Medieval Brushing

“Humans are such fragile creatures.”

Penny declared this with an air of immense arrogance.

Sitting at the dining table with her arms crossed, she looked down her nose at me, her expression practically dripping with disapproval.

“To crumble so easily from the slightest impact, from the pettiest of habits… Truly, nothing more than endlessly frail, insignificant beings.”

There was even a faint tinge of indignation lingering in her glare. I stared flatly back at her for a moment before gesturing toward her face.

“I can’t see a thing if you keep talking.”

“…It’s not a cavity, right?”

“Hold on a second.”

I took a chopstick and gently tapped the tooth she claimed was hurting.

“How’s that feel?”

“Doesn’t feel like anything.”

“Then it’s probably not a cavity. No hairline cracks either.”

“Phew… Whew…”

She had thrown such a fit about potentially having a cavity that I’d gotten worried, but fortunately, it was nothing serious. Apparently, she had gotten utterly spooked after reading Doctor De Soto, a children’s book about a mouse dentist.

Only after sweeping a hand over her chest in profound relief did Penny pucker her lips and grumble petulantly.

“Getting sensitive teeth just from eating a few sweets… That’s absurd.”

“Your teeth are sensitive because you eat sweets.”

“Humans are weak.”

Despite her childish appearance, she tried hard to sound grave and solemn. Of course, maintaining an intimidating aura falls completely flat when your eyes are still brimming with tears.

I pressed down lightly on the crown of her head with my palm.

“If you actually get a cavity, there’s nothing I can do for you. I was a humanities major.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means cut back on the sugar and brush your teeth properly.”

I ruffled her hair, and she immediately scurried off toward the bathroom with tiny, hurried footsteps. She must have still felt uneasy, judging by how eagerly she went to brush her teeth.

Watching her retreat, my thoughts naturally drifted to the Gallery.

Penny had shown up well after I’d already settled into this place. If even Penny was fretting over her dental health, what state were the Gallerians in—the ones who had been gorging themselves on goods from the Marketplace for far longer?

“Wait, or could they actually be fine?”

I remembered watching a video once claiming that medieval people actually had surprisingly decent teeth. Since sugar was rare and their diets were centered around coarse grains, their dental health wasn’t nearly as atrocious as modern stereotypes suggested.

Just in case, I pulled up the forum interface and typed 'teeth' into the search bar.

“A whole lot of nonsense, as usual.”

The Otherworld Destruction Gallery was, in the most literal sense, an online community spanning an entire world. Seeing the endless flood of irrelevant posts, I realized my search query needed a little fine-tuning.

Narrowing down the keywords immediately surfaced an ocean of relevant threads. Surprisingly, an enormous volume of dental complaints was being posted around the clock. The vast majority were either agonized cries of pain or desperate inquiries about oral hygiene.

“Ah.”

Medieval people’s teeth were fine back then, sure. But here, they had access to a marketplace overflowing with modern Earth delicacies. It was about time for a dental crisis to blow wide open.

I spotted that thread from a few hours ago. A user promising to leave a review after getting their rotten tooth pulled. Checking the author’s post history, I saw they had just put up a brand-new thread only a couple of minutes prior.

“Damn, that’s a solid review.”

Browsing through the threads, the treatments were practically identical everywhere: brute-force extraction with pliers. Of course, there was another option available. They could make an appointment with the Gallery Doctors, who had access to proper anesthetic supplies.

Unless it was a life-threatening medical emergency, the Doctors charged for their services. Obtaining anesthesia required cold, hard cash.

It was steep. Not completely absurd, but the overwhelming consensus among users was that they’d rather endure the agony and spend the currency on canned tuna instead.

Naturally, having teeth ripped out in a single, brutal tug had become the standard practice. Considering the terrifying, beast-slamming physical strength of the Gallery Doctors, that brute-force method was practically considered the gold standard.

Of course, some chose not to pull them at all.

If you made that choice, you were bound to experience what Great Doc aptly dubbed: Amazing pain.

Because of this, cavity prevention had suddenly surged to the forefront of the forum’s concerns.

“Come to think of it, I’ve never listed toothbrushes or toothpaste on the Marketplace, have I?”

Left to their own devices, the Gallerians had invented a dazzling variety of oral hygiene methods.

Wild, unhinged folk remedies were running rampant. Even the most popular methods were far from normal.

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When the Great War erupted, almost all documented records on hygiene had burned to ashes. On top of that, for people who had been starving until very recently, brushing teeth was viewed as an extravagant luxury reserved only for the wealthy. It made sense that they had no established, proper method for oral care.

“Still, could be worse, right?”

If memory served, ancient Romans used to gargle urine to whiten their teeth. At least things hadn’t descended to that level of insanity.

“God fucking damn it.”

Never mind. They had descended to that level.

With medieval superstition spiraling out of control, I immediately typed up an official notice.

I had listed toothpaste on the Marketplace. Perhaps because dental anxiety was already running rampant, it began flying off the virtual shelves at breakneck speed.

It was dirt cheap. Standard pricing across the board: roughly 1.5 Dango per tube. Even by this world’s brutal economy, it was an absolute steal. More than anything, compared to precious luxuries like salt or black pepper, it was infinitely more convenient and left their mouths ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠feeling crisp and fresh.

The entire forum was overflowing with glowing praise. No need to stick filthy fingers in their mouths, no need to wash grimy rags. Just squeeze a bit onto the bristles, brush away, and spit. Simple as that.

That distinctive, icy mint refreshment after brushing was a massive hit among a populace that had only recently awakened to the concept of bodily hygiene. However, there was an unmistakable flaw in the rollout.

Brushing teeth was strictly a preventative measure. For those whose teeth were already rotted to the root, brushing now was completely meaningless.

For those suffering from advanced decay or whose teeth had already fallen out, the arrival of toothbrushes felt like nothing short of cruel mockery.

Gallerians who had already lost all their teeth turned bitter and venomous, inevitably aiming their fury at me. Hidden among the tens of thousands of posts flooding the board every single day, they began taking potshots at the administration.

“Wait, you’re blaming me for this?”

Unfortunately for them, I was a dedicated, professional cyber-shut-in who spent literally twenty-four hours a day patrolling the forum. I pinpointed the complaint thread and dropped a reply.

Naturally, the loyal Gallerians immediately dogpiled the agitator, demanding he be banned, but my perspective was a bit different.

“Actually, this works out great. I was looking for a chance to test it anyway.”

Practicing modern dentistry in a medieval world was impossible. Even if I could source the textbooks and machinery from the shop, the insurmountable hurdle was that I knew absolutely nothing about dentistry.

Fortunately, I had an alternative, uniquely miraculous solution on hand.

The medieval answer to dental surgery: an Intermediate Recovery Potion.