Since we intentionally excluded fungal infections from the discussion, the conversation didn't take too long.
I did feel a slight pang of guilt, but...
'It's still better than leaving the patient in that state.'
Anything would be better than subjecting the patient to meaningless treatments and letting them die in agony. In fact, doing nothing might have been the better option.
Don't you think so?
Really...
That's murder.
And a particularly cruel form of it.
'Sigh.'
Without realizing it, I found myself glancing around at the people scattered throughout the torture chamber—no, the treatment room.
Liston was giving them the same look.
"Tell me, is this what you call treatment? Is this how you treat someone—by making them writhe in pain?"
Honestly, coming from Liston, that was a bit rich. After all, he was the one who had pushed patients to the brink of suffering.
What a terrifying man...
"Enough of this pointless nonsense. Follow me."
Of course, coming from someone like him, the words carried more weight. It felt like he could whip out the so-called "Liston Knife" at any moment. Or even just his fists...
Anyway, led by Liston's hand, Zemel was dragged away, looking utterly bewildered. The assistants followed suit, leaving behind the patients who now looked like they had a chance at survival.
I patted one of them on the shoulder before leaving.
"Th-thank you," he stammered, expressing his gratitude.
Whether he'd still feel that way later remained to be seen.
'Will he still be grateful when he realizes he'll have to eat moldy bread soon?'
People curse at the drop of a hat.
Not that I blamed them.
Wouldn't you?
Moldy bread, after all.
Even in the chaotic state of London's labor conditions at the time, they didn't usually serve rotten food.
"Look. These are all syphilis patients. Sent here from the prison, and they were all in terrible shape."
"Hmm. But... now...?"
"Just scars remain. They're all cured."
"What about... that one?"
"Ah, he's dying from something else."
When we arrived at our treatment room, Liston subtly used his massive frame to block my view of a patient who was literally being eaten alive by bacteria.
Then he mouthed to me:
-Get rid of him.
Huh.
Asking me to dispose of a patient.
But there was no other choice.
I really hate the phrase "the ends justify the means," but...
'For now... this is the only way.'
Until science advances and better methods of treatment are developed, we have no choice but to proceed like this.
-Dissect him.
Still, that seemed a bit much.
What kind of life do you have to lead to think of cutting someone open the moment they die?
Shaking my head at the thought, I led the patient outside.
Even in the briefest moments, the patient's condition continued to deteriorate.
Just in case, I put on gloves and checked inside his mouth. The roof of his mouth was already black. I couldn't examine his nasal cavity without proper tools or light, but it was obvious—it was probably rotting away.
"D-doctor."
As I clicked my tongue in frustration, the patient called out to me.
When I turned, his expression looked strange. He wasn't looking at me but somewhere else.
I had a feeling I knew why, and it made me feel sick.
"My eyes... something's wrong with my eyes..."
If the infection had reached his nose, it was only a matter of time before it affected his eyes. It probably hadn't reached the eyes themselves yet, but the muscles controlling their movement were likely being eaten away. His eyes were misaligned—in other words, he had developed double vision.
"That's possible. It's possible. Are you in pain?"
"It hurts... it hurts."
At the patient's words, Joseph, who was standing beside me, spoke up.
"What's happening?"
Even though the signs of death were clear, he had no idea what was going on.
And why would he?
This was a time when ignorance was the norm.
No, perhaps it's more accurate to say that people didn't even know what they didn't know.
Anyway, I shook my head again and said, "Let's... say a prayer..."
A prayer.
For a believer, it might be a powerful tool, but for a doctor, it was a sign of helplessness.
This wasn't something unique to the 19th century. Even in the 21st century, I had seen plenty of deaths I couldn't prevent. Humanity was still dying, after all.
Back then, my mentor would look up at the sky for a moment.
As a materialist, what did he see?
I don't know.
"Yes, let's pray."
"Everyone, close your eyes."
Everyone except me was probably thinking of God. These doctors, who were believers before they were physicians, began to pray sincerely for the patient.
To be clear, doctors of this era weren't all bad people. In fact, their desire to save lives was even stronger. It's just that their knowledge and experience couldn't keep up.
"Lord, your lamb now returns to your embrace."
We—no, I—gathered around the patient and offered a prayer.
The patient's focus had long since faded.
Was there any consciousness left?
It was impossible to tell.
He had already had two seizures on the way here.
It was a clear example of how terrifyingly fast fungi could spread once they took hold.
'They say hearing is the last sense to go.'
This isn't just a saying—it's a scientifically proven fact. That's why, in hospice wards and other medical settings, people are encouraged to whisper their final words into the ears of the dying.
So I leaned close to the patient's ear and offered a blessing.
According to the tag around his neck, he was a murderer with no mitigating circumstances, but I wasn't a judge—I was a doctor.
-Judging a person's worth isn't our job. We save first, judge later.
That's what my mentor used to say.
I still don't know if he was a person worthy of respect on a human level, but as a doctor, he was admirable. In fact, I owe almost all of my medical skills to him.
"Amen."
So I did my best to offer words of comfort to the soon-to-be-deceased patient and finished the prayer.
When I looked back, the patient was in a state where it was hard to tell if he was alive or dead. The occasional seizures had stopped, and the rise and fall of his chest had ceased. There might have been faint breaths, but they were meaningless.
'How sad.'
If this were the 21st century...
He wouldn't just have survived—he would have been fine.
'But that's pointless.'
The ground I stood on was 19th-century London, after all.
Shaking my head, I instructed a staff member I knew to ensure the body was sent to the cemetery and then returned to Liston.
"Is this what you call medicine?"
"Yes!"
"Did that Kilian guy eat this too?"
"He did! And he recovered! Not because of your half-baked treatments!"
"Hmm... I see... Seeing how much better he is now..."
"So we should publish this, shouldn't we?"
"Well... I suppose... I suppose so. So maybe put that fist down for now?"
"Hahaha! I knew you'd come around! Good!"
"Eek."
In what felt like no time at all, Zemel had already been won over by the moldy bread antibiotic theory.
Honestly, I'm not sure if it was the argument or the fist that convinced him.
The important thing was that this moldy bread antibiotic theory was going to be published in academic circles.
'Well... just because it's published doesn't mean everyone will accept it right away...'
Trust in the academic community takes time to build.
'They're such a mess themselves that they assume everyone else is too.'
To trust others, you first need to be trustworthy yourself.
A swindler can never trust others.
For the same reason, trust in academic journals at this time was at an all-time low.
Data manipulation was rampant, and I'd even heard of people writing papers based entirely on imagination.
Writing a medical paper based on imagination—can you believe it?
But when you look at the treatments being administered in hospitals, it's not so far-fetched.
'Still... getting it published is an important step.'
Having something concrete will help convince those around us.
And since syphilis only requires one round of treatment, it's even more compelling.
This won't eradicate the disease, but it will save far more lives than before.
"Good. Dr. Pye!"
After threatening Zemel, Liston called out to me.
There was a faint glint of madness in his eyes, which was a bit terrifying, but I knew he wouldn't do anything to me now, so I approached confidently.
"Why so nervous? This bread—let's grow as much as we can. Alfred, you'll have to make a sacrifice. Let's turn one of the rooms into a mold-growing chamber."
"Ah, yes, of course."
"Yes, let's do that."
Alfred and I began to bow and scrape.
"Agh!"
Just then, a scream echoed from somewhere.
We had stopped the mercury treatments, so someone must have been up to some other nonsense.
'What's going on?'
I looked around, bewildered, toward the source of the scream.
Everyone else did the same.
Especially Liston, the so-called master of "famous doctor syndrome," who was already on the move.
He was probably already thinking about amputating someone's leg.
Madman.
"Ah, you're coming too?"
Of course, I followed him—I'm a madman too.
Well, that's not entirely accurate.
I also wanted to stop him before he did something even crazier.
Doctors of this era were mostly quacks, but they were also overly bold.
No matter what the disease was, they'd try some outlandish treatment, which was terrifying.
"Hurry! Do something!"
We rushed over as fast as we could, only to find a patient thrashing about.
It was called an emergency room, but without any modern equipment, it felt more like a regular room where someone was having a fit.
Not that it mattered.
Liston's assistants were already on it, and the situation was quickly brought under control.
Medical staff of this era were half thugs, after all.
"Hey! Stay still!"
"Tie him up!"
Look at that.
He's already tied up.
Oh, oh no.
A gag? That's going too far...
"Looks like he was bitten by a rabid dog."
Liston, who should have been the first to stop this, muttered with a calm expression.
"Rabies...?"
"First time seeing it?"
"Well..."
It was my first time.
Dog bites were rare, and rabies had been virtually eradicated in South Korea.
But here, it was a different story.
"See that dog over there? Foaming at the mouth. We'll have to do what we can."
Compared to me, he looked like a pro.
'How do you treat it again?'
While I was still racking my brain, the hospital staff were already busy moving around.
In other words, they were up to their usual nonsense.
"A... cautery iron?"
They were about to burn someone.