Smile, Wilhelm!

With a single punch that carried all its force, the Crown Prince's Palace descended into chaos.

As if pulled straight from an action movie, Bismarck's words had barely left his lips when the air was pierced by the screams of maids and the shouts of eunuchs. Within moments, the hurried footsteps of palace guards echoed through the halls. The situation was so dire and sudden that even the usually composed guards abandoned any semblance of royal decorum, shouting loudly as they rushed about. The palace quickly became a cacophony of activity.

Naturally, the focal point of all this commotion was Smith. Despite the chaos, the guards never forgot who required the most protection. As reinforcements arrived, the sharpest among them surrounded Smith, whisking the startled Victoria and the outwardly composed Bismarck to a safer location, their expressions grim as if preparing for war.

Compared to the alarmed guards, Smith was surprisingly calm. As the primary witness, he had the clearest understanding of what had just transpired.

It all began after his adoptive mother, Victoria, stepped out to bid farewell to Bismarck. In the room, only Smith and a guard named Michel remained.

— In truth, there should have been two guards present, but Victoria, finding their presence intrusive, had dismissed one so she could enjoy some undisturbed "mother-son bonding time."

But who could have anticipated that within the mere two or three minutes since Victoria stepped out, such a dramatic turn of events would unfold? Certainly not Smith. Moments earlier, he had been pondering how someone like Bismarck might navigate this world, which had already diverged significantly from the history he knew. Yet his highly honed sixth sense—sharpened by a prior "accident"—immediately registered danger the moment Victoria left the room. The sensation was identical to what he'd felt before that earlier "medical incident."

"This smells like trouble," Smith thought, instinctively glancing at the guard. That glance froze him in place. The guard was heading straight for him. Though the room wasn't small, Michel closed the distance in just a few steps, snatching Smith up and grabbing hold of his left arm.

Smith, of course, refused to go down without a fight. Yet as a newborn, his options were limited. After a few instinctive flails, it suddenly dawned on him that his most potent weapon was his cry. If he could wail loud enough, even if it didn't immediately summon Victoria, it might at least draw a maid or another guard to check on him.

But Smith underestimated Michel's speed. Before he could make a sound, a sharp pain shot through his arm. The pain brought tears and a cry so loud it even startled Smith himself!

Luckily, dislocating a newborn's arm requires more than brute force. While Michel's initial yank was excruciating, it hadn't done any real damage. Before the guard could apply more pressure, Bismarck's iron fist intervened.

Pain is a strange thing. Sometimes it muddles the mind; other times, it sharpens it. For Smith, this was the latter.

If the previous "medical incident" could be chalked up to an accident, this event was undeniably deliberate. From the moment pain seared through his arm, Smith realized with chilling clarity that the so-called "Time Management Bureau" seemed intent on using every means to steer history back on its original course. More specifically, to ensure that Wilhelm II's left arm became crippled, as it was meant to be.

"Why me? I'm just minding my business, and trouble keeps finding me!" Smith lamented internally.

Since childhood, Smith had believed in the mantra, *"Don't go looking for trouble, but don't shy away when it comes."* His unplanned journey to this world was beyond his control. Yet, for reasons he could scarcely understand, these "Time Management Bureau agents" kept targeting him. Naturally, Smith couldn't simply back down; this wasn't a situation where retreat would solve anything.

The problem was that Smith knew almost nothing about the Time Management Bureau. Barely two weeks earlier, he hadn't even known they existed. Their methods and motives were a complete mystery to him. And as for Smiling Willi, who seemed to have tangled with them for some time, he had vanished into thin air after dropping a cryptic hint, leaving Smith to fend for himself in this game of cat and mouse.

The stakes were high, and the clues were few. It was a puzzle far too intricate to unravel in mere moments. Smith found himself deep in thought, drawing on every ounce of his wisdom and experience.

Meanwhile, though the palace had quieted down after its earlier uproar, the calm was merely the precursor to a storm.

The tranquility was soon shattered by the rapid clatter of approaching hooves. At the gates of the Crown Prince's Palace, the guards squinted at the sight of three galloping horses on Linden Street. The riders leaned low over their mounts, faces obscured, their thick cloaks shielding them from Berlin's biting cold.

Before the guards could react, the horses had arrived. The lead rider pulled sharply on the reins, causing his steed to rear. In a fluid motion, the man dismounted and strode purposefully toward the palace. Only then did the guards catch a glimpse of his face—a tall, imposing figure wearing a Prussian spiked helmet. His broad, sturdy frame and military demeanor were unmistakable, as were the streaks of silver in his hair and his near-white, bushy beard. This was no ordinary visitor.

It was Wilhelm, the Prince Regent.

At this moment, all thoughts of propriety had abandoned Wilhelm. For a man destined to be King of Prussia, nothing was more critical than the safety of his sole grandson.

Wilhelm was not a superstitious man. As a soldier, he believed in reason, not coincidence. For his grandson to face two life-threatening incidents in such a short time was no coincidence—it couldn't be. After carefully piecing together the chain of events, the former "Prince of Grapeshot" roared an order, his voice akin to a cannon blast:

"Investigate!"

The directive was simple. But where to begin?

No one had an answer, for the matter was deeply complex.

The guard Michel wasn't even a Prussian. He had been part of the British escort accompanying Victoria and had since remained in the Crown Prince's service. Though he had mingled with his colleagues in Berlin, Prussian authorities could never have fully vetted his background. Any investigation would require British cooperation—a diplomatic complication in its own right.

But that wasn't the end of it. While Michel had been dispatched by the British, he wasn't British himself. He was Bavarian, originally in the service of Prince Albert, consort to Queen Victoria and a native of the Saxony-Coburg-Saalfeld Duchy in the German region. This meant that any thorough investigation would also necessitate the involvement of Bavaria—a notoriously tricky ally for Prussia.

After all, Prussia and the southern German states had never exactly seen eye to eye.

"So… where do we even start?"

In the moment following Prince Regent William's order, a shared internal monologue flashed through the minds of everyone present. *At least this investigation won't be limited to the Crown Prince's household—surely it'll drag in plenty of other bureaucratic institutions. There'll be no shortage of scapegoats to share the blame.* 

But that didn't make the situation any easier. The root cause of the entire ordeal, the guard named Michel, was dead.

Yes, dead—killed by Bismarck's single, devastating blow. Whether he died instantly upon impact or later from hitting the back of his head as he fell was unclear, and frankly, no one cared to know. By the time the guards stormed into the room, Michel was beyond saving, dead as could be.

This, quite literally, left the case as a "dead-end," making the entire incident even more suspicious.

It was no wonder, then, that Prince Regent William eyed Bismarck with suspicion when summoning him. Still, his sixty years of aristocratic composure held firm. When Bismarck appeared before him, William kept his emotions under control. After a brief silence, he expressed his gratitude:

"You saved my grandson's life," the Prince Regent said carefully. 

"Had you not intervened in time, he might have faced grave danger."

"I merely did what was expected of me, Your Highness," Bismarck replied, his tone deferential. A shrewd individual by nature, he had already sensed the Prince Regent's wariness before a single word was spoken.

And why wouldn't he be wary? After all, it was only eleven years ago that Bismarck had tried to influence William's wife into persuading him to give up his claim to the throne. Now, this former political adversary had suddenly done him an enormous favor. Anyone in William's position would harbor some degree of caution.

Understanding this dynamic, Bismarck refrained from adopting even the slightest air of a triumphant benefactor. Instead, he humbled himself, knowing full well that someone of his stature must tread carefully in such circumstances.

Sure enough, William was quite satisfied with Bismarck's humility. Furthermore, based on the known facts and logic, it seemed unlikely that Bismarck had anything to do with the incident. His demeanor since entering the room also suggested innocence; there was even a fleeting hint of genuine confusion in his eyes.

This combination of factors significantly eased the Prince Regent's suspicion. Waving a hand, he posed the question:

"What do you make of today's events?"

Bismarck stole a glance at the Prince Regent, noticing that William's gaze was fixed squarely on him.

Since William had returned to Germany and steadily consolidated his power, Bismarck's own position had increasingly shifted away from Berlin. It was obvious to even the most casual observer that William wanted to distance this former adversary as much as possible. During Bismarck's years in external postings, he could count their face-to-face encounters on one hand. What Bismarck truly thought, William might not fully grasp.

But what William thought—Bismarck understood perfectly.

Mid-19th century Germany was a chaotic patchwork of regions and politics, a microcosm of Europe's triumphs and struggles. Prussia, in particular, was a distillation of this disorder. Political forces clashed and coexisted, with individuals frequently switching sides, adding to the chaos. Amidst this, the nation's monarchical faction was a constant presence, matched by groups seeking to overthrow the royal family entirely. These revolutionaries fell into three broad categories: parliamentary advocates, armed insurrectionists, and a particularly ruthless faction inspired by Zhang Xianzhong—who believed that the surest way to end the monarchy was to exterminate the House of Hohenzollern altogether.

While such a plan sounded absurd and was difficult to execute, it still garnered a troubling number of adherents. To Prince Regent William, the parliamentary faction was laughable, the armed rebels were a threat to be guarded against, but this extremist faction was to be eradicated without mercy. Today's incident, from every angle, seemed tied to these radicals.

Thus, Bismarck spoke earnestly: 

"This must be the work of domestic dissidents, likely with foreign backing. If we do not strike with thunderous force, they will undoubtedly cause endless harm in the future."

No sooner had he finished speaking than Bismarck caught a glimmer of satisfaction in the Prince Regent's eyes—a kind of "finally, someone who gets it" look.