Of course, it didn't end with just teaching them one technique.
For one, I was too good at it, and on top of that, the procedure itself wasn't all that difficult, so it took barely any time at all.
'What if I just told them to leave now?'
The esteemed figures who were currently watching me with such goodwill would undoubtedly lose their temper. No, even the police commissioner would likely do the same.
This wasn't… the kind of place you could just borrow on a whim.
No matter how much of an anatomy enthusiast the princess was, they wouldn't have just handed it over without question.
And there was another, far more serious problem.
'Anatomy in this era…'
At first, I couldn't understand why this kind of culture had formed.
Seriously, why were people so obsessed with watching dissections?
Even during student practice sessions, students from other departments would sometimes come to gawk. Of course, our anatomy lab was practically a living hell, so it didn't happen often, but still…
The point was, dissection was widely seen as a spectacle.
'They even do it at carnivals, don't they?'
And there was a reason for that.
The truth was, cutting into a human corpse… wasn't exactly a pleasant affair.
Not just for the person doing the cutting, but even more so for the deceased—no, since the dead couldn't speak, it was their families who found it deeply unsettling.
Especially when religious customs demanded cremation, burial at sea, or traditional interment.
Even now, things weren't so different, which was why dissection was officially permitted only on executed criminals.
'Originally, it was completely banned.'
So, dissection had been forbidden.
But then the Crusades happened, exposing Europeans to the practice of human dissection. Combined with the realization that Europe—still stuck in its dark ages—was embarrassingly behind the Islamic empires in fields like medicine, things changed.
Imagine watching nobles from the other side survive injuries that would kill your own.
So, a decree was issued: one dissection every five years, and only on executed criminals.
It had probably started with good intentions, but…
Just look around.
Even the racists who usually looked down on Asians were here, eager to learn.
Especially for surgeons, the difference between having dissection experience and not having any was massive. But with a five-year restriction in place? People were desperate.
'If I were them, I'd go watch too…'
And so, whenever someone got their turn to perform a dissection, it became a public event.
At the same time, failing to dissect a body before it began to rot was seen as disrespectful.
Thus, dissection became something that had to be performed in front of an audience, endlessly, without pause.
---
"Now, let's take a closer look at the neck."
Honestly, this was exhausting.
I wasn't exactly the most physically resilient person, and it wasn't like I desperately needed dissection practice right now.
"Yes, the neck!"
"Let's see it!"
"Show us!"
But…
I was the only one who wasn't desperate.
Even the non-doctors were enthralled—including the high-ranking officials. There was no way I could stop now.
Besides, wasn't this a golden opportunity?
Teaching my students while also gaining fame?
"First, remember this large muscle we saw earlier?"
I pointed to the massive muscle on either side of the neck.
Objectively speaking, calling it "massive" was a stretch, but for the neck, it was certainly impressive.
There was a reason it was so large.
"Not the scalpel—something blunt. No, wait—just insert the blade."
I corrected a student who was still oblivious to the situation, trying to lift a scalpel over 20 cm long. Instead, I slid my gloved fingers between the muscle—the sternocleidomastoid—and the structures beneath it.
Since there weren't any major blood vessels between the fascial layers, the muscle lifted easily with a soft pop.
"Light."
Normally, I'd use a headlamp to see inside, but asking for one now would've gotten me burned at the stake.
So, Joseph stepped in, holding up a lantern.
The internal structures slowly came into view.
"Here. This large, round structure—this is the jugular vein."
"Ohhh…"
"And beneath it… if you look closely…"
The neck wasn't exactly spacious, and with the muscle lifted, there wasn't much room to maneuver. So, I used forceps to gently push the jugular vein upward.
The blood inside had clotted, making it feel firm. Normally, it would've been softer, more pliable…
"You'll notice something thinner but much tougher. This is the carotid artery. It supplies blood to the brain, so… extremely important."
I continued explaining the vascular anatomy.
At this point, someone might've worried I'd be accused of witchcraft, but surprisingly, this level of knowledge was already well-established.
Especially in the last decade or so, thanks to… grave robbing.
Not the most dignified way to put it, but… well, it was the truth.
"So, this muscle covers these critical vessels. That's why you must be careful not to damage it when operating on the neck."
I'd never done it myself, but even in ENT surgeries where lymph nodes were removed, they took great care to preserve this muscle.
They'd maneuver it this way and that—really going out of their way.
When I asked why, they showed me photos of patients who'd had it removed due to cancer infiltration.
The aesthetic defect—a sunken hollow in the neck—was one thing, but the functional impairment was worse.
The patients couldn't hold their heads straight, constantly tilting to one side.
"Now, what else…?"
As I pondered what else to demonstrate, Dr. Liston approached.
Just his presence was intimidating, so I instinctively stepped back. But he, used to such reactions, ignored it.
"We should move on to the abdomen before it deteriorates. It's more visible there anyway. We don't have much time before it becomes unusable."
"Ah…"
"And brace yourself. You did too well earlier. I doubt any of the higher-ups will leave anytime soon."
"But isn't there a performance tomorrow?"
At my question, the police commissioner—who should've gone home but was now stuck playing statue—shook his head.
"No. Everything's been canceled."
"What? Why?"
"When you opened the neck earlier and showed that… pink thing? The princess and the prime minister ordered it. The venue's cleared for at least three days."
"Oh."
Have they lost their minds?
I'm exhausted…
Normally, people would at least offer sympathy, but…
"Congratulations, Pyeong."
"Yeah. You've really made it now."
"Hurry up. I'll handle the limbs—you take the abdomen."
These bastards were congratulating me.
Sure, in the long run, this was a good thing.
But that didn't make the exhaustion any easier to bear.
'Alright. Look on the bright side.'
The one saving grace was that I was a doctor. I wasn't just used to pushing through fatigue—I was a master at it.
'If I survived residency, I can survive this.'
I could say with absolute certainty that no one here had worked as many sleepless nights as I had.
Back in my day, we didn't have the 88-hour workweek limit. We pulled 120-hour weeks like it was nothing.
I know, I sound like an old man ranting about "the good old days," but it's the truth.
In other words, even if these guys acted like they'd kill me if I stopped now…
Once night fell, they'd all be dead on their feet.
Except…
'Why… why aren't they leaving?'
They didn't.
Damn it.
Right.
This wasn't modern-day Korea.
This was 19th-century London—a place where people survived on four hours of sleep and still worked like machines.
And since they weren't here to work but to watch, their energy showed no signs of fading.
"So, this is the kidney. You can see the ureter connecting to the bladder, which, as you know, stores urine. This patient… oh dear, there's a stone. Must've been in agony."
"Hahaha!"
"Already punished by heaven, I see!"
"I've never seen a kidney so cleanly separated!"
Even the higher-ups were just as engaged.
Maybe they'd seen enough dissections to recognize the difference in quality.
Had they ever seen it done properly before?
Unlikely.
Especially in an era with no concept of hormones…
"Look here."
I pointed to the adrenal gland atop the kidney.
All endocrine organs were important, but this one was critical.
'Ugh… I know, but I can't explain.'
I held back.
Instead, I closed my eyes—partly to suppress the murmurs of witchcraft from certain suspicious onlookers.
"Remember the pinkish organ in the neck? The round one? Compare it to this. The color's different, but the texture's similar, isn't it? Our Lord wouldn't create something without purpose. We may not yet know its function, but given its resemblance, it likely serves a similar role. Perhaps a more brilliant mind than mine will uncover its secrets someday."
I was playing the faith card.
It worked instantly.
With the lanterns casting an almost divine glow, my holy words had the desired effect.
"Amen."
"Lord…"
"Grant us wisdom…"
The room echoed with revival-meeting fervor.
Not that I cared.
I glanced upward.
'Good.'
Even Princess Victoria had her eyes closed, murmuring amen.
Hallelujah.
Without thinking, I hummed Hallelujah under my breath as I continued the dissection.
These people had received their spiritual uplift, and with the fascinating spectacle unfolding before them, none showed any intention of leaving.
As for me, at some point—whether it was the sleep deprivation acting as an antidepressant or sheer delirium—I actually started enjoying myself.
The dissection continued through the night.
I'd heard of people dying during dissection practice, even without an
y injuries. Now I understood why.
By the time I finished—over 30 hours later—I was certain this was how people died of overwork.
Unable to go home, we all collapsed where we stood—Joseph, Alfred, Colin, Liston, Blundell, and I—falling asleep right there in the ward.