WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Haruto

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ The Dark Fantasy Doctor Was Mistaken for a Saint ◈

Chapter 5: In Life, You Have to Grease the Wheels (1)

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What do people live by?

Money? Food? Honor?

No.

‘What else? You need to breathe to live.’

You had to breathe before you could talk about body temperature, infection, nutrition, or anything else.

Newborns were no different.

For an immature baby born early at thirty-four weeks, the most important thing was spontaneous breathing.

A baby born too early could suffer respiratory distress because their lungs had not fully matured.

That was why I had gone to the annex to prepare for respiratory distress.

‘Well, at thirty-four weeks, the lungs might have matured by the skin of their teeth.’

Maybe none of these preparations would be necessary.

‘That would be the best outcome.’

If I was just getting worked up for nothing, everyone would be happy.

— #. In Life, You Have to Grease Your Mouth Too —

I returned to the main house carrying an armful of medicines and equipment the baby might need.

The first thing I did was inspect the maids’ hygiene.

‘Please let them have washed properly.’

There were always one or two people who cut corners when no one was watching.

Honestly, it was hard to blame the people of this world for being ignorant.

This was an age with no concept of germs. How absurd must it sound when someone told them to wash their hands?

Besides, limewater was genuinely harsh. It was not much of an exaggeration to compare it to bleach.

Even my own hands were a wreck. How much worse must it be for the midwives and maids?

Being women, they were probably far more sensitive about their skin. Being told to wash despite that was bound to breed resentment.

I understood. I truly did.

‘But this is still unacceptable.’

A midwife who had been handling cow dung at a ranch could not come deliver a baby without washing her hands.

Even if they knew nothing about germs, was it not common sense that you should not touch a baby with hands covered in dung?

The problem was that midwives of this age did not consider it a problem.

After encountering incidents like that, I swore never to argue about common sense in this world.

‘So if anyone skipped washing because their skin was peeling, I’ll turn this place upside down.’

I did not think people of this age were uncivilized, but that did not mean I intended to compromise.

You could not compromise the lives of a mother and child in the name of respecting the era.

“I’m back. Everyone washed their hands, right?”

Checking whether they had washed was easy.

Limewater stank terribly. If they had used it, their hands could not help smelling strongly of it.

Sniff.

Fortunately, none of the maids had tried to cheat.

I might be a godson rather than a biological son, but I was still the young master, so they seemed to have followed my orders to the letter.

This was why authority was the best.

“What about the towels?”

“As you instructed, we prepared only boiled ones.”

Every towel and blanket had been replaced with freshly boiled, spotless ones.

Good. They had followed instructions.

“Then everyone except the head butler and the head of the house, please leave.”

“???”

Question marks practically floated over the maids’ heads at my order to clear out.

I spoke as though issuing a threat.

“Starting today, I’ll be caring for my godmother and the baby. Does anyone have an objection?”

“Young Master will?”

“I’m the doctor, and the patients are my family. Of course I should be the one treating them. If not me, then who? Now, please leave.”

The fewer people entering and leaving immediately after the baby was born, the better.

In an age where disinfection and infection prevention were difficult, it would be much better for their survival if only the mother and I remained in the room, however crude a solution that might be.

I drove out every maid who tried to argue.

The head butler and my godfather were no exceptions.

After stubbornly chasing them all out, I stopped my godfather at the entrance.

Then I explained the prognosis for my godmother and the baby.

“Godfather. I think Godmother can finally rest easy. In two days, she should have recovered some of her strength.”

When I had dealt with the afterbirth and examined her, I had seen no signs suggesting hemorrhage, and there had been nothing notable about the amniotic fluid.

There had been no event that gave particular cause for concern about infection, either.

So Godmother would probably be fine.

For the next two days, she would likely sleep all day, but that was not an illness. Giving birth was simply that exhausting.

“The problem is our young master... Ah, have you decided on the child’s name?”

“... Fried.”

“Does he share the same ‘Fr-’ naming pattern as Freya?”

I made a joke while thinking of my godfather’s only daughter.

I had not known people in the West used family naming patterns too.

Well, that was not what mattered now.

“Godfather. You may need to prepare yourself. Tonight will probably be critical for Fried.”

“What? What do you mean by that?!”

“Perhaps Fried wanted to see his father sooner. He came into the world too early. His lungs are too weak for breathing.”

A common cause of death in premature infants was neonatal respiratory distress syndrome.

Put simply, because they were born too early, their lungs were immature and they could not breathe.

“Let me explain in more detail. Human lungs normally have a thin oily coating.”

Thanks to that coating, the tiny air sacs in the lungs did not stick together even as they repeatedly contracted and expanded.

But premature infants were born before that oily coating was complete.

Without it, the air sacs could stick together like wet balloons and fail to open again.

As time passed, more and more air sacs would fail to open, and eventually the baby would be unable to breathe.

“You understand so far, right?”

“... How do you know that?”

“I must have slaughtered a hundred pigs at the red-light district’s slaughterhouse. That’s where I learned it.”

Of course, it was knowledge from my previous life, before I ever cut open a pig.

But I had the knowledge, and I had cut open pigs, so by the logic of syllogisms, I was telling the truth.

“So if Fried cannot breathe, I’ll put that oil in from the outside so he can.”

“Then what are you doing? Why aren’t you putting it in already instead of wasting time explaining?!”

“No, I’m telling you in advance that the procedure may be necessary if he cannot breathe. I’m not saying he needs it now. The treatment may look a little rough, so I’m asking for your understanding beforehand.”

“Julian, I trust you completely. So do whatever you must. Just save Fried and Linie, as you saved me.”

My godfather clung to me desperately.

Judging by his reaction, it sounded like I had saved him through some miraculous taboo-breaking act.

I had saved him with a single click of quinine.

Still, I had received his permission.

I approached my godmother, who was cradling the baby while drenched in sweat.

“For the next week, I’ll remain by your side, Godmother.”

Godmother looked at me with an unconvinced expression.

Unlike Godfather, she did not like me very much.

I knew why.

‘My mother was Godfather’s former fiancée.’

She was uncomfortable with the fact that I was the son of her husband’s ex-girlfriend.

Perhaps because of that, she had used her position as mistress of the house to quietly create an atmosphere that excluded me.

But that was none of my concern.

A protagonist had to embrace petty grudges like these with a generous heart.

Besides, it would be ridiculous for a future greatest doctor of the Empire to react so narrowly to something like this.

“Godmother, get some sleep for now.”

Godmother looked at me with bleary eyes.

Then, reluctantly, she nodded and closed her eyes.

* * *

Linie Nihirit, the baroness of House Nihirit, had one concern.

It was her godson.

‘What kind of child did that woman leave behind?’

Julian Schnabel.

The child left behind by her husband’s former fiancée and first love.

The Baroness of Nihirit found the child uncomfortable because she felt as though she could see that woman in Julian.

Of course, her husband always whispered that his wife was his last love, and he showed it through his actions. So that discomfort never grew into jealousy.

Still, she could not erase the unease in one corner of her heart.

She had begun to worry that he might pass the house on to Julian rather than to his biological children.

Then, one day, Linie heard something unexpected from Julian’s tutor.

[The young master is exceptional at arithmetic, but... I am somewhat concerned about other areas.]

The tutor continued carefully.

[Especially philosophy and theology. How should I put this? It is as though he is fixated on strange common sense.]

[Strange common sense?]

[It feels as though he rejects the knowledge I teach him. He memorizes it with his mind, but does not accept it in his heart.]

The tutor sighed.

[If a noble child cannot even accept the foundations of theology... I worry about his future.]

The moment she heard that, relief bloomed in a corner of Linie’s heart.

Slow to learn.

Unable to accept knowledge.

That meant that, if nothing else, the child would have difficulty rising high in noble society, even if he might become a scholar or mage.

It also meant he would not threaten Freya’s place, or the places of her future children.

‘... What a relief.’

The instant that thought crossed her mind, Linie felt infinitely petty.

To feel relieved over the shortcomings of a mere ten-year-old child.

And not just any child, but the posthumous child of a deceased friend, whom her husband cherished so dearly.

But that guilt did not last long.

Instead, she began justifying her relief.

‘If he is slow to learn anyway... would it not be better for him to let go of his ambitions?’

Perhaps that was why.

Little by little, she pushed the child outside the family.

* * *

After a year of this, she had been saved by that child.

‘What have I done...?’

Late at night, she woke from a dream, or perhaps a memory, suddenly thirsty.

When she turned her head, she saw the boy reading beside her.

The boy, who had been absorbed in studying late into the night, looked up and met her eyes.

“Godmother? Are you cold? Shall I turn up the heat?”

“... I’m thirsty.”

“Ah, water. Here you go. Drink carefully, so you don’t choke.”

While Julian had been at the annex, the head of the house had told her about Julian’s activities.

He had been going to the red-light district to treat people.

Just as Julian’s parents had.

The moment she heard that, Linie felt unbearably small.

Until yesterday, she had been badmouthing Julian to the maids as an insolent wastrel who frequented the red-light district.

‘What have I done...?’

Could this child not know about that?

Impossible.

A child as clever as him would surely have noticed.

And yet Julian was doing his best for her and the baby.

“... I’m sorry to burden you.”

Guilt seemed to press down on her heart.

Whether he knew it or not, Julian smiled softly and handed her the glass.

“It’s nothing compared to the love you’ve given me, Godmother.”

She wanted to say that was not true, but cowardly as she was, her lips would not move.

Linie could say nothing and merely wet her throat.

Then it happened.

“... Godmother. Could you entrust Fried to me for a moment?”

Julian was suddenly staring at the baby with a grave expression.

“What is it?”

“There’s nothing to worry about. Leave him to me.”

His voice did not sound like there was nothing to worry about.

At once, she remembered the conversation Julian had shared with her husband earlier that day.

His explanation that Fried might be unable to breathe.

As she recalled it, anxiety rushed over her.

“Could Fried possibly...?”

“Something we have fully anticipated and prepared for is no longer a problem, Godmother. Trust me.”

But Julian reassured her in a confident voice.

How could the voice of a boy barely over ten be so reassuring?

With trembling hands, Linie passed the baby to Julian.

“Thank you for trusting me.”

Julian took the baby in his small arms and laid him on a warm sheet he had heated in advance.

His eyes went to the child’s chest.

‘The child’s chest caving inward is proof that he cannot breathe.’

His skin was slightly blue, and faint grunting could be heard.

The neonatal respiratory distress syndrome he had feared had occurred.

Julian quickly assessed the baby’s condition and took out the medicine and tools he had prepared.

A long, thin, tube-like object emerged from his bag.

It had a blunt-cut end, and Linie had never seen anything like it.

“Julian, what is that?”

“It’s a tube made from a processed goose quill shaft. I’ll use it to pour in the oil.”

Without hesitation, Julian pushed his little finger deep into the baby’s throat.

Warm, moist mucosa wrapped around his finger.

He brushed past the baby’s palate, passed the base of the tongue, and pushed his fingertip beyond the uvula.

One knuckle, then two.

There was no gagging. Rather, the opposite happened.

His finger was squeezed by the baby’s swallowing reflex.

Ignoring the resistance, he pushed deeper.

It was a digital palpation technique, used to locate the entrance to the airway with a finger.

‘Found it.’

He felt the soft cartilage of the epiglottis at his fingertip.

He slid the quill shaft in beside his finger.

As an aside, the “goose” that had supplied the quill was slang for a somewhat large bird-type magical beast.

Julian had never seen one himself, but the feathers sold in the market looked useful, so he had processed them into tubes and made frequent use of them.

The quill shaft entered the baby’s airway.

Now came the oil.

Oil obtained by squeezing the lungs of pigs and working the alchemists to the bone.

The oil’s proper name was surfactant.

The oil flowed through the tube and into the baby’s lungs.

Immediately afterward, the baby’s chest gave a small heave.

Julian withdrew the quill shaft from his throat. Mucus and oil glistened together on the tip.

Julian quietly watched Fried.

One breath. Two. Three.

He watched Fried in silence, counting something in his mind.

Several minutes later.

The chest that had been caving inward began to rise little by little.

The baby’s skin visibly regained its pink color.

When the fussing stopped and only even breathing remained, Linie let out a sigh of relief.

Julian also exhaled and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

He had been anxious inside, too.

Once everything was over, Julian caught his breath and made a lighthearted remark.

“Whew. Staying up all night because of my youngest brother... What a hardship this is.”

Linie was dumbfounded by the little old man-like comment.

Was he really eleven years old?

But at the same time, she felt relieved.

That cheeky joke suggested that Fried was safe.

“Julian... Thank you so much.”

Tears welled in Linie’s eyes.

They were tears filled with both guilt and gratitude.

Julian briefly looked pleased with himself.

But only for a moment. His expression turned serious, and he bowed politely.

“Sometimes even God is absent. As a doctor, I only struggled to fill that empty space for a while.”

Instead of simply rejoicing, Julian showed humility.

It was as though he carried a sense of duty that would not allow him to be pleased with something like this.

At that sight, Linie’s heart ached.

How much?

How much had this child sacrificed at such a young age?

How much had he sacrificed that he could not even readily accept words of gratitude like these?

Holding back her tears with difficulty, Linie tightly took Julian’s hands.

‘At least.’

She wanted to give this child what he had lacked.

It was an adult’s duty.

And atonement for how she had mistreated him until now.

* * *

At that moment, Julian thought,

‘Wow. He survived.’

He had not forgotten who he was.

He was a trauma surgeon.

Not a pediatrician or an obstetrician.

And he never mistook his own limits.

‘Cases involving mothers and newborns make my blood run cold every time.’

So, in this field at least, he considered his skill roughly on par with that of a resident in the specialty.

No, he thought he was actually a step below that.

Ever since he had begun working in the red-light district, Julian believed that every treatment and procedure he had succeeded at was due not to skill, but luck.

This time was the same.

‘Even though I went for it with a blind technique, nothing went wrong. Misunderstanding stories really are the best.’

At least, that was what he thought.

Author’s Note

Warning: Julian’s digital intubation method of locating the airway with a finger is an almost taboo procedure in modern medicine. Never attempt it.

According to the medical advisor: Blind techniques of that sort have almost fallen out of use in modern medicine. Why use such a method in an era where laryngoscopes are everywhere?

These days, even video laryngoscopes, tech-heavy devices like that, are widely available. Unless you are volunteering in a medically underserved area, it is a showy technique you should never use.

Footnotes:

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