Clip-clop, clip-clop.
As we rode in the carriage—accompanied by the director and Liston—I found myself deep in thought.
What was I thinking about?
The white phosphorus match factory.
"Surely… they must be using something to protect themselves from the phosphorus, right?"
I didn't even hope for gas masks.
Why?
Because this wasn't a world where such things existed.
And even if they did, I doubted the factory owners would bother providing them to the workers.
These people were so obsessed with money that they valued profit far more than human lives.
I had been shocked when I asked why the workers had chafed armpits.
Apparently, they hung ropes at night and told workers to sleep while hanging onto them.
What kind of insane…
"Maybe they at least wear masks?"
A mask.
It was the absolute bare minimum of protection.
Of course, our hospital didn't wear masks either.
They used them during dissections, but not for surgeries or general treatment.
I wore one during surgeries, but people just assumed it was because I had a weak stomach.
It was hard to argue otherwise, so I let them think what they wanted.
"Even if they don't wear them to protect others, maybe they wear them to protect themselves…?"
I was clinging to faint hope.
But that hope was shattered the moment we arrived at the factory.
"No way… This is just…"
The factory was located near London, but calling it a factory was generous—it was more like a rundown building.
Most of the workers inside were women.
If I had seen this place right after arriving in London, I wouldn't have noticed anything strange.
But now?
I had lived here long enough to recognize the signs.
"These bastards… They're barely paying them, aren't they?"
Women's rights in this era were practically nonexistent.
You could tell just by looking at maternity wards.
So why would they pay them fairly?
It was obvious they hired women because they could get away with paying them next to nothing.
At least making white phosphorus matches wasn't physically demanding, so from a business perspective, it made sense… but still.
"Hmm. The smell is quite strong."
"Director, factories always smell like this."
"Ah, is that so?"
"You wouldn't know since you don't visit places like this."
"Then why do you?"
"To collect unpaid medical bills."
"Ah… I see. That's… probably more efficient than sending people after them."
I couldn't just stand there in shock forever, so I followed the two doctors inside.
The smell was already noticeable outside, but stepping inside was even worse—a pungent stench stabbed at my nose.
The real problem was that I had no idea what it was.
If it was the smell of white phosphorus, that was bad.
If it wasn't, that was bad too.
How long had something been neglected for it to create such a toxic stench?
Creak.
As always, Liston took the lead.
When people failed to pay their medical bills, he personally went to collect.
And considering his sheer physical presence, no one found it strange.
"Who… who are you?"
"Hey, someone call the police!"
I had expected him to handle this situation properly.
I mean, come on.
He could have reassured them.
He could have said, I'm a doctor, a professor—there's no reason to be scared.
But no.
His introduction was, I cut your boss's father's leg off.
How is that an introduction?!
"Doctor, what do you think you're doing?"
Thankfully, the director wasn't smiling approvingly—otherwise, I might have lost all hope.
At least one of them had common sense.
With a stern expression, he scolded Liston, then turned to the factory workers.
"I am the director of University College London Hospital."
Not much better, honestly.
Standing next to Liston and claiming to be a director wasn't exactly convincing.
Especially since he looked like one of those sharp-minded gangsters.
Not that he actually looked like one—just that, standing next to Liston, anyone would assume he was.
As for me?
I was probably the mysterious swordsman from the East.
"Ah, Director!"
A plump man waved at us from across the room.
He looked well-fed and well-off.
"Ah, I did send word in advance. I see you got the message."
"Yes, I did. It's been a while, Doctor Liston."
"Haha. How's your father?"
"He sometimes complains about pain in his missing leg… I suppose that means his time is coming."
His words were far too sinister to be simple ignorance.
The director chuckled and patted my shoulder, but the factory owner's gaze was now locked onto me.
"This is Dr. Pyung. You may have heard of him—he contributed to the development of anesthesia. And painkillers, too. A real asset to our hospital."
"Ah… I see. And what brings you here?"
"I remembered something," the director said. "Didn't you say you wanted to produce Austrian white phosphorus matches here? You're making them now, aren't you?"
"Ah… Yes, I did mention that. You have quite the memory. We've started production, but it's not as easy as I expected."
"Oh? What's the problem?"
"You know how workers are. Always complaining about something…"
The factory owner, who had looked at me favorably just moments ago, suddenly scowled and glared at the workers around him.
"They keep whining about the smell. So I have to come by and keep an eye on things."
"Ah. That smell, you mean?"
The director's expression shifted.
If I weren't here, he might have nodded along.
But now, he hesitated.
"This young doctor here says white phosphorus might be dangerous."
"What?"
The factory owner's glare sharpened as he turned back to me.
His round, friendly face twisted into something much more hostile.
I instinctively moved behind Liston's massive frame.
Which was actually possible—he was that big.
"If it's dangerous, why haven't you done anything about it?"
Liston, fully aware of his own intimidation factor, loomed over him.
The owner immediately switched to an apologetic tone.
"I-I'm sorry."
"If you're sorry, then explain."
I had never seen anyone who could make people apologize on command.
It felt like some kind of supernatural ability.
The owner, eager to defuse the situation, spoke rapidly.
"Y-yes, white phosphorus is dangerous if it catches fire and sticks to human skin. It's absolutely horrifying."
"We're talking about the smell."
"Oh. Well, I've never heard of it being an issue. Plenty of factories have strong odors, but they don't have any problems."
Liston, who had visited various factories to collect debts, seemed momentarily convinced.
"No… Don't fall for it."
I clutched his arm, silently pleading.
Thankfully, he got the message—his expression hardened again.
"Why are you bringing up other factories when we're talking about this one?"
"Y-you're right! What should I do?"
Honestly, this whole operation needed to be shut down.
But I had no evidence.
They had only just begun production, so chronic poisoning cases hadn't appeared yet.
So I pointed to the area where workers were dipping match heads into phosphorus.
"That job seems the most dangerous."