"Oh, Pyeongsin!"
"Pyeongsin!"
"Pyeongsin-ah!"
Holy shit, stop...
Just call me by my damn name...
"Did I do well? Haha. Well... it's not like our people even know what 'Sin' means. They don't realize it refers to God. They just think it's a Joseon term for someone with extraordinary skills in a certain field."
Liston, Blundell, my friends, and students—all in unison—kept muttering my new nickname.
What kind of reaction should I even have?
Is this what they call awkward?
As I stood frozen in bewilderment, the Director, clearly misreading my expression, said:
"You like it? I did well, didn't I?"
Sin...
Yeah, right.
Surprisingly, in the 21st century, the word "Sin" (God) is used like this!
Why?
Whether it's a South Korean thing or a general 21st-century trend, the weight of the word "Sin" has drastically diminished.
But here, it's blasphemy.
No, more than that—the name itself is just... Pyeongsin?
Doesn't it sound a bit off to the listener?
"Yes, you... did too well."
If I were really a god, I wouldn't just stand here.
Technically, my standing in London is closer to Pyeongsin than Sin.
You might think it's deceptive for a gang leader to say this, but...
For every gang that follows me, there's another eager to overthrow me and take my reputation.
Hell, I've heard even local pub thugs talk big.
Honestly, if you strip away the aura around me, I don't exactly look intimidating.
"Right. Hahaha. Anyway, after this showdown, you're now undeniably London's most popular figure. No—how on earth did you even think to draw blood from the heart? It's going to be a huge trend."
"No... that's not possible."
First of all, it wasn't from the heart.
Of course, if you stab wrong, you could draw blood from the heart.
But if you stab with that intent from the start, that's just murder!
"Are you thinking of patenting it? If you patent a life-saving method, you'll lose the reputation you've built. And it's not even feasible, is it? Neither the stabber nor the stabbed would talk."
"That's not wrong, but..."
It really isn't.
The stabber...
Given that I've seen 19th-century doctors proudly brag about murders, I can't be sure, but the stabbed won't be able to speak.
"Then what's the problem?"
"It's just..."
"Hahaha! You look exhausted. Well, today's been eventful. Go rest. Here's some money—go have a drink."
"Ah."
Yeah, I should get drunk.
Surely...
With our group at the center, isn't 19th-century London becoming more civilized?
Plus, the function of the heart has been known since the 17th century.
These bastards...
Sometimes they seem utterly ignorant, but surprisingly, they know quite a bit.
Anyway, stabbing that organ with a knife would require insane courage.
Almost no one would dare.
"Where are we going?"
"Where else? No more low-end pubs."
"Ah... this place...?"
"I heard MPs occasionally come here. Not just anyone with money can enter..."
"Then should we leave?"
When I came to my senses, an unbelievably luxurious street unfolded before me.
Alfred's senior's house was somewhat like this too—a wealthy neighborhood.
But is it really possible to force your way into high society just with money?
Contrary to our assumptions, Britain isn't that easy.
These people are strictly divided.
"Haha. You've heard about Joseon, right? The class distinctions there are rigid too?"
"Where do you even hear all this about Joseon?"
"You didn't know? Because of you, merchants traveling to Qing are scrambling to talk to any Joseon person they see. They even pay for it."
"Ah..."
Am I screwed?
Like this...
Am I going to be exposed?
"Anyway, we're quite important now. Not like the old days! Haha."
After dropping that terrifying remark, Liston opened the door and stepped inside.
This place—whether to call it a pub or a bar—was undeniably luxurious.
Gas lamps illuminated every corner, making it far brighter than ordinary pubs.
By the way, do you know why so many bar fights happen in fantasy novels and elsewhere?
It's dark.
You can't properly judge who you're dealing with.
Not that it stops idiots from picking fights with Liston.
"Uh..."
"Uh...?"
"That's..."
"The Amputation Master...?"
But this place was bright.
So bright that everyone inside recognized us the moment we stepped in.
Liston is probably the most famous among us.
No—even if he were the least famous, all eyes would still be on him.
Dude's huge.
And ever since getting police permission, he's always worn his Liston knife at his waist—hard not to notice.
"Wait... next to him?"
"Could that be... Pyeongsin?"
"A Qing gangster?"
"Tsk. This guy. How out of touch can you be? He's a Joseon gangster. Rumor has it he was originally a commoner—yeah, a commoner—but he killed the noble he served and stole his name. No one knows his real name or age."
"Whoa... then what happened in Paris, was that real too?"
"Of course. They say he even cut open and ate a noblewoman's chest."
"Whoa..."
Next in recognition was Josef.
Naturally.
Our Josef isn't exactly small either.
If you had to pick a gangster prodigy among us, it'd be him...
"Did you cut open a noblewoman's chest too?"
"Th-that time, we did it together."
"Together? Me?"
"Sophie Germain."
"Ah. Ahhh. Not entirely wrong."
"It is wrong! When did I eat her?!"
"Minor errors like that naturally slip into rumors."
"Mi... minor?"
Why do they keep talking about me?
And while they just call Liston by his various titles, they're spouting nonsense about me that even I don't recognize.
Judging by their attire and demeanor, these weren't the type to indulge in gossip.
They were literal nobles...
"Consider it the price of fame."
"Ugh..."
"Anyway, the drinks here are good. They have proper whiskey."
"Have you been here before, hyung?"
"With the Director."
"Ah... right."
Our Director...
A fascinating man.
I heard he wasn't from a noble or wealthy family—how did he rise so high?
"What kind of person is the Director?"
"The Director? Well... an incredible man."
"Don't be vague."
Liston took a sip of his amber drink and nodded.
"Right. It's about time you knew."
"Knew what?"
"Truth is, the Director is of French descent."
"Huh? The Director's a baguette? But his English accent—"
"Ah, the Director's a London native. But his family originally came from France."
"Whoa..."
Better than being Asian, I guess.
But France to London?
Why?
Many questions arose.
Even in the 21st century, immigration is a serious consideration—but in the 19th century?
From France, Europe's dominant power, to an island like Britain?
Sure, the French are annoying, but weather and food-wise, France is better.
"I don't know what you're thinking, but... it wasn't because of a crime."
"No, I wasn't thinking that."
"No? Isn't that why most people immigrate?"
"No... is it? But you just said it wasn't."
If Liston ever immigrated to France...
He'd probably commit a crime so heinous even the police chief couldn't ignore it.
Killing one or two people wouldn't even be a problem.
Honestly, he's already committed dozens of murders under the guise of surgery.
At this point, punishing him for killing would be a joke.
The law can't be inconsistent.
"Ever heard of the Huguenots?"
"No. First time."
"Figured. Don't focus only on medical studies—learn some general knowledge too. You'll be dealing with higher-ups from now on."
"Is that something you should be saying?"
The words nearly escaped my throat before I swallowed them.
"You wanna die?"
Guess they slipped out a little.
But whatever.
If bald didn't bother him, why would ignorant?
"Sorry."
"Right. Anyway, you know how the French love their revolutions?"
"Yeah. Those uncultured bastards... bringing out the guillotine just because they're annoyed?"
"Exactly. Anyway, the Huguenots were Protestants. Mostly lawyers and doctors—smart people. What do you think idiots would do?"
"Not like them."
"So they killed them. The Director's family fled that persecution."
"Ah... so that's why his name is Georges François?"
"Right."
Damn...
France, you idiots.
Killing off your intellectuals...
No wonder you're losing to us now.
I was wondering.
Britain has almost no reason to be wealthier than France, yet here we are—the British Empire at its peak.
Now I get it.
Killing or persecuting intellectuals never ends well, East or West.
"By the way, about Colin."
"Yeah."
"Confident about his brother's surgery?"
"Of course. It'll go smoothly."
"Good. Hmm..."
Just as I was thinking that, Liston suddenly brought up surgery.
Not that it was entirely unexpected.
Doctors always end up talking shop over drinks.
"But why? You seem dissatisfied."
"That patient earlier. I think we could've shaped it better."
"Ah..."
"Using ear or rib cartilage—really no good?"
"Hmm..."
Cartilage, huh...
It's not impossible.
But for Colin's brother right away?
That's a bit...
"How about some practice first?"
"Practice? Cadavers won't cut it."
We need to observe graft reactions.
Check for infections.
We don't even know if our disinfection is sufficient.
"Then practice on people."
"How do you practice on people...?"
Liston's expression turned odd.
As if asking, What do you think we've been doing all this time?
Now that I think about it... yeah.
"Any suitable candidates?"
Liston chuckled.
"Plenty. Offer money and surgery, and they'll line up. Today's match proved that."
"Well..."
Right. This is 19th-century Britain.
Sometimes I wonder if this is even the same planet I came from.