Chapter 126: Stop (2)

"No, we've been waiting all this time!"

"Honestly, what's so entertaining about watching people's legs and arms get cut off?"

"Your hospital was the one paid for it!"

"Excuse me?"

The moment Dr. Listen and I stepped outside, the crowd that had been awkwardly waiting around immediately swarmed us, hurling complaints.

Those inside had gotten their money's worth of spectacle, sure…

But the ones outside? Not so much.

Some had even taken time off their scarce holidays to be here.

Had this been a proper performance, I might've felt a little guilty.

By now, I'd gotten a rough idea of how London's lower class—the laborers—lived.

'But… the "spectacle" was surgery, wasn't it?'

It felt like a substitute for the Colosseum.

Of course, this was still better than that.

Sure, it was a gruesome show, but at least people weren't dying left and…

'No, wait. They are. They absolutely are.'

Listen's side was at least somewhat better.

-Professor—no, brother! You don't need to flaunt your experience anymore. Wash that stinking blade, will you? Hm?

My earnest plea had worked.

Not like Listen wanted to walk around with a blood-crusted, foul-smelling scalpel in the first place.

It was just some twisted belief that it boosted his prestige. But after hearing me out, even he had to admit it made no sense.

The name Listen already carried weight—not just in London, but across England, even as far as France across the sea.

But for others? Amputation surgeries were still performed with blades so filthy they seemed designed to kill rather than heal, let alone sterilized.

"What did you just say, punk?"

"N-Nothing, sir."

I got sidetracked for a moment, but honestly, it was just frustrating.

These bastards probably thought public hangings were entertainment too, so…

Not exactly surprising, in the end.

For anyone else, facing this wall of outrage would've been impossible to navigate unscathed.

But for Listen—especially Listen holding a dripping scalpel—it was no threat at all.

"Take care on your way…"

"Sure. Come by next surgery. I'll give you a discount."

"Y-Yes! It'd be an honor."

We even left on friendly terms.

"Harry… Harry the Butcher."

"Huh?"

The moment we got out, Listen wiped his blade with a cloth and slid it back into its sheath—no, his surgical kit.

Then he muttered something deeply unsettling.

Wait…

He was a doctor, right?

Why was his nickname the Butcher?

"Got the name because so many patients died under him. Our professor, at least, was… a safety-first kind of man. Even when treating that damn prostate hypertrophy, he prioritized minimizing risks."

"Ah, right."

Having just read what might've been medical records—or maybe a confession—I wasn't so sure I agreed.

"That guy, though? He tried every insane method to boost effectiveness. You've done dissections, so you know—the prostate's right in front of the rectum, yeah?"

"Yeah…"

But the more I listened, the more uneasy I got, even though he hadn't said much yet.

What kind of villain was I about to meet this time?

Back then, I'd have just been paralyzed with fear…

But now, maybe because I was becoming more of a 19th-century person myself, part of me was weirdly excited.

"This bastard… he got the idea to remove the prostate externally."

"What?"

This was…

This was just wrong.

I asked again, convinced I'd misheard.

No way…

Surely not.

"Cut from the front, the side… Even though opening the abdomen was taboo, he did it anyway. Sometimes the rectum ruptured… shit floating in the abdominal cavity. He didn't get kicked out of the hospital for nothing."

"Uh…?"

"You think any hospital would keep a madman like that as a professor? Of course they booted him. But the shameless bastard set up a clinic on London's outskirts and kept practicing. Naturally, patients drop dead left and right."

Oh…

At this point, even in the 19th century, he must've been considered a heretic.

Just hearing about it made it clear how many people must've died horribly under him.

No concept of sterilization, and *opening the abdomen*? That alone was insane.

And forget enemas—did they even understand how filthy feces were?

Oh, right.

These were the same people who dumped their chamber pots onto the streets every morning.

'Shit-termination… Ugh.'

Even in the 21st century, emergency surgeries sometimes meant no time for bowel prep. If the intestines ruptured or necrotized during surgery, fecal matter could spill into the abdominal cavity.

Of course, we'd flush it out like crazy and sterilize everything, so it rarely caused major issues.

But prognosis definitely worsened.

Here?

Surviving at all would be the miracle.

"But… the professor kept in touch with him, since he was the only one doing these surgeries. Officially, he was still his student, after all. Probably lonely, too."

"Lonely?"

"Sure. You know how it is—in surgery, amputation's the main event."

"Ah, right…"

I didn't like it, but he wasn't wrong.

What else could surgeons even do besides amputations?

OB/GYN wasn't even classified as surgery yet, so options were slim.

Most who couldn't hack amputations ended up doing things like removing bladder stones or treating hemorrhoids as a last resort.

"I should've visited sooner. Who'd have thought I'd befriend a lunatic like this? Anyway, let's go. Cutting off balls, you said? Ridiculous."

"Yeah, let's hurry. Ugh."

With that basic intel on Harry the Butcher, we boarded the carriage.

Listen's personal one—given how much money he was making lately (as seen from the theater earlier), it was constantly being upgraded.

"Wow, these cushions…?"

"Hah. Nice, right? Imported from Qing China."

"Ah."

So this was the era when Made in China was a flex.

Well, there was a time for that.

'The Opium War… how long until that happens?'

About ten years?

Briefly pondering the Qing Dynasty's future, I gloomily realized Korea's wasn't much brighter.

But only briefly gloomy.

I had my own problems to worry about.

Well…

If I could gain enough prestige here to earn a title, maybe things would change—but that was a distant dream.

The hopeful part was that I'd already become a professor.

Plus, Princess Victoria—though not queen yet—seemed to like me.

"What's got you so deep in thought?"

"Oh… nothing. Just worried they might've already cut it off."

"Well… fair concern. The crazier they are, the more diligent."

You're the one swinging blades at dawn, though? I barely swallowed the words.

Instead, I played it safe.

"True. Wish all doctors were like you."

"Hahaha! No, they should be like you. You know how deeply I respect you, right?"

"Oh, come on… I've got a long way to go."

"Hahaha! And humble too! This is why I recommended you so strongly to the director."

Listen suddenly looked ahead.

The carriage had already left London's chaotic streets for quieter roads.

The hospital was slightly outside the city anyway.

Made sense.

The upper class didn't go to hospitals—not because they never got sick, but because doctors made house calls.

No medical equipment to speak of in this era, and hospitals were practically mass graves.

People died constantly, dissection made corpses rot, the stench… Hospitals were more like disgust factories than healing centers.

"There it is—the Butcher's clinic."

And there, a real disgust factory came into view.

"Quieter" didn't mean rural—London sprawled endlessly, so this was still part of the city.

Fewer people than downtown, but still plenty.

Most looked ragged, but…

Downtown London wasn't much better, so it was hard to compare.

"That's the place?"

Among the buildings was one labeled Harry's Clinic.

Honestly, it looked more like a tavern than a hospital…

But who cared about appearances?

Just outside London, wandering shamans still offered "healing."

Even a place like this, run by a former downtown doctor, would draw desperate crowds.

"Quite a line. That con artist."

"Uh… we can't let him die yet."

"Who said anything about killing him?"

"Then why'd you draw your blade?"

"Good grief."

Listen had unconsciously pulled out his scalpel while glaring at the crowd, then startled and put it away.

Why he kept it tucked inside his coat, I had no idea…

But hey, his blade, his rules.

"We've arrived, Professor."

The driver stopped right in front of the clinic.

A carriage of this quality—rare in this area, or maybe carriages just didn't stop here often—drew immediate attention.

Some looks were outright predatory, like they were considering a robbery.

But the driver didn't seem worried. Not because of the single pistol he carried, though.

"Yikes."

"Let's go."

"Whoa… must be a gang boss…"

The moment Listen stepped out, over half the staring eyes immediately looked away.

'As expected…'

No chance of getting bullied with this guy around.

He was violence personified.

"The one next to him doesn't look easy either."

"Huh… a Qing gangster…"

And walking beside him gave me an intimidation boost too.

I deliberately glared around, and sure enough, people averted their eyes the second they met mine.

Bang! Bang!

Listen shoved through the line of patients and knocked on the clinic door.

"Hey, get out here!"

Like a loan shark collecting debts.

No way that'd work—

Crash!

A window shattered beside us.

"What?"

"He's running!"

"Why… why's he running?"

"Probably killed too many patients. Thought we were relatives."

"Oh."

You fucking—

Then again, wasn't equestrian skills a med school requirement?

For fleeing after killing patients…