WeTried Translations

Translator/Editor: Haruto

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◈ The Dark Fantasy Doctor Was Mistaken for a Saint ◈

Chapter 6: In Life, You Have to Grease the Wheels (2)

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A genius never neglects their studies, no matter the time or place.

‘There’s no reason not to study while taking care of Fried.’

A day had passed since Fried was born.

I opened a book in the room where the baby and his mother were resting.

I’d studied while treating patients even as a resident. There was no reason I couldn’t do the same in this world.

I was checking my calculations, tracing the numbers with my finger.

“Julian.”

My godmother, who had been resting in bed, suddenly called to me.

I looked up from my book.

Holding Fried in her arms, Godmother looked at me with a face still pale from childbirth.

“What are you studying so diligently?”

“I’m reviewing how to identify flaws in double-entry bookkeeping through the trading company’s revenue ledger that the head of the house allowed me to examine.”

I answered as I turned a page.

“Then what will you study this afternoon?”

“Hmm... I suppose I’ll review alchemy.”

When I turned my head, our eyes met.

A deep crease had formed between her brows.

Her lips were pressed into a thin line as well. Something clearly displeased her.

‘Does she dislike that I’m not focusing on Fried?’

It was certainly a reasonable complaint for a guardian to have.

I was calmly studying in the room of a baby who had only just pulled through a crisis yesterday.

Reflecting on my lack of consideration, I closed my book.

Then she broke the silence.

“Why do you call me Godmother instead of Mom?”

“...”

My hand froze as I put the book into my bag.

Ah. That was the problem.

* * *

Godmother Linie had fixated on something strange.

“Julian.”

“Yes, Godmother.”

“...”

She was trying to make the word mother come out of my mouth somehow.

I could guess why she had suddenly become like this.

She’d started the day after I saved Fried, the late-born child of House Nihirit. There was no way I wouldn’t know the reason.

‘She wants to buy into the protagonist while he’s still undervalued too.’

A child barely over ten had casually accomplished what even competent healers could not. Of course she would be tempted.

She was probably trying to stake a claim while I was still young.

Partly to repay me for saving her late-born child as well.

‘It feels nice to be acknowledged as a genius, but... I still don’t want to change my surname.’

There was one problem, though.

The work I’d been transmigrated into was called The Memoirs of Schnabel.

If I started calling Godmother Mother, the title of the work would change.

Of course, that was a joke.

The real reason was simply that it felt burdensome.

We had spent ten years keeping our distance from each other. Ten years.

For all that to collapse overnight because of one incident was a little... too awkwardly embarrassing to bear.

“Do you dislike me that much?”

Godmother’s voice lacked strength.

I waved my hands in denial.

“No, Godmother.”

“Then after all these years together, why do you still call me that?”

It was true that even ten fingers would not be enough to count the years that had passed.

Come to think of it, as the protagonist, I couldn’t keep pushing her away like some petty little man.

So I compromised.

“Mother... ma’am?”

Godmother’s expression changed subtly.

It was a complicated look, disappointment mixed with relief.

“... Yes. I suppose that will do.”

She spoke as if sighing and closed her eyes.

Perhaps it was only my imagination, but her arms seemed to tighten around Fried.

As though she felt reassured.

* * *

‘Putting that aside, Mother needs to recuperate too.’

The immediate crisis had passed, but there was still work to do.

Namely, postpartum recovery.

‘Of course, this era has postpartum care too, but...’

The problem was that its methods would horrify any modern person.

This fantastical dark-fantasy fusion-punk world recommended beer or wine for women who had given birth.

Unbelievable, but true.

By the standards here, alcohol was considered safer and more nutritious than water.

That was why there was a postpartum recovery meal called coddle, oatmeal porridge mixed with ale or wine, eggs, and spices.

Apparently, mixing nutritious alcohol with nutritious eggs and delicious spices was supposed to help milk come in.

‘The first time I saw it, I nearly had a heart attack...’

When I first saw women in the red-light district recovering after childbirth with coddle, my heart sank.

They gave alcohol to new mothers, sealed their rooms shut without ventilation, and touched them without washing their hands.

Then, when a mother died from puerperal fever or complications, they called it fate.

... I tried not to think of the people in this world as barbarians, but things like this always made that thought creep back in.

‘This is why I always have to step in myself.’

Naturally, Mother Linie would not recuperate with something like that.

To prevent it, I needed to prepare the recovery meal myself.

‘The menu...’

Seaweed and abalone would do.

It wasn’t because I had some “Korea is the best! The East is the best!” mindset.

I was Korean, and I didn’t know what foods besides seaweed and abalone were good for women after childbirth. That was why I chose them.

There was one minor problem, however.

‘It’s not like she’ll happily eat seaweed soup and grilled abalone if I serve them out of nowhere.’

Even in this dying world, seaweed was easy to find.

It simply wasn’t regarded as an ingredient in this culture.

As though it hadn’t been called seaweed in the West for nothing, it was treated here as something only poor people in coastal fortresses ate because they had no other choice.

At least, it hadn’t been difficult to force seaweed soup on new mothers in the red-light district.

I could just call it a green potion and make them drink it.

But I couldn’t use that method in a baron’s household.

If I put it on the table, I would probably get scolded for serving something like Cthulhu’s feast.

‘Then how should I package it?’

After thinking for a moment, I found the answer.

Risotto.

I would make it cream-based and add plenty of cheese, then finely chop the seaweed and mix it in.

If I sliced the abalone thinly and laid it on top, it would become a convincing high-class dish.

‘Creamy seaweed and abalone risotto. It sounds rather plausible by name alone.’

Even common ingredients could suit noble tastes if the cooking method changed.

It wasn’t for nothing that French cuisine made such a show of every odd cut of meat.

Come to think of it, cream and cheese would provide the calcium and protein Mother needed as well, so nutritionally it wasn’t bad.

As a bonus, the white color would somewhat cover the off-putting green.

‘Decided.’

While Godmother slept, I left her in the head maid’s care and headed for the kitchen.

* * *

On the way to the kitchen, I ran into someone as I rounded a corner.

A child with striking silver hair and blue eyes.

It was Freya, the little lady one year younger than me.

The daughter of House Nihirit, and Godfather and Mother’s biological daughter.

So, how should I put it?

‘Sworn siblings? Adoptive siblings?’

I didn’t know the exact term, but we were something like siblings.

“... Brother.”

Freya looked up at me and spoke.

Unlike usual, the area around her eyes was red and swollen.

‘She cried.’

How frightened must she have been while Mother was giving birth?

In this era, it was common for mothers who went to give birth to a younger sibling never to return. It was only natural for her to worry.

And she must have heard that the baby born afterward was in danger all night...

So I reflexively tried to reassure her, only to remember something.

‘Ah, we’re not that close.’

We had lived under the same roof for ten years, but I could barely remember having a proper conversation with her during that time.

I was always buried in studying and quinine research, while Freya had her own life.

When we occasionally met in the hallway, we only nodded to each other.

Otherwise, we exchanged formal greetings at family gatherings.

That was the extent of the distance between us.

‘But now that I think about it... the protagonist of a misunderstanding story shouldn’t act coldly toward his younger sister.’

Could a character destined to be called a saint truly be indifferent to family?

Even if we had been awkward until now, I needed to establish the image of a kind older brother from here on.

So I decided to get closer to her this time.

‘Like a gentleman. Kindly.’

I consciously softened my tone and relaxed my expression slightly.

I used the same expression I had worn when dealing with patients’ guardians at a twenty-first-century hospital.

Incidentally, the fact that I was a trauma surgeon who wore a mask for more than half the day was not important.

“Freya.”

“... Yes.”

“Are you going to see Fried?”

Freya nodded.

After thinking for a moment, I spoke.

“Mother and Fried are both fine. So don’t worry too much.”

“... Really?”

“Of course. I examined them myself.”

I answered confidently.

This was what the protagonist’s baseless confidence in a misunderstanding story was for.

Freya’s expression eased a little.

But her eyes still held a trace of anxiety.

“Brother, I also... want to help.”

“Help?”

“Yes. Is there anything I can do?”

Certainly, it must have been frustrating to be unable to do anything while her family was ill.

I thought for a moment before making a suggestion.

“Then will you help me?”

“Really?”

“I’m going to the kitchen now to make something for Mother...”

I rolled the still unfamiliar word over my tongue for a moment before continuing.

“I’m planning to make some food for Mother to eat. I think it would be a great help if you assisted me.”

Freya’s eyes widened.

“You cook, Brother?”

It wasn’t that she was happy to have found something she could help with.

She seemed surprised by the fact that I cooked.

‘Certainly, it’s not a common sight for a noble child to hold a kitchen knife.’

In an era of small windows, poor ventilation, and little understanding of cleanliness, kitchens were far from modern cooking studios.

They were closer to the filthy, dangerous, exhausting sort of job where you had to contend endlessly with rats and flies.

Naturally, kitchen work was considered lowly labor.

For nobles, whose dignity mattered nearly as much as their lives, kitchens were forbidden spaces.

In that sense, perhaps the supposedly perfect noble protagonist visiting the kitchen was a characterization error.

But after thinking it over, I realized that cooking was a hobby my character needed.

‘A genius-type protagonist has to be versatile.’

I wanted to become this world’s Da Vinci.

A painter, sculptor, architect, anatomist, and inventor. That kind of genius.

That had been the ideal of intellectuals since the Renaissance, and this world was not much different.

The problem was that I had no talent for the arts or athletics.

So I compromised with cooking.

After trying it, I learned that I unexpectedly had a talent for it.

Handling organs on an operating table was not all that different from handling ingredients on a cutting board.

‘I know people will call it lowly, but I can cover that with refinement later.’

I knew my visits to the kitchen would seem like lowly behavior.

But in the end, dignity was not about what one did, but who did it and how.

When a commoner dug in the dirt, it was labor. When a noble did it, it was gardening.

Before overwhelming achievement and grace, prejudice had no choice but to fall silent.

That was why I could say this confidently.

“Don’t be surprised. It’s just a hobby.”

“... A hobby?”

Freya tilted her head.

She still did not seem convinced.

Well, there was no point trying to explain overpowering prejudice with dignity to a ten-year-old.

It felt like this would never end, so I simply changed the subject.

“Anyway, Fried is sleeping, and Mother is resting. There’s nothing you can do if you go now. That’s why I’m asking you to help beside me.”

“Then what should I do...?”

“While I cook, give me your opinion after tasting it.”

“... Pardon?”

Freya blinked.

“It’s for Mother, so I need to make sure it suits her taste. You can taste it first and tell me whether it’s good.”

She would be in charge of tasting.

I couldn’t make the young lady of the house do kitchen work, so this would be appropriate.

Besides, it was a role I genuinely needed.

My palate was too indiscriminate, like a mutt’s, for there to be any guarantee I could satisfy this world’s nobles.

“Can I... taste it first?”

“Of course. Who else would check it?”

Freya’s expression brightened subtly.

She seemed to feel as if she had been given a special mission.

“Alright.”

Freya nodded.

Her eyes were still red, but she looked better than before.

“Then let’s go.”

I led Freya toward the kitchen.

Author’s Note

About extending the blind technique I mentioned in the previous chapter.

After hearing that, I think modern doctors are scaredy-cats.

Apparently, in the old days, they would stick their fingers into beating hearts and finish surgery in thirty seconds. They would stab and cut into brains even when they couldn’t see anything.

But weak twenty-first-century doctors can’t do anything unless they check with X-rays or ultrasounds first.

The romantic nineteenth century...

I don’t particularly miss it.

Footnotes:

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