The Black-Haired British Doctor

"Save me, you bastards!!!"

"Isn't this what we're trying to do?!"

"These lunatics are performing surgery! Surgery, of all things!"

"I told you to be careful. Look at what's happened to your leg."

The patient was absolutely hysterical.

Thanks to the old man, I had a good seat, so I took the opportunity to examine the patient's wound.

Usually, when people talk about watching a surgery, it's strange enough that the term "watching" is even used, but putting that aside, shouldn't there be some distance?

That would be common sense, right?

But it seemed like common sense had been thrown out the window here, as I was sitting right in front of the action.

'What was 19th-century medicine like again?'

I racked my brain for what I had learned back in school, but it was no use.

That one-credit course... wasn't it the one neither the professor nor the students cared about?

I couldn't remember a thing.

So, I decided to focus on the patient again.

'Beyond cellulitis (a bacterial skin infection)... it's rotting. We'll have to amputate.'

Based on my experience, that leg was a lost cause.

The idea of cutting off a leg might seem horrifying, but there was no other choice.

If we didn't do it, the patient would die.

What reason could possibly outweigh life itself?

So, I silently cheered on the people holding the patient down—rough as they were, they were trying to save him.

But as I watched, I noticed something odd. Something that should've been in the operating room was missing.

"Aren't you going to use anesthesia?"

"Anesthesia?"

There was no ventilator, and most importantly, no anesthesia equipment.

When I asked, the old man looked at me like I was speaking nonsense.

'Ah, right... he's not a doctor.'

Upton was such a rural area that surgeries were rare.

So, it made sense that he wouldn't know about anesthesia.

"Huh?"

Just then, the old man suddenly stood up.

"Come to think of it, now's not the time for this."

"What?"

Both Joseph and I were left bewildered.

Before we could stop him, the old man walked over to the patient.

He then handed over three bottles of wine from his bag.

"Drink this."

"Oh, how kind of you..."

"Chug it all. Otherwise, it'll hurt."

"Haha, thank you."

After this bizarre exchange, the person roughly holding the patient took the wine and started feeding it to him.

"You did well. Thanks to Taepyeong, the patient's anesthesia is going smoothly."

"What?"

Wine as anesthesia?

These lunatics.

Wine lowers blood pressure, you idiots...

The patient's already bleeding, and if his blood pressure drops, he'll...

"Oh, the doctor's here. You're in luck. He's the best physician in London."

I was about to say something when the old man pointed to one side of the square.

It was strangely empty, but then a group of people entered as if they were boxers stepping into a ring.

"Who... is the best physician?"

Judging by their looks, they seemed more like thugs than doctors.

I couldn't tell, so I asked the old man.

He laughed heartily again.

"Hahaha! You country bumpkins!"

He seemed to have forgotten that he was from Upton too.

Anyway, he chuckled and pointed to one of the men in the group.

"That's Dr. Robert Liston. If you want to become surgeons, you should aim to be like him."

"Of..."

"Wow."

It was literally a "wow" moment.

He was massive—more like a warrior than a doctor.

Even though this was England, industrialization hadn't fully taken hold yet, so the average height was under 170 cm. But this man was well over 180 cm.

Dressed in a black suit instead of a gown, he looked genuinely intimidating.

'So this is the best physician...'

Looks shouldn't matter, right?

If he's the best, then he's the best.

I decided to take this opportunity to observe the medical practices of this era.

Though, performing surgery in an open square with a crowd watching already seemed like a disaster.

Still, I held onto a sliver of hope.

"Greetings, citizens of London. I am Dr. Liston. Robert Liston. I am also a professor at UCL's Medical School."

Dr. Liston introduced himself in a voice as booming as his stature.

It was a bit odd.

'Why is he introducing himself before surgery...? It's not like he's selling something...'

And isn't he a professor?

Professors don't need to promote themselves, right?

"Everyone, please watch today's surgery carefully and remember my name. If you ever need surgery, you'll need me!"

He sounded more like a salesman than a doctor.

"Aaaah! Save me!"

"Drink more if you want to live."

The patient screamed briefly, but the people around him—friends or foes, who knows—forced more wine down his throat.

The patient, already red-faced from excessive drinking, soon quieted down.

'Is he dead...?'

While I was harboring reasonable doubts, Liston gestured, and one of his disciples opened a bag.

Liston pulled out a knife from inside.

"Behold, these countless marks! They are proof of my experience and expertise!"

Crazy.

You bastard.

If I were bigger, I'd have cursed and stormed out.

If only I weren't Asian...

'No. Don't do it. You can't.'

Liston's knife was covered in what looked like dried blood, grease, and bits of flesh from previous patients.

Even if it were scrubbed, sterilized at high temperatures, and run through a disinfectant, it would still be questionable. But this knife was visibly filthy.

This wasn't surgery—it was an execution.

"Ugh."

The patient started screaming again as soon as he saw the knife.

Of course he would.

Anyone would freak out seeing that.

The alcohol must've worn off.

"What a coward."

The old man clicked his tongue at the patient.

'No... he's not a coward.'

That's a perfectly reasonable reaction, old man!

Just the fact that we're watching means this surgery is already a disaster!

"Hold him."

Liston, who had been staring at the patient, said this.

Then, his disciples—or thugs, who knows—rushed forward and expertly pinned the patient to the table.

"Ugh! Please! Have mercy!"

The patient screamed like a condemned man.

But unlike before, it was no use.

The disciples' strength was overwhelming, and the patient's shoulders, waist, and legs were immobilized.

"Cut."

Liston's orders continued.

And so did the disciples' movements.

Sssssk—

I thought he meant to cut the leg right away, but thankfully, that wasn't the case.

First, they cut off the pants.

The wound, which had been hidden, was now exposed.

"Ugh."

The smell was terrible.

It was clear that amputation was necessary.

'Okay. I get it... now, just disinfect it.'

Though, with the knife in that state, what good would disinfecting do?

Still, reducing the bacteria on the skin might help a little.

That's what I thought.

'Wait, Doctor... aren't you going to wear gloves...? Or at least a mask?'

Dr. Liston—or should I say, this bastard—was bare-faced.

His hands were bare too.

"Tie it."

Well, he was holding a knife, so "bare hands" might not be the right term.

Anyway, at his command, a disciple tied the patient's thigh tightly.

It was a leather strap, and just tying it looked painful.

"Aaaah! Ugh, ugh!"

Of course, the patient screamed.

Then, whether from hyperventilating or excessive drinking, he vomited to the side.

Some of the vomit splattered onto his leg.

"Tsk, what a waste of wine."

Only the old man muttered something.

The surgery showed no signs of stopping.

'Clean up the vomit... please, as a human being.'

Contrary to my wishes, Liston spoke again.

"Hold him tight."

And at the same time.

Literally at the same time, a flash of light appeared before my eyes.

Thunk!

Liston immediately brought down the knife he was holding.

It wasn't a scalpel-sized knife but one that looked over 30 cm long, so the sunlight reflecting off it scattered everywhere.

Splatter!

Blood splattered everywhere along with it.

Even though the strap was tied, the pooled blood had to go somewhere.

'Ugh.'

Even in the midst of this, I, as a surgeon, could follow the changes in the wound.

'Is he a swordmaster?'

One cut.

With just one cut, the skin and muscles were completely severed.

"Aaaah!"

Of course, the patient's screams didn't stop.

But Liston and his disciples paid no attention.

"Saw."

They immediately started cutting through the bone.

"Ugh, aah!"

The sound of sawing echoed as the bone was cut right before our eyes.

"Wow, he's truly a master! It's been less than 30 seconds!"

Amid this horrifying scene, a typical London gentleman with a well-groomed mustache exclaimed.

I noticed he was holding a pocket watch.

You lunatic.

Cutting off a leg in 30 seconds isn't what a doctor should do.

Even Lü Bu swinging his halberd would've taken longer.

Grind, grind.

Bits of bone scattered everywhere.

Finally, the bone fell away.

"Thread."

"Needle."

Blood had splattered everywhere, but most of it seemed to have landed on Liston's face.

He looked like a demon.

Despite this, Liston impassively held out his hand, and a disciple handed him a needle and thread.

Liston began suturing the exposed blood vessels.

'Will he survive?'

No.

He's going to die.

This wasn't surgery.

It was an insult to the very concept of surgery.

'Infection... he'll die from infection... no, he's probably already dead.'

I cautiously examined the patient's face.

The man who had been screaming in pain just moments ago was now silent.

He had either passed out from the pain or died from shock.

Given how much alcohol he'd been forced to drink, it was only natural.

"01..."

The fact that the person who had done this was a doctor made me dizzy.

It felt like the world was going dark.

Instead of the operating table, I saw the sky, and then the old man's voice reached my ears.

"What kind of surgeon faints at something like this?"

No.

That's not it.

Fainting isn't the issue here...

This... this isn't surgery...

'I'll... I'll change it all. You savages...'

That day, I too dreamed of becoming a surgeon.

"I want to be like him."

Though for very different reasons than Joseph's naive chatter.