"Why bother? Shit's all the same anyway."
Liston grabbed me as I tried to leave the room.
"Right. And you're not exactly in top shape either," Blundell added, eyeing me like a hawk—or more accurately, like a man ready to force-feed me opium tincture at the first opportunity.
Look at him. When did he even buy that?
The infuriating part? It would stop the diarrhea. Opium paralyzes the intestines.
But then they'd start:
—"See? Miracle cure! Haha!"
—"From now on, opium for everything!"
—"Inject the morphine!"
I didn't just think they were insane.
I understood.
It could work as cough syrup—by stopping the cough.
And the breathing.
"But... what if the type of miasma is different?" I ventured.
No real thought behind it. Of course it'd differ—environments vary, don't they? Anyone who knew about microbial diversity would say the same.
But...
"What nonsense is this?"
"Different types of miasma? What are you on about?"
To them, the idea was absurd.
Miasma was just... badness. A vague, singular entity causing disease. The concept of varieties of miasma was apparently revolutionary.
"...Ah."
It's clicking.
For 19th-century minds!
I shouldn't get this, but—have I become one of them?
I needed to salvage this.
Think, damn it!
Not hard. These men already saw me as exotic—a "bullshitting master" from the mystical East.
"Joseon has a concept called pungsu-jiri (geomancy)."
"Pung-su... what?"
Problem: I only knew the term and the phrase "baesan-imsudo" (back to mountains, face to water).
No matter. They wouldn't know the difference.
"It's about how geographical traits affect local resources. Obvious, no? Look at the British Empire's trade—goods from India differ from Africa's, don't they?"
Wow.
Even I was impressed. The words just tumbled out.
Anglo-Saxons might be uncultured, but as global empire-runners, they grasped this instantly.
"True enough."
"Plants do vary by region," Liston mused.
The assistants—Joseph, Alfred, Colin—nodded along. Alfred, whose father was a merchant, nodded harder. Even Joseph had picked up tidbits from my uncle's gifts.
Tobacco, coca plants... Uncle had once said coca only grew in the Andes. True or not, they bought it.
"The flora here differs from England's too."
"Uglier, certainly."
"Backwater specimens."
France—blessed by God. Some of Europe's richest soil. Even in the 21st century, it was nearly self-sufficient.
Yet these two Brits clenched their teeth and denied its beauty.
Patriotism transcends eras.
Would a tavern here serve whiskey instead of makgeolli?
"Yes, the trees here are... peculiarly misshapen," I fed their egos before steering back.
"Joseon's plants differ too. Thus, the cuisine—"
"Ah."
"Aigoo."
Mistake.
Food was a sore spot. No need to crush their pride further.
"Point is, miasma might differ too."
"Ah... Plausible. Malaria wreaked havoc on troops in Africa and India."
"Right—endemic diseases. Different miasmas, perhaps."
Thank God it's the 19th century.
In the 10th, I'd have been impaled on a pike as proof of "God's curse" for my dark hair and yellow skin.
But these intellectuals? They knew endemic diseases.
I was moved.
"I knew you'd understand. Still, we should confirm. Document how often the French shit/vomit, the volume, the patterns—useful data."
"HAHA! Now that's exciting!"
"We'll hire an artist! Immortalize this!"
"Money's no object—I'm rich now!"
They were thrilled, as if they'd just slapped a Frenchman.
I was pumped too. Identifying miasma types could revolutionize medicine.
Especially here, where sterilization was a foreign concept.
Not that they care if the French die, but...
...They're still lives.
Wait—did I just think "still"?
They're lives. Period.
Clip-clop.
Giddy, we raced toward the Royal Academy.
The Seine's stench had worsened.
Ominous.
This wasn't normal. People don't only defecate at night—mornings are peak bowel hours. The smell should've eased by evening...
Something's happening.
Distant retching echoed. Occasional splashes—best not to imagine.
No time. The carriage sped unimpeded.
"Fewer people tonight."
Not due to the hour. Just yesterday, drunks and thugs had crowded these streets. Now?
Vanished.
Clip-clop.
The hospital was chaos.
"Uwaaak—"
"Ooogh..."
Zombie-like figures staggered about, including our dear Dr. Pierre.
The man who'd boasted of French superiority had drunk Seine water.
Patriotism has limits.
Soaked in wine, their judgment was gone.
They chugged water visibly filthier than the Thames?
"Professor, who drank what? Seine vs. cadaver water?"
"First floor: Seine. Second: cadavers."
"And the scale—?"
"Pride. 'If the British dared, how can Frenchmen refuse?' The entire hospital drank it."
"Ah."
Madmen.
Is this mainland 19th-century audacity?
Island-dwellers could never.
But if this continued, the air would thicken with pathogens...
I could catch it too.
On instinct, I donned the crude mask I always carried.
"Huh?"
"Look at this coward."
"You've smelled worse. Yesterday—"
"Take it off. Embarrassing."
Liston and Blundell scolded me.
Was 21st-century toxic masculinity alive here?
No.
Worse.
Next to these men, everyone's a coward.
How do you compete with people who gamble their only life?
"Professors, the miasma might differ. The French might survive—we could die."
"Die?"
"Yes."
"Unacceptable."
...Cowards after all.
Masked, we pushed through bedlam.
Fifty victims on the first floor alone. Likely fifty more upstairs.
The whole hospital drank it.
What about patients?
Actually—best-case scenario.
Hospitals here killed more than they saved. "Helping" often meant hurting.
Our priority? Aiding these brave, foolish souls who'd volunteered for death.
Fortunately, our team excelled at this.
"You know the drill?"
"Distilled water. Whether they shit or not."
"Dilute the miasma!"
"Leave it to me. I've summoned an artist—today will be memorable. Gifts for everyone back home!"
Their enthusiasm was unmatched.
Front-row seats to French humiliation?
Even London's nobles would pay for this.
"Drink!"
"Ugh... Water did this to me—"
"Dilute the miasma in your body!"
"What nonsense! Miasma's in the air!"
"Shut up and drink. Unless you want to die."
"Ghk..."
Proud French resistance was an issue...
Until Liston drew his scalpel.
They gulped obediently.
And so, our lonely battle began.