Chapter 125: Stop! (1)

Prostatic hyperplasia…

In the 21st century, it's just an inconvenient condition, but…

Historically? Far from trivial.

Right?

It could be fatal.

Urinary retention leads to uremia…

But that didn't justify castration as a treatment.

Wouldn't daily catheterization with a metal rod be better?

Let's table this as a last resort.

Even that was horrific.

Daily rod insertions…

Well, we did do it in the 21st century too—just with rubber Nelaton catheters over time.

But metal? I'd probably get stabbed by a patient.

Still better than castration.

"This… seems to have been mailed."

While I stood dumbstruck, my friends—now desensitized to 19th-century horrors—rummaged further. Joseph lifted an envelope.

Addressed to the professor.

From someone named Harry.

Dated 3–4 days prior. Likely unopened due to the professor's declining health.

"It's private, but… he's gone. Shall we look?"

Joseph hesitated, so I took it.

The 19th century clung to absurd formalities despite its brutality.

"Ugh."

"This feels wrong…"

"Patients are about to lose their balls, and this bothers you?"

"Well…"

"Fair point."

They stared, uneasy—until "losing balls" silenced them. A solemn mood settled.

Most were staring at their own crotches, not the letter.

I've seen this surgery before…

On a dog, during military service. A vet colleague performed it. Had it been a human, I'd have lost my appetite for weeks.

The letter's contents were worse:

Professor, your insight is brilliant. Historical records confirm eunuchs aged without urinary issues. We may have found the key to treating prostate hyperplasia. I'll attempt it next week—please advise.

Logically, no testosterone meant no prostate growth.

Shrinking an enlarged one? Surprisingly possible. Hormones were powerful.

Bonus: No more baldness.

But…

Liston's hairline's receding… Joseph's thinning too.

Not me—yet. Baldness struck like a thief.

Still, that wasn't the issue.

"Do you know this 'Harry'?"

The professor was dead—spared from committing atrocities.

But Harry was out there.

"Never heard of a 'Dr. Harry'…"

"Next week" meant today. We had to stop him.

If we weren't already too late.

The farcical interview, lab review—it was already past noon.

Would Harry have proceeded? Or waited?

"Who'd know him?"

"If he collaborated with the professor, he's likely a surgeon. Dr. Liston has connections."

Colin's suggestion was the only useful one.

Asking Liston for favors was… unwise, but I was an exception.

And as a young, Asian "professor," I couldn't just barge in demanding compliance.

But with Liston?

Chaos.

Game over.

Unless Harry was scarier—unlikely.

A scientist ignores such odds.

"Let's go."

"He'll be in the operating theater."

"Right. There."

I hesitated.

Early in his career, Liston had amputated limbs in public squares to build his reputation.

In rainy London. A butcher masquerading as a doctor.

Thankfully, after my anesthesia demonstrations (not fully painless, but close), his popularity exploded. No more street surgeries.

Now?

He operated in a theater.

My fault.

The director had repurposed a lecture hall at my suggestion.

Knock knock.

"Operation in progress! Come back next time—it won't take long!"

A furious voice. Others stood nearby, having already been rebuffed.

"It's Dr. Pyeong."

"Ghk—!"

Understandable anger, but people were about to be castrated.

I tried explaining, but the door swung open before I finished.

"I didn't realize it was you, Professor! My apologies!"

"It's fine."

"They're still cutting. Just a moment."

The attendant bowed deeply—likely Liston's senior student.

Being a professor has perks.

Medical licenses required multiple endorsements here. A system ripe for abuse, but useful now.

Inside, the "theater" was a bloodbath.

A leg amputation—messy even by orthopedic standards.

The foot wound that necessitated it was minor. Proper debridement and antiseptics could've saved the limb.

All because of ignorance.

I'd reviewed Liston's cases once.

In the 21st century, amputations were mostly for diabetic feet or traumatic injuries.

Here?

People believed suppuration was part of healing.

"God, we have so far to go."

If only I could clone myself.

Priority one: Stop the castrations.

I waited calmly for Liston to finish.

At least his skill wasn't lacking—just his knowledge.

His speed was still breathtaking.

"He'd excel at other surgeries too. Already the best at tracheotomies after me."

As soon as he finished, still blood-spattered, I explained the situation.

To my relief, Liston brandished his scalpel in rage.

"What kind of monstrosity—? I know that bastard! Lead the way!"

Not literally to kill, but…

This'll be interesting.

At least I won't get hit.

Maybe he'll calm down en route.

We stormed out of the theater.