Smile, Wilhelm!

Frederick's cheeks twitched involuntarily.

Even though Clark Hamilton's conclusion was not unexpected, Frederick felt a wave of helplessness and confusion wash over him. That damned feeling from a year and a half ago returned with a vengeance, leaving him more powerless than before. Instinctively, he held his wife, who was still sobbing into her hands, and stroked Smith in the baby carriage. The confusion and helplessness roamed freely within him.

Smith felt no different. The harshness of reality was so overwhelming that he couldn't help but wonder if fate was truly toying with him. He didn't know what to do either—he was desperate.

"Is that so..." Frederick finally broke the silence after a long pause. He swept his gaze across the group of doctors in the room before finally focusing on Clark Hamilton.

"Dr. Hamilton, let me confirm one thing with you: do you truly believe that Dr. Thomas Young's treatment plan is the safest and most effective option?"

"Yes, Your Highness!" Clark Hamilton replied solemnly. He brought his fingers together and gestured toward Thomas Young as he continued, "Although Dr. Young is indeed quite young, he was a student of Dr. Golding Bird and has made remarkable contributions in the field of electrotherapy. He is now a professor of medicine at the University of St. Andrews. Truly a distinguished pupil of a great mentor. His design for the electrotherapy device is also highly scientific and reliable. It can be trusted!"

"Hmm…" Frederick muttered as he pondered.

While Prussia had been promoting compulsory education for years, renowned universities were still few and far between. In this era, when people thought of prestigious European institutions, their minds went first to the schools of England and France. The University of St. Andrews was one of them.

How prestigious? In discussions of Britain's historic universities, after Cambridge and Oxford, St. Andrews would be the next name to come up. Its medical school, in particular, was famous. Over the past century, at least a third of Britain's most skilled doctors had graduated from there. Dr. Golding Bird was also an alumnus of St. Andrews. Now that Thomas Young had become a professor there, it seemed he might genuinely be exceptional.

While Clark Hamilton extolled Thomas Young's credentials, Smith's gaze locked onto the man in question. Whether before or after his transmigration, Smith had always been a pragmatic person. Titles and accolades didn't intimidate him. "Professor at the University of St. Andrews" might carry weight for his father, Frederick, but it meant little to Smith.

On the contrary, the sight of this "St. Andrews professor" presenting what Smith perceived as a flawed, dubious, and potentially unsafe electrotherapy device only reinforced his belief that the university's medical standards were overhyped.

"Hah! With skills like this, Thomas Young managed to become a professor? More like a 'quack,'" Smith ridiculed internally. Suddenly, his thoughts jumped back to a similar figure from his pre-transmigration life: another quack surnamed Yang, who also peddled pseudoscientific electrotherapy under the guise of medical treatment.

For a brief moment, Smith detached from his own misfortune and felt a twinge of pity.

In the 1860s, the popularity of Dr. Young's pseudoscience might be excused by the technological limitations of the time. But in the 21st century, for another quack Yang to repackage 19th-century pseudoscience and still find a market? That was a true tragedy—and a farce—of humanity.

Thinking this, Smith scrutinized Dr. Young again. To his astonishment, the man bore a faint resemblance to that 21st-century quack Yang.

"This is absurd…" Smith grumbled inwardly. From that moment on, he decided to nickname him "Quack Young," though, for now, he couldn't call it out loud.

Meanwhile, Frederick also scrutinized "Quack Young" again, his gaze full of undisguised skepticism. But "Quack Young" remained confident, his face a picture of practiced affability. Who knew where he got that confidence?

"Electrotherapy isn't the only treatment option, is it?" After a thorough look, Frederick still couldn't let it go. He turned to Clark Hamilton.

"There should be supplementary treatments too, correct?"

"Of course, of course!" Clark Hamilton quickly nodded, hearing the doubt in Frederick's voice. "Given the young age of the patient, bloodletting is too risky. We can supplement with massage therapy and oral medication to improve blood circulation. But I must emphasize that massage and medication are only auxiliary methods. For effective results, electrotherapy must be the primary treatment."

"Sigh… I understand," Frederick sighed deeply, the sound laden with weariness.

"Then, Dr. Hamilton, you are in charge of formulating the treatment plan. I would like to spend some time with my family…"

With that, he absentmindedly gestured to dismiss the doctors, then picked up the equally downcast Smith, took his tear-streaked wife Victoria by the arm, and slowly headed toward the room's exit.

A faint creak accompanied the door as it opened, revealing the tall figure of Prince Regent William.

Compared to a year ago, William seemed even more aged. Even Smith, young as he was, could see how the past year had taken a toll on the Prince Regent as he struggled to navigate the treacherous waters of politics. This was especially true after Bismarck left for Khitan under the guise of a diplomatic visit, leaving the Prince Regent's already arduous task of balancing power even more strained.

Frederick, of course, understood all this even better. Despite their differing political views and philosophies, as a son, he couldn't help but feel heartache for his father. His feelings were summed up in a single word: "Father."

"I know everything…" The Prince Regent's expression was complex as he walked beside Frederick's family through the halls of the Crown Prince's Palace. It was clear he had something on his mind.

"Let's take the child to rest."

Frederick nodded. After seeing Victoria settle Smith in the bedroom, he turned back and joined his father outside.

As the bedroom door quietly shut behind them, William remained silent. Instead, he led Frederick toward the garden overlooking the River Spree.

Frederick followed closely. Only when they reached the garden, where no one else was within earshot, did William speak in a low voice:

"The King's condition is worsening. He can barely speak now, and I even doubt whether he still recognizes me. The doctors fear he won't survive the winter. Even the most optimistic among them believe he won't make it through another."

Frederick already knew this. In Berlin in 1860, the King's impending death was no secret. Everyone was simply waiting for the inevitable. But Frederick sensed an unspoken meaning behind his father's words.

"That's right. Perhaps by this time next year, the Prussian crown will rest on my head—at the latest, the year after. If I live to see that day…"

William's voice was weary, tinged with a faint sorrow.

"Father, you—" Frederick frowned and stepped forward anxiously.

"Don't worry. My health is still in good shape!" Regent William waved dismissively.

"But you know, I'm already 63. No matter how healthy I am, being summoned by God at any moment wouldn't be surprising. So, you must not only be prepared to assume your role as Crown Prince but also be ready to become King. Do you understand?"

Frederick nodded distractedly. For him, today was hardly the right time for such a discussion.

"A nation always needs a successor. This is of utmost importance and requires careful preparation," Regent William continued, his eyes fixed on Frederick. "You have Willie, and now you have Charlotte, which means you have both a son and a daughter. But that's not enough..."

It dawned on Frederick at last: his father wanted to talk to him about this.

No matter how deeply Frederick loved his son, his rationality told him that curing Willie's speech impairment was an uncertain endeavor. The outcome of this treatment would directly determine whether Willie could become Crown Prince once Frederick ascended the throne.

In Prussia, where militarism prevailed and the populace admired strength, from the nobility to the commoners, it was hard to imagine many would accept a mute as their future king.

Charlotte was also not an option, as she was a daughter, and under Prussian inheritance laws, women were not eligible for the throne.

Thus, to be safe, Frederick did seem to need more sons. His father's words, though tactful, left little room for misinterpretation.

"I understand, Father," Frederick said solemnly.

"May God bless my poor little Willie!" Regent William patted Frederick on the shoulder and turned to walk toward the gates of the Crown Prince's Palace. Frederick instinctively wanted to see him off, but the regent waved him back.

"Spend more time with your wife!"

Frederick said nothing. Watching his father's retreating figure, for a fleeting moment, he felt detached from the world—as if he were merely an observer. Oh, how he wished he could be just an observer at this moment!

Meanwhile, Clark Hamilton and his team of doctors worked swiftly to develop a treatment plan. By dusk the following day, a detailed plan was on Frederick's desk. After brief discussions with Victoria and Regent William, the plan was finalized.

Three days later, a substantial "professional team" arrived at the Crown Prince's Palace. This time, they didn't travel by land but by steamboat, bringing with them a massive array of equipment that delighted little Charlotte, who clapped and laughed joyfully at the sight of the crates while nestled in her nanny's arms.

In contrast, Smith, sitting in a stroller nearby, couldn't bring himself to smile. He knew those crates contained the components of the bizarre therapeutic (or torturous) equipment designed by "Professor Young." He even guessed why they had chosen water transport over land: the equipment included a large number of batteries. Due to technical limitations, these batteries were not only enormous but also highly fragile. Transporting them over land, with its frequent handling and potential jolts, could easily result in breakage and leaks of corrosive battery acid—an outcome that would not only render the equipment unusable but also potentially cause serious damage.

Smith secretly hoped for an accident during the transportation or assembly of the equipment. After all, any delay in his "treatment" was a small reprieve, however temporary. But much to his dismay, the "Professor Young" team proved disappointingly competent. Despite their rough exteriors, these men worked with astonishing precision. The entire process of unloading and assembling the equipment went off without a hitch, leaving Smith's face alternating between shades of green and red.

Smith's analysis had been spot on: the contraption required an entire room for installation. The assembly and calibration took an entire afternoon and the following day.

That night, with the equipment fully operational, Smith was unable to sleep. His feelings were akin to those of a condemned man awaiting execution—an indescribable mix of dread and chaos.

How could he possibly sleep?

Once again, what was meant to come would come. The next morning, Dr. Clark Hamilton, accompanied by Professor Young's team, informed Smith's family that the treatment would begin at dusk. According to them, evening conditions were supposedly more conducive to success.

Smith dismissed this as nonsense but didn't argue. A few extra hours of delay seemed like a small victory.

The rest of the day, however, was agonizing. Sleep-deprived from the previous night, he now found himself unable to eat.

It wasn't just a loss of appetite—he was utterly consumed by fear. Many years later, when recalling the day he awaited the "Professor Young" team, Smith could remember none of its details. All that remained was the overwhelming terror of the unknown fate that awaited him.