Smile, Wilhelm!

With that opening statement, Bismarck's next words were something Regent Wilhelm had already anticipated to a large extent. By the time Bismarck finished speaking in his distinctive sharp voice, Wilhelm's attitude toward him had subtly shifted. 

Eleven years of lingering grudges, combined with Bismarck's questionable political alliances, had left Wilhelm with a strong aversion to him. To keep him out of sight and mind, Wilhelm had kicked Bismarck off to serve as a diplomat abroad—a role he had held for years. 

This was, in fact, a clever maneuver. By sending Bismarck far from Berlin, where his network and resources were most concentrated, Wilhelm effectively neutralized the threat posed by this clearly ambitious and highly capable former rival. At the same time, he avoided the public backlash of completely sidelining Bismarck. After all, diplomacy was a critical task for Prussia, not a trivial exile for someone of Bismarck's talents. 

In essence, Bismarck was to be used but not truly empowered—left hanging in a precarious balance. Should he tire of his diplomatic post and resign, that would only be a testament to his own exhaustion, absolving Wilhelm of any blame. 

However, the recent rapid shifts in both domestic and international affairs had forced Wilhelm to reconsider, particularly the state of the country: 

The parliament, reorganized after the Revolution of 1848, increasingly sought to curtail the Hohenzollern family's authority. They obstructed Wilhelm at every turn, leaving the aging regent, already past sixty, constantly frustrated. He felt shackled, like a lion in a cage, and the pressure was unbearable. 

At the same time, various self-proclaimed leftists stirred further unrest. Most distressingly, Wilhelm's beloved grandson, young Wilhelm, had faced repeated dangers, deepening the old regent's anger. The domestic situation had clearly reached a critical point that demanded immediate rectification. 

But as the saying goes, "No matter how strong you are, you can't hammer every nail." Despite wielding the authority of a regent, even in a country like Prussia, known for its autocracy, parliamentary politics had become unshakable. Few dared openly oppose the parliament. Meanwhile, the traditional Junkers, though disgruntled, lacked the capability to outmaneuver it. Those familiar with parliamentary politics were unwilling to side with the Hohenzollerns, leaving Wilhelm with a glaring shortage of allies. 

For days, Wilhelm had felt the urge to curse his predicament. But as a royal, profanity was unbecoming. So instead, after hearing Bismarck's speech, he clenched his fist and struck the table, exclaiming with indignation: 

"How has the country come to this?" 

Even as he voiced his frustration, Wilhelm's gaze lingered on Bismarck, observing his former adversary closely for a reaction. 

Bismarck, ever perceptive, caught the regent's intent immediately. 

"Ah, Berlin!" Bismarck lamented internally. 

Once, he had loathed Berlin's urban atmosphere, so alien to the rural landscapes of his youth. His first steps in the Prussian capital had been filled with rejection and disdain for its foreignness. 

But Berlin had more than the unfamiliar. It had decadence, indulgence—and most importantly, a stage for power. These were things Bismarck craved deeply. 

Years of exile had only intensified his yearning to return to Berlin. He would never forget the immense effort it took to claw his way into Berlin's political circles, nor the ease with which Wilhelm had banished him abroad. Now, he saw the perfect opportunity to reclaim his place in the heart of power. 

"Berlin! I'm coming back!" 

Though his heart surged with excitement, Bismarck knew better than to show it. He remained silent, awaiting Wilhelm's next move, knowing full well that the regent would be the first to break the silence. 

Sure enough, after a moment of quiet, Wilhelm spoke: 

"You've served as a diplomat for many years. The country is in need of capable men now. After this debriefing, you won't return to St. Petersburg. Your place is here, at home." 

Even a man as composed as Bismarck couldn't help but be momentarily taken aback. After a brief pause, he responded, "It is my honor to serve the nation." 

Wilhelm scrutinized the younger, towering man before him, a man nearly young enough to be his son. He reminded himself: 

"This man is not to be trusted. But for now, I have no better choice." 

With a sigh, Wilhelm added, "I'll assign you specific duties in two days. For now, you may go. And again, thank you for saving my grandson." 

Bismarck caught the sigh. Clearly, the regent still harbored resentment over their history. Yet, at least for now, he had secured his return to Berlin. If his previous role was waiting in the wings, he was now back on stage. Moving forward, he would tread carefully, making his mark in this treacherous theater. 

"Bismarck will not disappoint you, Your Highness," he said, bowing respectfully before taking his leave. He knew all too well that if Wilhelm were to draft a list of people he detested, Bismarck's name would undoubtedly make the top three. 

In fact, Wilhelm's current number-one nemesis was none other than his own son, Friedrich. After the latest scandal, Friedrich was surely on his way to intervene, and Wilhelm intended to act before his son could interfere. 

The moment Bismarck left the crown prince's palace, one of Wilhelm's attendants entered to report: 

"Your Highness, the Berlin police chiefs have arrived." 

"Excellent! Right on time!" Wilhelm said, rising with surprising agility for a man his age. 

"Bring them here!" 

Moments later, a group of uniformed officers filed in. Once the last man entered and the door shut, Wilhelm declared loudly: 

"You all recall the directive to prepare a list of radicals, yes?" 

When they confirmed, he continued: 

"Good! Arrest them all!" 

To emphasize his resolve, Wilhelm made a firm gesture. With that, he strode out the door. He was heading to see his "miraculously surviving" grandson. 

---

Wilhelm, caught in the whirlwind of events, could not foresee how Bismarck's premature return to Berlin—years earlier than expected—would alter the course of history. The wheels of fate had begun to turn in a vastly different direction. 

Meanwhile, in another part of Berlin, Hans Becker muttered a curse as he angrily tossed a spent matchstick into the snow. It was the last match from a nearly empty box, and he discarded the box itself out of frustration. 

The winter of early 1859 had blanketed Berlin in snow, a sight that might delight the wealthy but brought only misery to the working class. For them, snow meant treacherous commutes and higher fuel costs for heating—a burden few could afford. Truly, "adding frost to snow" was a pain they knew all too well. 

Strictly speaking, Hans Becker was also one of those people who needed to show up for work every day. The difference was that his workplace was the Berlin Police Department. However, unlike those uniformed officers, he was always dressed in plain clothes—

—yes, he was one of those legendary secret police.

By no measure was this a job to envy. At the moment, the secret policeman stood in the shadow of a gas lamp amidst a flurry of snow. Snow had piled up thickly on his coat and hat, and some of it had melted from his body heat, soaking the matches in his pocket.

He had planned to use those matches to light a cigarette, but it seemed that plan was now futile.

The only consolation was that he wasn't alone. Just as he tossed the soggy matchbox into the snow, a hand holding a lighter extended toward him, followed by a voice:

"Why not use a lighter instead?"

Hans Becker smirked. The hand belonged to his partner, Martin Schultz, a fellow secret policeman. Martin was a young man in his twenties and had only been under Becker's command for two months. This was their first mission together.

"Kerosene and flint are a lot more expensive than matches!" Becker remarked casually, taking the lighter. With some difficulty, he shielded the wind and lit his cigarette before returning the lighter to Martin. He also handed him a cigarette.

"I'm not like you. I've got seven kids to feed!"

Schultz didn't respond. He took the cigarette, lit it with the same struggle, and gazed across the snowy street at a house. That house was the temporary residence of their target. However, it was evident that the target wasn't home—the house was pitch dark.

Schultz recalled his training at the police academy. Smoking during a night operation was technically against protocol, as the glowing ember of a cigarette could give away their position and jeopardize the mission. But the cold was unbearable, and even the liquor meant to warm their bodies had frozen solid. Without a cigarette, enduring a frigid snowy night like this seemed impossible. Besides, they had already been waiting here for hours. What were the chances their target would appear during the short time it took to finish a smoke?

"What kind of person are we after?" Schultz asked after letting the warm smoke soothe his icy throat.

"He's a notorious radical!" Becker squinted as he answered.

"Back during the 1848 riots, he was hoarding arms and ammunition in Düsseldorf, plotting an uprising. I personally arrested him back then. Eleven years later, here we are in Berlin, meeting again!"

"Eleven years ago…" Schultz seemed lost in thought. To him, eleven years felt like a lifetime, encompassing nearly half of his existence. Back then, he was just a child, barely aware of the turbulence in Prussia during those days.

"And what's he done this time?" Schultz pulled himself from his memories and asked Becker.

"Is he planning another revolt?"

Becker frowned and took a long drag on his cigarette. After eyeing Schultz for a moment, he replied with a hint of gravity in his tone:

"Young man, there's one thing you should always remember in our line of work: don't ask questions about things you're not told. Just follow orders and bring the target in. Knowing too much isn't always a good thing. But I will say this—this man is no ordinary criminal. He's extremely cautious and can vanish at the first hint of danger. If it weren't for his cunning and the shortage of manpower, there's no way it'd just be the two of us on this mission."

Schultz opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Becker's expression abruptly changed. Flicking his cigarette to the ground and stamping it out, he said urgently:

"Put out your smoke! He's here!"

Schultz quickly extinguished his cigarette and followed Becker's gaze.

A tall, thin figure emerged from the swirling snow. The man moved slowly, scanning his surroundings as though ensuring the area was safe. The heavy snowfall obscured his vision, so he didn't notice the two men in the shadows. Feeling secure, he approached the house and reached for his keys.

Becker, experienced as ever, gestured to Schultz to flank the target. They began closing in.

But just as the man was about to insert the key into the lock, it slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. The act of bending to retrieve it seemed to trigger his instincts. He spun around abruptly and locked eyes with Becker and Schultz.

In an instant, the man bolted.

Becker and Schultz gave chase, but after standing in the cold for so long, their frozen limbs slowed them down. They could only watch helplessly as the man gained distance, his figure gradually fading into the snowy night.

"You won't stay free for long!" Becker finally shouted in the direction of the fleeing figure, his voice echoing through the storm.

"Lassalle! I'll catch you again, sooner or later!"