Don’t Tame It [Novel]

1.

Figueras’s lip curled in a sneer. While he had spent his years honing the latest medical knowledge, Miguel seemed mired in the practices of decades past.

*The title of physician is too good for a man blinded by gold. He’s nothing but a pig with grease clogging his veins.*

As Figueras muttered his vitriol, Duke Diego Cassis’s low voice cut across the room. There was an unfathomable weight embedded in his slow, measured tone.

“I heard, some years ago, that the trends at the medical college had shifted. They say you are systematically organizing and teaching students surgical procedures—once considered the exclusive domain of barbers.”

The Dean replied, his face blooming with pride.

“Indeed, Your Grace. Our Royal Medical College of Divoa is the most progressive on the continent. Ten years ago, we proactively granted admission rights to women, and since then, we have produced many excellent female physicians. It is common knowledge that this has significantly reduced mortality rates among royal and aristocratic ladies, as well as newborns. Moreover, we were the first on the continent to incorporate surgical classes into the curriculum. It was the premier innovation I attempted after becoming Dean.”

“I hear those first students are soon to graduate. That is why I have come all this way.”

At Diego’s single statement, the expressions of the three students shifted.

Even if the era when barbers performed surgical procedures had passed, the perception that surgery remained inferior to internal medicine had not vanished. Sawing through bone and stitching skin with needles was hardly the noble work expected of aristocratic offspring.

For noble sons who were not the eldest, there was no greater honor than becoming a physician and rising to the rank of royal doctor, and that opportunity sat right before them.

However, Diego had explicitly asked for a surgeon. A surgeon to stitch the wounds of injured soldiers and set shattered legs.

To them, that sounded dangerously close to a common field medic.

Just then, Diego added a qualifier.

“As you know, His Majesty is very anxious. I hear he loses sleep on the nights I am sent to the battlefield. If I were to keep an excellent surgeon by my side, would that not ease His Majesty’s worries?”

No one was unaware of the King’s extraordinary affection for his youngest son.

Despite the King’s desperate attempts to dissuade him, even when Diego returned to his territory, the King had ordered him at an official event to remain in the capital.

But Diego had ultimately persuaded his father, returned to his province, and defended the borders of Divoa from the provocations of the Alvar Kingdom.

Every time, the King would cheer at his son’s heroic tales while simultaneously fretting over his safety. He would pester his ministers to send messengers, desperate for news of Diego’s condition.

Records of the King lamenting, *“If I had known it would be like this, I would have granted him a different territory instead of Norte,”* were still often recounted by the people.

“I need a surgeon to take to the battlefield.”

Maxy’s mind raced. Should he maintain his lofty pride and remain an internal medicine physician? Or should he trade it for the favor of Duke Diego Cassis?

The chance to become a doctor to the royal family was rare. Even if a vacancy were to arise, the opportunity might never fall to him.

Yet, if he became a surgeon, he could not avoid the mockery of his peers. As Maxy stood there, paralyzed by the complexity of the choice, a question broke the tension.

“Which of those here is the top student?”

“…….”

At Diego’s indifferent query, a heavy silence fell. Diego clearly suspected something.

He cast his gaze toward Maxy, David, and Jose in turn. As if they had coordinated it, they all quietly avoided his eyes.

*Ho.*

Finally, interest touched Diego’s weary gaze. He stared fixedly at Figueras.

Under that persistent, demanding pressure, Figueras was forced to open his lips.

“This student, Maxy Rosano, entered our medical college second in his class and completed all subjects with excellent grades. He is a brilliant talent who also passed the medical examination in second place. He possesses outstanding skills not only in internal medicine and gynecology but also in surgery….”

“And so, the top student?”

Before he could finish, Diego repeated the question. His voice, seemingly languid, held the quiet intensity of the afternoon sun.

His eyes narrowed like threads, appearing almost to smile.

Yet, a sudden chill seized the room. Not just Figueras, but all three students found themselves unable to lift their heads, as if a physical force were crushing them down.

Only Javier knew the difference: this was the gap between a scholar who had spent his life in books and a soldier who crossed the threshold of life and death every day.

Pressed by Diego’s overwhelming presence, Figueras spoke as if exhaling a breath he had held for far too long.

“The top student… is not here.”

Diego arched one eyebrow. His gaze shifted back to the Dean, holding him accountable.

“I believe I clearly asked for the three with the best grades to be summoned. Did my servant pass on the message incorrectly?”

His tone remained polite, but the air around him had turned brittle.

“N-no, not at all. How could that be?”

Cold sweat broke out on the Dean’s forehead. At this point, he began to wonder if the rumors were true—the ones claiming the Duke had once asked a maid who broke a teacup if her hands were bleeding.

The Dean lowered his voice and hissed at Figueras.

“I told you to bring the top three in order of grades. Is that such a difficult task, Professor Figueras?”

Figueras, who had kept his mouth tightly shut, finally muttered a, “My apologies.” Diego slowly rose from his seat.

The Dean’s gaze tracked him. The tall man loomed over them, his eyes still narrowed in that unsettling, mirthless smile.

“So, where is the top graduate of the Royal Medical College right now?”

“In the anatomy lab….”

“The anatomy lab! Call them here at once!”

At the Dean’s shout, Diego shook his head.

“That is unnecessary. I shall go there.”

“Pardon? Ah, yes. Then I shall guide you, Your Grace. Let us go.”

The Dean scrambled with a speed belied by his frame and threw open the door. Diego and Javier exited, one after the other.

The Dean glared at Figueras one last time, muttered something under his breath, and slammed the door.

*Bang.*

“Ha.”

Maxy stared at the closed door, bewildered. He had thought the choice was his to make, but that appeared to be a delusion.

“No, that’s not it.”

He shook his head vigorously. Opportunities remained. If he could reach the top graduate first, Diego would surely reconsider him. There had to be a way.

Maxy laughed, forcing an expression of confidence.

* * *

Her gloves were like an extension of Irene herself. Irene could not bear the moment flesh touched flesh. She disliked the lukewarm body temperature of others, and she loathed the soft, yielding texture against her skin.

No, the truth was, she was afraid.

The words of that pretentious sea anemone were right. Irene would never become a physician who treated the living.

“He also knew that I enjoyed dissecting corpses.”

Come to think of it, the sea anemone had seen through quite a lot about her. Even so, a cnidarian was still a cnidarian.

Indifferently taking off her gloves, Irene covered half her face with a clean cloth to mask the stench that pricked her nose.

But the smell of rotting flesh did not lessen in the slightest.

“I probably won’t ever get used to this smell until the day I die.”

In the anatomy lab, there was only one coldly chilled corpse and her. It was the only moment Irene felt her heart at peace.

If she voiced such a thing, the rumors of her being a witch would only grow more rampant.

Irene gripped the scalpel firmly in one hand. The cool sensation against her bare skin felt pleasant. She preferred the cold over anything warm.

Shaking her head to cast away the thought, Irene moved her hand without hesitation. The sharp tip of the blade sliced through the skin.

The leather split open, but in the body of an executed criminal who had been dead for quite some time, no blood gushed out. That, too, was one of the reasons Irene preferred working with corpses.

Red, hot blood that stung the eyes was just as terrifying to her as human body temperature.

“Heart first.”

Setting down the scalpel, Irene picked up a saw. Without further ado, she began to cut through the ribcage. *Scratch, scratch,* a dull, grinding sound filled the room.

It was work difficult even for a sturdy man. For the thin and wiry Irene, it was a task that required more strength and time than it would for others.

Tiny beads of sweat gathered on Irene’s round forehead. She finally understood why there was a perception that surgery was a lowly job for barbers: it was an excessively primitive task for an aristocratic internal medicine physician.

However, Irene never once uttered a complaint. She simply performed the work in silence.

She placed a chisel against the bone and struck it with a hammer. The weakened bone snapped with a *crack*.

She hadn’t counted, but she had performed this act dozens of times. Perhaps hundreds. Thanks to that, Irene’s movements were fluid and seamless, without a single hitch—from sawing through bone to using a lever to pry apart the ribs.

It was as if she were dancing. Her movements, smooth as flowing water, possessed the power to make even the most crude act look like a grace.

“Haa.”

At last, the heart was revealed. Irene, who had been hunched over for a long time, arched her back and released a held breath.

The eyes of Irene, as she wiped away her sweat, sparkled. A dark, reddish heart lay visible inside the cavity. It was a heart that had been thumping until just a few days ago.

She wasn’t curious about what crime the man with the deep scar on his face had committed to be executed. The only things Irene cared for were what his heart looked like and how much his liver weighed.

Her fingers itched, craving the extraction, but Irene’s role ended here. It was regrettable, but for the anatomy classes of the juniors, all organs had to remain in place.

With lingering, hungry eyes, Irene stared at the heart and slowly turned away. Perhaps this was why nicknames like *witch*, *death god*, and *madwoman* were birthed for her.

“I must be careful not to let them see how much I enjoy this.”

Walking to the basin in the corner of the anatomy lab, Irene washed her blood-stained hands. She lathered them with soap and scrubbed between her nails with a scouring brush.

Not only Maxy but even the professors who conducted anatomy classes did not wash their hands after dissecting corpses. Irene knew she was an outlier.

“This is why they tease me about being a germaphobe.”

Just as she was muttering to herself while looking at her reddened fingertips, she heard quiet footsteps. Irene stopped and looked up.

It was not yet time for class. She was certain of that without needing to check her pocket watch. It wouldn’t have taken that long to dissect a corpse.

Because it was Irene Rios, after all.

“Two… no, three.”

Moreover, these were not the sounds of students rushing in. Faint, rhythmic footsteps followed the two people ahead. They were so slight she would not have heard them if she weren’t Irene.

As she stared at the door, the footsteps headed straight toward her. Before long, the handle turned.

“Irene Rio… Hmm?”