What do people live by?
Money? Food? Honor?
No.
‘What else? You need to breathe.’
First you have to breathe before you can even discuss body temperature, infection, or nutrition, right?
It’s no different for a newborn.
For a premature infant born at 34 weeks, the most important thing is spontaneous breathing.
A baby born too early may have underdeveloped lungs and can develop respiratory distress.
That’s why I came to the annex—to prepare for respiratory distress ahead of time.
‘Well, at 34 weeks, the lungs might be right on the verge of being mature.’
Maybe all this preparation won’t be necessary.
‘That would be best.’
If my overreaction ends up being for nothing, everyone will be happy.
— #. In life, you’ve got to grease your mouth sometimes —
I returned to the main building carrying a load of medicines and instruments the baby might need.
The first thing I did upon arrival was check the maids’ hygiene.
‘Please have washed properly.’
When you’re not watching, there are always one or two who cut corners.
Honestly, you can’t really blame the people of this world for being ignorant.
In an era without the concept of germs, the command to wash your hands must sound absurd.
And lime water is really harsh. It’s almost on par with bleach.
Even my own hands are a mess right now; imagine how the midwife and maids must feel.
As women, they’d be much more sensitive about their skin, and being told to wash with that stuff would certainly breed resentment.
I understand. I truly do.
‘But this is too much.’
A midwife who’s been handling cow dung at the farm comes to deliver a baby without washing her hands—isn’t that going too far?
Even without knowing about germs, isn’t it common sense not to touch a baby with hands covered in manure?
The problem is that midwives in this era don’t see it as an issue.
After experiencing a few similar incidents, I resolved not to argue common sense in this world.
‘So if they skip handwashing because it’ll chafe their skin, I’ll just have to turn the place upside down.’
I don’t think these people are primitive, but I have no intention of compromising.
Can you respect an era while also compromising the lives of a mother and child?
“I’m back. Everyone washed your hands, right?”
Checking for handwashing is easy.
Lime water has an awful stench. So if they washed, their hands will smell unmistakably.
*Sniff sniff.*
Fortunately, none of the maids had tried to cheat.
Although I’m not the biological son but the godson, I am still the young master here, so they seem to have followed orders thoroughly.
That’s why authority is the best.
“And the towels?”
“We prepared everything as you ordered, all boiled clean.”
Everything had been replaced with freshly boiled towels and blankets.
Good. You followed through.
“Then everyone except the butler and the lord, please leave.”
“???”
At my order to leave, question marks appeared above the maids’ heads.
I spoke to them, almost like a threat.
“From today, I will be taking care of the lady and the baby. Does anyone have any objections?”
“You, young master?”
“I’m a doctor, and the patient is my family. Of course I should take care of them. If not me, who else? Now, everyone please leave.”
Right after a baby is born, the fewer people coming and going, the better.
In an era where disinfection and infection prevention are difficult, it’s far better for survival if just the mother and I stay in the room, no matter how crude it seems.
I shooed out all the maids who kept trying to protest.
The butler and the lord were no exception.
After stubbornly shooing everyone out, I stopped the lord at the entrance and explained the prognosis for the lady and the baby.
“Godfather. I think you can put your mind at ease about the lady. In two days, she should recover some of her strength.”
When I examined her after the afterbirth, there were no signs of hemorrhage to worry about, nor any notable issues with the amniotic fluid.
There hadn’t been any particular event that raised infection concerns.
So the lady will likely be fine.
For two days she’ll probably just sleep all day, but that’s not an illness; childbirth is just that exhausting, so it can’t be helped.
“The problem is our little lord… Ah, have you decided on a name for the child?”
“… Fried.”
“So it starts with an ‘F’ like Freyja?”
I joked, thinking of the lord’s only daughter. I didn’t know they passed down initials even in the West.
Well, that’s not what matters now.
“Godfather. You might need to prepare yourself. Tonight may be the critical moment for our Fried.”
“What? What do you mean!?”
“Perhaps Fried wanted to see his father so much that he came out too early. His lungs are too weak to breathe.”
A common cause of death for premature babies is ‘neonatal respiratory distress syndrome.’
To put it simply, it’s when the baby is born too early, so its lungs aren’t mature enough to breathe.
“Let me explain in more detail. Normally, a person’s lungs have a thin film of oil on them.”
Thanks to this oil film, the small air sacs in the lungs don’t stick together even as they contract and expand.
But premature babies are born before that oil coating is complete.
Without the oil coating, the air sacs can stick together like wet balloons and fail to expand again.
And as time goes on, more and more air sacs fail to open, and eventually the baby can’t breathe.
“Do you understand so far?”
“… How do you know this?”
“I’ve butchered at least a hundred pigs at the red-light district slaughterhouse. That’s how I know.”
Of course, it’s knowledge from my past life that I had before ever cutting open a pig, but since I have the knowledge and I have cut open pigs, by syllogism I’m telling the truth.
“So, if by any chance our Fried can’t breathe, I’ll administer that oil from the outside to help him breathe.”
“Then what are you waiting for! Why aren’t you giving it to him now instead of explaining!”
“No, I’m just letting you know that this measure might be needed if he can’t breathe—not that it’s needed now. The treatment process might look a bit rough, so I’m asking for your understanding in advance.”
“Julian, I trust you completely. So whatever it takes, just save Fried and Rinie—like you saved me.”
The godfather pleaded desperately.
Actually, from his reaction, it’s like I saved him by some miraculous taboo-breaking, when all I did was give him a dose of quinine.
Anyway, I had his permission.
I approached the lady, who was holding the baby, both drenched in sweat.
“For the next week, I’ll be by your side, my lady.”
She looked at me with a somewhat dubious expression.
Unlike the lord, the lady didn’t like me very much.
I knew why. ‘My mother was the lord’s former fiancée.’
The fact that I’m the son of her husband’s ex-girlfriend made her uncomfortable.
Perhaps because of that, she had been using her position as mistress to subtly create an atmosphere that ostracized me within the mansion.
But that had nothing to do with me.
A protagonist should be broad-minded enough to overlook such personal grudges.
And it would be ridiculous for someone destined to be the empire’s greatest doctor to react pettily over something like this.
“My lady, why don’t you close your eyes for a moment.”
The lady looked at me with drowsy eyes, then reluctantly nodded and closed her eyes.
***
Baroness Rinie Nihirite, wife of Baron Nihirite, had one worry.
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 felt uncomfortable around this child.
Because it seemed like she could see that woman’s reflection in Julian.
Of course, her husband always whispered that she was his final love and proved it with his actions, so that discomfort never turned into jealousy.
But she couldn’t shake a lingering unease in a corner of her heart.
She had begun to worry that he might leave the family to Julian rather than his own child.
Then one day, Rinie heard something surprising from Julian’s tutor.
- “The young master is excellent at arithmetic, but… I’m a little concerned about other areas.”
The tutor spoke cautiously.
- “Especially in philosophy and theology. How should I put it? It’s as if he’s possessed by strange common sense.”
- “Strange common sense?”
- “It feels like he rejects the knowledge I teach. He memorizes it with his head, but doesn’t accept it in his heart.”
The tutor sighed.
- “If a noble’s child cannot even grasp the basics of theology… I worry about his future.”
The moment she heard that, a sense of relief blossomed in a corner of Rinie’s heart.
He’s slow to learn.
He can’t absorb knowledge.
That meant this child, even if he might not become a scholar or mage, would find it difficult to rise high in noble society.
It also meant he wouldn’t threaten the positions of Freyja and any children to come.
‘… What a relief.’
The moment that thought crossed her mind, Rinie felt utterly despicable.
To feel relieved by the shortcomings of a ten-year-old child.
And the posthumous child of her husband’s dear deceased friend, at that.
But the guilt didn’t last long.
Instead, she began to justify that relief.
‘If he’s a slow learner anyway… wouldn’t it be better for the child to let go of ambition?’
Perhaps because of that.
She gradually pushed the child out of the family.
*
A year passed like that.
And she was saved by that child.
‘What have I done…’
In the deep of the night.
Thirsty, she woke from what might have been a dream or a memory.
Turning her head, she saw a boy reading a book beside her.
The boy, who had been studying late into the night, looked up and met her eyes.
“My lady? Are you cold? Shall I turn up the heat?”
“… I’m thirsty.”
“Ah, water. Here it is. Drink carefully so you don’t choke.”
While Julian had been to the annex, the lord had told her about his activities.
That he went to the red-light district to treat people, just as Julian’s parents had done.
The moment she heard that, Rinie felt infinitely small.
Just yesterday, she had been badmouthing Julian to the maids, calling him ‘a cheeky scoundrel who hangs around the red-light district.’
‘What have I done…’
Did the child know?
Of course he would. With his intelligence, he would have figured it out by now.
Yet Julian was doing his best for her and the baby.
“… I’m sorry for causing you trouble.”
Guilt seemed to press down on her heart.
Whether he knew it or not, Julian grinned and handed her the cup.
“It’s nothing compared to the love you’ve given me, my lady.”
She wanted to say it wasn’t true, but her lips cowardly refused to part.
Rinie could say nothing and merely wet her throat.
Then it happened.
“… My lady, would you let me take Fried for a moment?”
Julian’s eyes suddenly turned serious as he looked at the baby.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything will be fine, just let me take him.”
But his voice didn’t sound like everything was fine.
In an instant, she recalled the conversation Julian and her husband had had earlier today.
The explanation that Fried might not be able to breathe.
The moment she remembered, anxiety washed over her.
“You don’t mean Fried…?”
“I’ve fully anticipated and prepared for it, so it’s no longer a problem, my lady. Trust me.”
But Julian reassured her with a confident voice.
How could a voice from a child barely over ten be so reassuring?
With trembling hands, Rinie handed the baby to Julian.
“Thank you for trusting me.”
With his small body, Julian took the baby and laid him on a warm sheet that had been prepared in advance.
His gaze went to the baby’s chest.
‘A sunken chest is a sign the baby can’t breathe.’
The skin was slightly blue, and faint groaning could be heard.
The dreaded neonatal respiratory distress syndrome had set in.
Yulian quickly diagnosed the baby’s condition and took out the medicine and tools he had prepared.
From the bag emerged a long, thin tube-like object.
With its bluntly cut end, it was something Linie had never seen before.
“Yulian, what is that?”
“It’s a tube made from a processed goose quill. I’ll use it to drip in the oil.”
Without hesitation, Yulian inserted his pinky deep into the baby’s throat.
Warm, moist mucous membrane enveloped his finger.
He brushed the baby’s palate, passed the root of the tongue, and pushed his fingertip behind the uvula.
One knuckle, then two.
There was no gagging. Quite the opposite.
The baby’s swallowing reflex tightened around his finger.
Ignoring the resistance, he pushed deeper.
It was a technique called the finger palpation method—a skill for locating the airway opening using a finger.
‘Found it.’
He felt the soft cartilage—the epiglottis—at his fingertip.
He slid the quill in alongside his finger.
As an aside, the “goose” that had provided the quill was a slang term for a slightly larger avian-type magical beast.
Yulian had never seen the beast in person, but its feathers, which circulated in the market, seemed useful, so he had processed them into tubes and frequently used them.
The quill entered the child’s airway.
Next was the oil.
Oil obtained by squeezing pigs’ lungs and working alchemists to the bone.
The precise term for this oil was surfactant.
The oil flowed through the tube into the baby’s lungs.
Immediately, the baby’s chest gave a small heave.
Yulian withdrew the quill from the throat. Its tip was slick with a mixture of mucus and oil.
He looked down silently at Fried.
One breath. Two. Three.
He counted something in his mind, gazing quietly at Fried.
A few minutes later.
The caved-in chest began gradually to rise.
The baby’s skin visibly regained its pink hue.
When the whimpering ceased and only even breathing remained, Linie let out a sigh of relief.
Yulian also sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
He had been inwardly anxious, too.
Once everything was over, Yulian caught his breath and launched into a nonchalant quip.
“Phew. Kept me awake all night because of our youngest sibling… What a plight.”
His old-soul remark made Linie dumbfounded.
Is this child really eleven?
But at the same time, she felt relief.
For his unflappable joke hinted that Fried was safe.
“Yulian… truly, thank you.”
Tears welled in Linie’s eyes.
Tears that held both guilt and gratitude.
In response, Yulian made a briefly smug face.
But only for a moment. He hardened his expression and bowed politely.
“Sometimes God steps away from His post. As a doctor, I merely struggled to fill that vacancy for a moment.”
Instead of showing pure delight, Yulian displayed humility.
There was even a sense of mission in his manner, as if he dared not take joy in such a thing.
The sight made Linie’s heart ache.
Just how much.
Just how much had this child sacrificed at his age?
How much must he have sacrificed that he could not even accept such thanks readily?
Barely holding back her tears, Linie grasped Yulian’s hands tightly.
‘At the very least.’
She wanted to fill what he lacked.
It was an adult’s duty,
and an act of atonement for the way she had neglected him until now.
*
At that moment, Yulian was thinking:
‘Wow. I’m alive.’
He did not forget his own identity.
He was a trauma surgeon.
Not a pediatrician or obstetrician.
And he never once misjudged his place.
‘Maternal and newborn cases always give me chills, I swear.’
Thus, in this field, he considered his skills to be roughly on par with a resident in that specialty.
No, he thought they were a step lower.
In his view, ever since he’d started working in the red-light district, every successful treatment and procedure had been due not to skill, but to luck.
This time was the same.
‘Even going at it with blind techniques and no accidents happen. As expected, reincarnation stories are the best.’
At least, that’s what he believed.