Simply filling the gap wouldn't restore chewing function.
If flesh alone could chew, why would we need teeth?
But firm muscle tissue would help.
Even a mushy diet was better than nothing.
'Eel pudding, maybe...'
"Nnngh..."
"Ah, the patient..."
This man was beyond saving. If anything, he'd likely die.
"Here. Buy some soft soup with this."
"Aaaahnk yu!"
His toothless, jawless speech was... something.
Money was the best help I could offer—a sizable sum, enough for a month.
"Why waste money like this?"
"I feel bad. The shaving accident..."
"Accidents happen. And why shave at all? Reckless."
I gave the money out of guilt, but the jawless man seemed unfazed.
Liston blamed him instead.
Not entirely wrong, honestly.
In an era where wounds festered easily—why would you shave with a rusty blade?
"First, let me show you the expected outcome."
"Hmm... Cutting a cadaver's jaw?"
"Yes."
"Then we should gather everyone. If this is linked to white phosphorus... this could become a city-wide crisis."
"Good point. Let's do that."
'Will this even count as a demonstration?'
Maybe not. But if it helped assistants learn—or raised awareness—it was worth it.
Reputation mattered if I wanted to change this era.
Soon, I was surrounded by doctors and students—not all friendly.
After all, I'd disrupted anatomy lectures, challenged miasma theory, and pushed for antisepsis...
Without Liston, I'd have been stabbed.
'But not everyone's against me.'
Focus on the supporters.
With that, I prepared to resect the cadaver's jaw.
A saw was necessary—no blade could manage this.
Murmurs spread.
"How barbaric..."
"Where does such brutality belong in medicine?"
I scoffed. They've done worse.