The good news materialized a few months later.
Honestly, I had a rough idea even before that.
Neither Alfred, nor Colin, nor even the Director were particularly tight-lipped, so it was hard to miss.
"Very nice..."
"Indeed."
Kensington.
Clearly a central area of London.
A place boasting astronomical land prices...
And now, a center has been established there for me and my team to practice medicine.
It's not like in the 21st century where they tear everything down and rebuild; they're just using an existing building.
'Thank you, everyone...'
They gathered money like it was a Spirit Bomb and bought this building for us.
Of course, Liston and I also contributed some funds.
That way, we could receive profits as business income rather than just salaries.
Ah, during this time, there was another discussion about granting me a title, but I obviously declined again.
"Well, you shouldn't feel too burdened."
In front of the newly renovated second hospital branch—though the exterior was an old building—the Director patted my shoulder.
When I didn't know this man's background, I just thought he seemed very easygoing...
But after learning he was a descendant of people who fled persecution, I started to see him differently.
How should I put it?
An underdog hero?
"I started from nothing with my father... but you don't need to worry about management or such things at all. The main reason this hospital was even established was to look good for the upper class. You just need to focus on diabetes. Just properly treating diabetes is enough."
"So, the time I have left is mine to use as I please? That still holds?"
"Of course! Haha, who would dare boss Pyeong around? You just need to handle diabetes consultations in the morning. Anyway, you have your subordinates there too, right? The two of you should be more than enough."
The Director pointed at Alfred standing nearby.
I originally intended to train him as an anesthesiologist, but that plan fell through.
Not because people had ill intentions...
It was due to the limitations of the era.
How can you become a specialist after just a few months of anesthesia training?
Honestly, even the current specialists have a strong vibe of "I'll handle this from now on" rather than formal qualification...
"Yes! Leave it to me!"
Both his senior father and others seemed to think that just turning gas valves wasn't fitting for a doctor.
Actually, the captain of the operating room is the anesthesiologist...
But that's a matter for the future, and talking about it now wouldn't help.
So, we decided to assign Alfred as an anesthesia assistant and diabetes specialist.
He might not be fast, but he's meticulous, so he's quite suited for this role.
Actually... insulin concentration can be inconsistent, right?
Since it's natural, that's to be expected.
People think "natural" always means good, but since you can't know exactly how much of a substance is present, it's not ideal for pharmaceuticals.
'But when it comes to adjusting treatment based on the patient's condition, he's the best.'
Yes, this might be Alfred's true calling.
19th-century diabetes treatment is very different from before.
"First... this is your consultation room, that's Liston's, and that's Blundell's. Blundell, are you really sure about being here? Most maternity cases will go to the main hospital anyway."
While I was lost in thought, the Director asked Blundell, whose position had become somewhat ambiguous.
Of course, "ambiguous" is just my perception.
Blundell himself didn't think so at all.
"I think I need to be here to do new things. Cesarean sections, blood transfusions... Pyeong isn't called Pyeong for nothing, right?"
"Well, that's true."
"Besides... ugh, if I'm over there, I have to work with those uncivilized brats."
"I... should probably be there too."
"Director, at least you understand miasma theory and practice disinfection, so that's a relief. But the others... ugh. Ugh... No matter what I say, they just don't listen. I told them to use stethoscopes, but they don't, so they're still doing blind burials."
"That is... quite frustrating, I agree."
Blundell was experiencing fragments of the same frustration I felt when I first arrived here.
Things have improved a lot.
Washing hands after dissection practice is now routine.
But things like disinfecting before surgery...
Concepts that require an understanding of pathogens are still completely muddled.
Most other minor protocols aren't followed either.
There were only those trying to clumsily steal things like diabetes treatments, but fortunately, we managed to stop that.
For one, insulin extraction technology hasn't been leaked much, and obtaining cow pancreases for free would be nearly impossible.
Why?
Because we have an agreement with a gang.
They provide us with cow pancreases for free, and in exchange, we offer them protection.
'Protection... is a bit of a strange term.'
Well, thanks to us, their relationship with the police has strengthened, and they can call upon Sword Master Liston if needed, so it's definitely a win for the gang.
It's a win for us too.
"Alright, well. If that's what you think. Anyway, this is the operating room... I'm still not sure if we need a separate operating room, but you asked for it, so we built it."
"Thank you."
Before I knew it, we had passed the operating room and were heading to the wards.
Since the building wasn't originally constructed as a hospital, the wards were quite cozy.
But that doesn't mean it's inadequate.
Putting 20 patients in one room—is that a hospital? It's a prison.
I didn't realize I'd like this structure, where only three or four patients can be admitted per room, but after seeing it finished, I really do.
"In many ways... it's cozy."
For the Director, who runs a robust hospital, it must seem quite small.
Perhaps that's why his advice was lengthy.
"Well... just because you've branched out separately doesn't mean you can't use the main hospital's facilities. If anyone gives you trouble... Liston, don't handle it yourself; tell me. I'll make sure they aren't admitted. Understood?"
"Yes, sure."
"Don't say that so casually... I got a separate message from the police. They said to tell you to stop beating people up."
"Understood."
"And... well. I'm sure you'll manage. If you run into any difficulties, ask for help."
"Yes, yes."
"Good... let's make a fortune. Diabetes treatment is seriously in demand. Haha."
It was only after a long while that the Director finally took his carriage back to the main hospital.
"Finally, it's just us left."
"Nice."
"Yes. It's so good not to have those ignorant fools around."
"Right."
I'm not sure who's calling whom ignorant...
But at this point, our team is definitely at the forefront.
No one else knows about disinfection and all that.
Well, to be precise, even if they know, they don't acknowledge it.
Anyway.
Now that we're independent, we have to earn our own keep.
I wasn't particularly worried.
Why?
We've been making a fortune for a while now.
"Who's the first patient?"
"Sir Jamie. He has to come every day, that gentleman."
"Right, that's true. But does diabetes require continuous treatment? Can't it be fixed with surgery?"
Diabetes surgery... doesn't exist even in the 21st century.
Well, you could force it with bariatric surgery, but...
Sir Jamie's condition is due to aging, lack of exercise, and absence of male hormones, so it's complicated.
He should actually be on exercise and diet therapy, but that's also difficult.
At least for now.
"Well... I'm planning to try exercise with him."
"Exercise? I heard he goes hunting."
"Not that kind. Exercise that helps prevent diabetes."
"Is there such a thing? If there is, I'd like to try it too."
"Come and see. I kept a room empty for that purpose."
"Ah... that room with the bells, you mean?"
"Yes."
I set up one room for exercise.
Trying to make dumbbells and barbells like the ones I knew would have cost too much, so I bought a few standardized iron blocks instead.
Bells.
In English, they're called bells.
The fact that these bells were used for exercise is why they're called dumbbells, barbells, and kettlebells, so it's not entirely off base.
"Hey there."
While we were chatting in the consultation room, Sir Jamie arrived.
Maybe because it's been several months since we started diabetes treatment, his complexion looked much better than before.
"Good day to you!"
The person greeting us cheerfully beside him is...
Sir Jamie's dedicated sommelier.
He's so sensitive to taste that he's been a great help in the treatment.
"There was absolutely no sweetness again yesterday! It seems to be very well controlled!"
Things like that.
I sometimes wonder if it's right for a person to make tasting another's urine their profession...
But for now, analyzing urine for sugar is too difficult, so there's no choice.
Hiring someone for this is much cheaper than doing it every time ourselves.
"Good. Then we'll stick with the same dosage."
"Yes, yes. Ugh... doing this often really makes it sink in, doesn't it?"
Sir Jamie pulled up his shirt to receive the insulin made from a pancreas we obtained early this morning.
I injected the syringe into his soft, exposed belly.
We haven't been idle these past few months, so the syringes have seen many improvements.
They even have proper rubber attached.
Squish.
This allows the pressure to be accurately transmitted, enabling immediate injection.
The needles are still as thick as awls, though...
"It's bleeding, blood."
"Ugh... it hurts..."
It always requires止血 (hemostasis).
We need to improve this somehow...
It's really not easy.
But that doesn't mean there's nothing we can do.
If we make him exercise and increase his muscle mass, couldn't we reduce the frequency of injections?
'Well... probably not.'
Why did they castrate him and remove his testes...
With thoughts I could never voice aloud, I held Sir Jamie's shoulder.
"Huh? Why?"
He looked clearly eager to leave, turning back at me with a puzzled face.
"You don't exercise, do you?"
"No, I do. Hunting."
He now looked wronged.
All his reactions were utterly baffling.
"Your heart needs to beat faster than usual, and you need to sweat a lot."
"How is that possible? Are you telling me to do manual labor?"
"Let... me properly show you starting today. Come this way."
"Ugh... your face is scaring me."
"What kind of face am I making?"
"Arsenic dress." (Likely meaning a deadly serious or pale expression)
"Ah. No. How could I do that to you, Duke? Besides, you're an investor in this hospital."
"That's exactly why. Wouldn't it be more advantageous for you if I died?"
"I'm not that bad a person."
"W-well..."
For some reason, Sir Jamie glanced back at his dedicated sommelier.