The Angel of the Red-Light District
"I need to get my edge back."
A significant amount of time had passed since I first began supplying Quinine to the merchant guild. During that time, I had come to a sobering realization: my clinical instincts as a doctor were rusting away.
No matter how skilled you are, taking even a short break makes your hands dull.
I first realized this while researching Quinine. Synthesizing the drug had gone smoothly enough. The problem arose when I had to administer it intravenously to a malaria patient.
A trauma surgeon failing to find a vein on the first try? Pathetic.
During the clinical trial, I had to stick the patient three times before finally securing intravenous access. This was a grave matter. If I spent the rest of my childhood idling away, my surgical dexterity would be completely gone by the time I turned twenty.
Faced with this grim reality, I immediately began searching for a way to secure a steady stream of patients. Fortunately, finding people in need of medical care was not difficult.
I can just do volunteer medical work.
Down there, in the depths of the slums, there would be an endless supply of patients desperately waiting for a doctor.
Once my mind was made up, I acted swiftly. I immediately headed to my godfather's office to ask for permission.
"While researching Quinine, I realized just how many people out there truly need my help. For that reason, I would like to spend some time in the slums—"
"You have my permission."
"...?"
"I suppose blood will tell. I shall assign guards to accompany you, so do as your heart desires."
His approval came far more easily than I had anticipated. Come to think of it, the way my godfather looked at me lately had been rather strange. In the past, his gaze was that of a man dealing with an awkward nephew who refused to go home. But recently, it had softened into something... lukewarm. It was a mixture of pride and pity.
And now, he was readily permitting me to go to the Red-Light District.
What is this? Do people in this era not care if a child goes to a place like that?
There was no way. Even in a barbaric, pre-modern world with zero concept of children's rights, there were still boundaries. They might puff away on tobacco in the same room as a child, but this era wasn't so depraved that they would willingly let a ten-year-old wander into a district of brothels.
Then the question was, why did he allow it?
Don't tell me... is this the classic setup for a 'prodigal noble son' story?
That would explain everything. It was a common trope: an orphaned noble boy with mediocre talent straying from the righteous path out of despair. Did my godfather think I was falling into that exact trap?
I briefly pondered where to even begin correcting this misunderstanding, but quickly gave up. Since when did those prodigal son stories ever get resolved through mere words? It was always about redeeming one's reputation through overwhelming achievements. Figuring the truth would come to light eventually, I decided to focus on the task at hand.
Well then, off to the Red-Light District to get my edge back.
From that day forward, I made regular trips to the Red-Light District. Of course, the locals were highly suspicious of me at first.
"A doctor? Ah, like a healer? What business does a high-and-mighty healer have in a gutter like this?"
Perhaps because the concept of volunteer medical service didn't exist in this world, the residents met my sudden goodwill with deep skepticism.
However, once I proved myself with undeniable results, they gradually began to accept me.
"Doctor. Thank you so much for saving my sister the other day."
In an era where the leading cause of death for women was postpartum puerperal fever, simply paying a little attention to basic hygiene caused maternal survival rates to skyrocket.
And so, a year of perfect attendance in the Red-Light District passed. Before I knew it, whenever a woman in the district went into labor, they sought me out instead of a midwife. To exaggerate only slightly, nearly half of the children born in the Red-Light District over the past year had passed through my hands.
There was just one problem.
What gives? If I'm the protagonist, shouldn't a year of this kind of activity have triggered some sort of legendary encounter by now?
A full year in the slums, and aside from my medical skills and reputation improving, there had been no dramatic changes in my life. There was no retired archmage or assassin guild leader hiding in the slums, no polymorphed dragon or demon king out for a stroll, and certainly no future sword master or aspiring hero in the making.
Seriously, where were all my hidden encounters?
Ugh. Or is one year simply not enough?
But having started this charity work, I couldn't exactly stop now. In the end, all I had gained was medical knowledge, practical experience, and a decent amount of clinical trial data.
Oh, and a bit of fame—along with a title.
Though "The Angel of the Brothels" was not exactly a title I could proudly boast about in polite society.
Actually, come to think of it, it wasn't a total loss. The slum residents had banded together to provide me with a proper clinic. In a way, I now had a property to my name.
"Well, time to head to work."
Pushing my stray thoughts aside, I grabbed my medical bag and pushed myself out of bed to prepare for the day's rounds.
It was December, and the weather was freezing. I threw on my child-sized overcoat and reached for the front door handle. But today, the brass handle felt so cold it practically bit into my palm. That unusual chill immediately triggered an ominous premonition.
Whoosh!
The moment I opened the door, a violent gust of freezing wind slapped me in the face, confirming my instincts were entirely correct.
Inhaling the air sent a sharp, numbing sting straight up my nostrils. Squinting through the gale, I saw that the world had been completely swallowed by a blinding sheet of white. I couldn't even make out the garden trees in front of the annex, let alone the buildings beyond the estate walls.
Visibility was zero, but one thing was absolutely certain: anyone who stepped into that blizzard would be buried alive in a matter of minutes.
"..."
Come to think of it, it was indeed the season for heavy snow. The wind had been rattling my windows with unusual ferocity all through the night. Staring out at the blizzard—which, despite its pristine white appearance, was undoubtedly filthy with smog—I began to calculate my options.
In novels, this was precisely the moment a patient would appear. There was always some poor, terminally ill girl clinging to life in a nearby cottage during a storm like this. Was this the cue for the classic 'doctor braving the blizzard to save a life' event?
Well...
No, absolutely not.
Even for a protagonist, there was a fine line between a brave adventure and reckless stupidity. For an eleven-year-old child to plunge into that blizzard was pure folly. To put it more bluntly, it was suicide.
I'd end up missing before I ever reached a patient.
Yes, this definitely wasn't my event. Protagonists of misunderstanding stories didn't come with invincibility cheats. Today, the clinic was closed.
I tossed my medical bag back into the corner and threw myself onto the bed.
Now, what should I do today?
I was in the middle of spending some highly constructive time rolling around on my mattress when my bedroom door burst open, and the Nihilite Family Butler rushed in.
"Young Master!"
Good grief, what a fright. What if I had been enjoying some private time? I sat up in bed to greet him. Seeing the thick layer of snow piled on his shoulders, he had clearly sprinted all the way from the main mansion. The fact that he hadn't even knocked meant something incredibly serious had happened.
"What is the matter?"
"The baby is coming!"
"Already?"
I didn't need to ask whose baby it was. My godfather and godmother had recently conceived a late-in-life child. Though they already had a daughter, they had spent eight long years trying for a son. The problem was, if my memory served me correctly, the pregnancy was only at thirty-four weeks. The child wasn't supposed to arrive for another six weeks.
"Why is the little one in such a hurry?"
"This is no time for jokes, Young Master! Please, you must come quickly! The midwife cannot make it through the snow!"
"Ah, talk about perfect timing."
"Pardon?!"
"It is nothing. Of course I must go."
No wonder there was a blizzard. The event wasn't out there in the slums—it was right here in my own home.
I immediately grabbed my medical bag and threw my overcoat back on. The blizzard was raging, but while going outside the estate walls was out of the question, crossing from the annex to the main mansion was perfectly manageable.
It was time for the ace of the brothels to shine.
...No, that sounded terrible. Let me rephrase.
It was time for the Angel of the Brothels to shine.
...Actually, no matter how I phrased it, it sounded sketchy.
"Aaaagh... Aaah!"
The moment I reached the main mansion, agonizing screams echoed from the far end of the hallway. When I opened the door, a wave of stifling heat and a pungent odor hit my nose. It was the damp, heavy air unique to delivery rooms—a mixture of sweat and amniotic fluid. It was a scent I had smelled dozens of times in the Red-Light District.
My godmother, Rinie, was screaming on the bed, her hands desperately gripping my godfather's hair. He was taking it all without a word of complaint.
At this rate, the poor man was going to end up bald.
"Rinie! Just hold on a little longer! Julian is on his way!"
"Julian? That child... Aaaagh!"
By all indications, active labor had begun. I immediately obtained my godfather's permission and performed a pelvic exam on Rinie.
Cervix is dilated to four centimeters, station is minus two. Membranes have ruptured, fetus is in cephalic presentation, and the umbilical cord... is not palpable. No prolapse. We're still good.
According to the maids, it had only been about ten minutes since her water broke.
That means we still have some time.
Thank goodness. If the baby had already been crowning, I wouldn't have even had time to sterilize the room.
I immediately instructed the butler and my godfather to prepare the room. A reasonably clean space, freshly washed towels, and chlorinated water for hand disinfection. In no time, a highly respectable delivery room was set up.
This is perfect.
Short of a Cesarean section, this was an ideal, sterile environment for a natural birth. If only the baby weren't arriving at thirty-four weeks, everything would be absolutely flawless.
A few hours later, with one final scream from Rinie, the baby slid out, and I caught him in my hands.
The delivery itself wasn't particularly unique compared to the others I had performed. It was the usual routine of pushing and deep breathing, with nothing out of the ordinary.
The only real stroke of luck was that we didn't run into a situation requiring a C-section. In a world lacking proper anesthetic technology, even I would have been hard-pressed to perform one safely.
However, the danger was far from over. In fact, the real challenge was only just beginning.
Thirty-four weeks... Good grief. He's a premature baby, plain and simple.
Could he survive? In the twenty-first century, a thirty-four-week preemie had an excellent survival rate with modern medicine. But in this world, things were different. The miracle of divine healing magic could close any wound, but it could not force underdeveloped organs to mature. Thus, premature infants in this era were left entirely to the mercy of prayers and fate.
Well, I'm different.
That grim reality might apply to the locals, but as a transmigrated protagonist from the twenty-first century, I was an exception. Thirty-four weeks? I could easily save him.
This isn't even a difficult case.
Compared to the bizarre, worst-case scenarios I routinely handled in the Red-Light District, this was child's play.
No meconium staining.
Suctioning wouldn't be necessary. I wiped the baby down and assessed his condition. He wasn't crying yet, so I flicked the soles of his tiny feet with my finger. Stimulated by the reflex, the baby let out a soft, fragile wail.
Okay, respiration confirmed.
Next, I thoroughly coated the baby's body with the oil I had prepared. This masked the scent of blood, and I wrapped him snugly in clean wool. The wool absorbed the oil, feeling slightly heavy in my hands. In the absence of an incubator, these were the necessary measures to maintain his body temperature.
"Godmother. You must keep the baby against your bare skin. You have to keep him warm at all times. Ah, excuse me, but I must wipe your chest before you hold him."
Before handing the baby over, I wiped Rinie's chest with a cloth soaked in chlorinated water. The sharp smell of chlorine drifted up from her damp skin. It probably wasn't great for her skin, but there was no helping it. I couldn't trade a premature baby's life for cosmetic comfort.
And with that, a magnificent incubator—his mother's embrace—was complete. This simple act of kangaroo care alone would dramatically increase his chances of survival.
Next, I turned to the maids who were standing by, watching blankly.
"I am going to the annex to prepare some medicine. Take good care of my godmother while I am gone. If I return and find that you have not washed your hands with chlorinated water, or if you leave dirty towels lying around, I will turn this place upside down."
I didn't bother explaining why. I had no time, and they wouldn't understand anyway. Bacteria, miasma... no matter how hard I tried to explain it to the people in the Red-Light District, they never listened. It was far more effective to simply command them with absolute authority. If I set the rules, they would follow.
I did one final check on Rinie and the baby. I wiped the sweat from her brow and observed the rise and fall of the baby's chest through the wool. He was stable for now. For now.
Time to head to the annex for the medicine.
Just as I was about to leave the main mansion, the butler called out to me in a panic.
"Medicine, Young Master? Most common medicines are already kept here in the main house!"
At his words, I paused at the doorway and poked my head back in.
"Do you have pulmonary surfactant, then?"
"Pulmonary... what?"
"I thought not. I shall be back from the annex shortly."
I hurried toward the annex. If my calculations were correct, tonight or tomorrow would be the critical turning point.