What on Earth Happened to That Nose? (Part 2)
Come to think of it, how on earth had Colin turned out like this?
When we first crossed paths, the arrogant little bastard had his nose so high in the air he practically called me a monkey to my face. Yet look at him now.
“Here, Professor, drink this while you wait.”
“Ah, right. Thank you.”
He had poured me a glass of wine.
One might wonder why on earth a student was offering wine just before an examination of his own elder brother, but it was a low-alcohol vintage meant to be watered down, so it hardly mattered.
“This is boiled water, right?”
“Pardon? Yes, of course! That’s an absolute rule in our hospital now.”
Naturally, one always had to question why people here bothered watering down their wine in the first place. The plain water tasted so abominably foul that no one could stomach it without drowning it in alcohol. And no matter how many times I ordered them to boil it, would those stubborn fools listen?
Only the staff within arm’s reach of Liston’s fists actually boiled their water—and boiled it twice. The rest had developed a bizarre rationalization: convinced that pestilence arose from the water’s foul stench and brackish taste, they believed that masking it with a splash of wine was quite enough to render it safe.
“Good, good.”
“He’s been cooped up at home on account of his nose anyway,” Colin said. “He should be arriving shortly.”
“Fine by me.”
“The trouble is…”
Well, the water within our hospital walls was safe enough, enforced by my strict decrees and Liston’s violent threats. Mixing wine into it simply made it palatable, which was a win in my book. Besides, the cellar our surgical team drew from was stocked with fine vintages purchased or gifted by the newly minted millionaire Liston, Lord Jamie the eunuch-duke, and Sir Damien, so the flavor was remarkably decent.
“Trouble? Don’t tell me this goblet is one of those?” I asked, eyeing the rim.
“What? Ah, heavens, no! I marked those dissection cups clearly so they wouldn’t get mixed up.”
“Right, good. Then what’s the problem?”
I admired the wineglass with an air of aristocratic poise before raising an eyebrow. Colin shook his head frantically. If it wasn’t an issue of hygiene, what else could it be?
“My brother… is a terrible racist.”
“Ah.”
Right.
I had almost forgotten that Colin himself had started out as one. To be fair, it wasn’t just his family; virtually every white man in this era shared the sentiment. Expecting 19th-century British gentry to look at an East Asian and think, ‘Hmm, isn’t he a fellow child of the Lord just like us?’ would be asking for the moon.
A devout missionary might harbor such charity, but Colin’s family was a textbook clan of titled merchants. Expecting enlightened egalitarianism from them was pure fantasy. These were people who firmly believed in a rigid hierarchy among their fellow Englishmen, let alone foreigners.
“I gave him a strict talking-to beforehand, mind you,” Colin muttered nervously, “but something crude might slip out.”
“I imagine so. Don’t fret, I don’t mind.”
It wasn’t an empty platitude; I genuinely didn’t care. When I first awoke in this era, I had braced myself for far worse. I had pictured literal hell—half-expecting to be locked in some dungeon and forced to operate at gunpoint. Compared to that nightmare, suffering a bit of aristocratic insolence was nothing. Of course, if he crossed the line, I could always adjust my approach accordingly.
“Should I step in?” Liston piped up from his desk. “Colin’s family… they hold a barony, don’t they?”
“Do barons make you flinch, Robert?” I asked.
“He’s not the Baron himself, just the second son. A solid thrashing should sort him out. Wouldn’t take more than a blow or two, would it?”
“I imagine not. He’s an educated gentleman, after all.”
“Splendid. A smack or two between acquaintances is harmless enough. It’s not as though the Baron and I haven't met.”
“That’s my brother you’re talking about,” Colin groaned, his face draining of color.
Regardless of their banter, I had to keep my mind focused on the patient’s condition. Think about it: a severed nose. He needed a full reconstruction.
‘Have I ever performed one?’
I was a trauma surgeon, not a plastic surgeon. In 21st-century Korea, reconstructive rhinoplasty was a well-established procedure—and obscenely expensive. Why was it so costly? In standard covered surgery, price scales with staffing and raw materials under national health guidelines. But once you cross over into uncovered aesthetic surgery, raw market logic takes over. High prices mean low supply.
‘Which means it’s an absolute nightmare of an operation.’
If it were simple, every back-alley clinic would offer it. The exorbitant price tag was proof of its technical brutality. Restoring his nose to its original, pre-injury appearance was an impossible fantasy. Perhaps modern medicine could pull off a seamless flap, but with 19th-century tools, not a chance.
‘Better to do a modest, safe job than bite off more than you can chew and create a catastrophe.’
That was what my old professor used to drill into us. When I was a green resident, I bristled at the idea—we were surgeons, the proud pillars of a university hospital! How could we settle for half-measures? But it didn't take long to realize that doctors are far from omnipotent. More often than not, leaving well enough alone was the wisest course. Even terminal cancers had to be surrendered to radiation and pharmacology rather than a reckless blade.
“Ah, he must be here,” Colin said, springing up as a loud commotion echoed down the corridor.
He pulled the door open and ushered in an enormous, broad-shouldered man. A flock of liveried servants followed close behind. Judging by the cut and quality of their livery, Colin’s family was clearly a tier above Alfred’s nouveau-riche merchant kin. The wool was extraordinarily fine.
Having accumulated quite a fortune myself, I had developed an eye for expensive textiles, but my gaze snagged on something else.
‘Wait a minute.’
Why on earth were his trousers dyed that brilliant emerald hue? Was he trying to marinate himself to death in arsenic?
Colin caught my bewildered stare and shook his head, turning to his brother with exasperation. “Brother, I told you that dye is dangerous!”
“Bah! A true gentleman must know how to brave danger,” the brute bellowed.
“How does poisoning your own legs make you a gentleman?!”
“You ought to board a naval frigate, Colin. Spending all your hours cooped up among soft-handed physicians has turned you into an utter milkmaid.”
My diagnostic glance was all it took. An untamed, bristling beard, bright Paris Green trousers, and eyes burning with unhinged bravado. I had expected a brooding, melancholic invalid hiding his mutilated face from society; instead, an unwashed barbarian had stomped into my office. One couldn’t even claim he lacked noble breeding—this brazen madness was the quintessence of the Victorian aristocracy. Duke Jamie had probably been just as insufferable in his youth. Considering he had voluntarily surrendered his testicles to retain his social standing, he remained an unhinged madman to this day—even if he was no longer technically whole.
“Ahem. Greetings,” I said, rising slowly to approach him.
In my past life, a brute of this size with such a harsh demeanor would have made me shrink back. But now? One of my closest companions was Robert Liston.
‘How cute.’
He was merely a young pup desperately playing the part of a hardened warrior. For all his posturing, Colin’s older brother was still only in his twenties. His weathered glare tried to disguise it, but the skin around his throat was smooth and unwrinkled. Emboldened, I brushed off his scowl and offered a courteous greeting.
“I am Kim Taepyeong, the professor supervising Colin’s training.”
“Hmph. I have heard the name.”
Standard etiquette demanded a handshake, but his hands remained planted firmly by his sides. Fine by me. There were endless opportunities for vengeance. If a 19th-century physician truly set his mind to tormenting a rude patient, the agony he could inflict was virtually boundless. I could make him beg for the sweet release of—
‘Good heavens, what am I thinking?!’
Begone, foul ghost of the 19th century! I was an ethical 21st-century trauma surgeon, damn it.
“Would you mind lowering the cloth covering your face?” I asked calmly.
“Hmph.”
“You need not worry,” I added. “This is the Hospital Director, and that is Professor Liston.”
“Ah… that man is Liston? Very well, then.”
The stubborn brute, who had worn an expression of utter defiance a second prior, caught one glimpse of Liston’s menacing scowl and hastily tugged down the linen wrapping his face. Such was the terrifying aura of Robert Liston, the Sword Master of London surgery.
“Good lord…” I muttered under my breath.
Looking at the wound didn't make me feel any better.
‘What on earth happened to that nose?’
What kind of duel had he fought? The rest of his face was completely unscathed, but his nose was entirely gone. Had an opponent’s blade sliced cleanly across his profile from the side?
“Can you mend it?” the man demanded gruffly.
“Hmm.”
Could I? I honestly didn't know. I had prepared a series of questions regarding his original facial structure, but they were utterly meaningless now. Reaching a point where an onlooker merely thought, ‘That man has a rather odd-looking nose,’ would already be an act of God. The entire base had been shorn clean off.
“You cannot, can you? Just as I expected… hmph.”
“I did not say it was impossible to treat.”
“Then what?”
“I am saying it will be exceptionally difficult to restore it to its original shape.”
“Is that not the very same thing? If you claim to be a physician, you ought to put it back as it was!”
“Hmm.”
Should I hit him? Would it be so wrong if I punched him right on his missing nose? I glanced toward Liston, whose narrowed eyes practically screamed: ‘Say the word, and I’ll flatten him.’
Fortunately, the Hospital Director gave a gentle shake of his head, reining in the tension.
‘Begone, 19th century!’
It might sound unbelievable given my violent impulses, but in my past life, I was genuinely a mild-mannered man. I was a regular fixture on hospital commendation boards! It was this godforsaken era that was corrupting my soul.
“Just as I thought,” the brother scoffed. “Far too young, and on top of that…”
Wait, was the era corrupting me, or was this bastard just begging for a beating? As I stood wrestling with my patience, the man gave a nod toward the doorway. A servant promptly opened the door and ushered in a pale, sharp-featured stranger who had been waiting outside.
“I am considering entrusting my procedure to this gentleman instead,” the brother announced. “What think you?”
“Entrusting what, exactly?”
“My surgery.”
I had little respect for standard 19th-century medical practitioners—every clinic I visited was steeped in lethal quackery, so how could I respect them? But even setting aside my modern prejudices, this newcomer radiated the unmistakable stench of a charlatan.
“Ah!” the Hospital Director suddenly gasped.
“What is it, Director?” Liston asked.
The Director tilted his head, squinting at the newcomer. “I recognize that face… Indeed, the renowned master of rhinoplasty. Yes, that’s him. Dr. Josef.”
“Josef?” I echoed.
A rather Prussian, proto-fascist sort of name. Well, better than a Frenchman, though frankly there wasn’t much difference between the two. One couldn’t help but recall the horrors of the future century—
‘Stop it, Taepyeong, don’t let the historical ghosts take over!’
“Indeed,” the pale man declared, stepping forward with an arrogant smirk. “I am Dr. Josef. My specialty lies in correcting the inferior, hooked noses of the Jews.”
Ah.
Never mind. It wasn’t the cynical ghost of the 19th century corrupting my thoughts; it was a completely rational deduction based on 21st-century knowledge. When a man reaches middle age with a face that sinister, he deserves every ounce of suspicion directed his way. Abraham Lincoln was entirely right about a man being responsible for his own face after forty.
“Having performed countless such procedures,” Josef continued pompously, “I have mastered the intricate architecture of the nasal cavity. It seems only proper that a case of this magnitude be placed in my hands… unless, of course, you object?”
“If your mind was already made up, why bother coming here at all?” the Director asked bluntly.
Even the easygoing Hospital Director looked unusually tense, clearly sensing something deeply unsettling about the German surgeon.
“I heard rumors that an Oriental fellow in London had gained quite the reputation,” Josef sneered, his cold eyes locking onto mine. “I thought this might be an opportune moment to test his mettle in a proper contest.”
The Director had every right to be tense. A genuine, unadulterated lunatic had just walked through our door.