Did You Really Think the Tiger Was a Sick Kitten?

"PFFFFFFT!!!!"

Smith's earth-shattering wail of anguish somewhat muffled the sound of the spray. Against the backdrop of his approximately 114-decibel scream—"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"—the resounding "pfft" seemed nearly inaudible.

But the smell? Oh, that was undeniable. Within moments, a putrid stench filled the room, overpowering everyone present. This time, there was no need for Professor Yang to give any orders. The group sprang into action, opening windows and cleaning up the mess. Only after much effort did the room's air regain a semblance of freshness.

By that point, Smith was already oblivious to the chaos. That primal scream, which had drained the last of his strength, was his swan song before he succumbed to the dual torment of electric shock and suffocation.

When Smith woke again, he had no idea how much time had passed. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing a tear-streaked Victoria as his first sight. Moments later, Friedrich came into view.

"My poor Willy… what suffering you've endured!" Victoria murmured tenderly, clutching Smith's tiny hand with a mother's love. "Merciful God, please make my son well again!"

Friedrich placed a comforting hand on Victoria's shoulder, gently soothing her. Smith noted the tear stains on Friedrich's own face. The sight of this usually stoic man, from the rigid and proud Hohenzollern family, shedding tears was telling. For Friedrich, a symbol of bravery and strength, to show such vulnerability spoke volumes about his deep concern for his son's condition.

Smith instinctively wanted to say something to comfort them. But when he opened his mouth, only unintelligible sounds escaped.

Of course, this quack treatment had done absolutely nothing for his speech impediment.

Its adverse effects, however, were all too apparent. As his senses returned, Smith's entire body was a symphony of misery. The lingering nausea and discomfort from the shock were joined by a new sensation: vertigo. Attempting to move only revealed a whole new problem—a deep, aching weakness coupled with an alarming lack of coordination.

Trying to prop himself up on his elbow, Smith accidentally slapped himself in the face instead. His movements were so disjointed it was as if his limbs were operating with entirely different agendas.

Faced with such debilitating aftereffects, Smith resigned himself to lying flat on his back. The symptoms he was experiencing—nausea, dizziness, muscle soreness, and uncooperative limbs—were classic signs of post-electrocution trauma. He wasn't surprised; after all, he had been electrocuted!

"This can't go on," Smith thought, staring at the ceiling. "If this keeps up, I'll either be shocked to death or shocked into a stupor."

There was no doubt about it. These pseudo-scientific treatments were putting tremendous strain on his nervous system and causing potential damage to his brain. From his knowledge, people who had suffered electrical injuries often experienced symptoms ranging from loss of coordination to memory lapses, depending on the severity of the damage. And this damage depended not only on the intensity and duration of the shocks but also on sheer luck.

Smith wasn't willing to gamble. He knew enough about electrical safety to recognize that continuing this ridiculous therapy was a reckless gamble with his life. The longer it went on, the higher the risk of permanent harm. And considering the shocks were applied directly to his head, there was a genuine chance of compounding his speech impediment with new disabilities—or worse, mental derangement.

"I need a plan to stop this lunacy," Smith resolved during his post-treatment massage.

This was uncharted territory for him. As he assessed his situation, he realized just how bleak things were:

As the future heir to the Hohenzollern throne, one-year-old Smith had no real say in this matter. Even if he could speak, it was unlikely anyone would take him seriously. His parents, despite their obvious love and concern, were bound by family expectations and the limited medical options of the time. His grandparents, with their rigid and stubborn nature, were even less likely to intervene.

Historically speaking, his maternal grandparents—Queen Victoria and Prince Albert—might voice objections. But as the reigning monarchs of the distant British Empire, their influence in Berlin's affairs was limited at best.

"Six relatives, and not a single one I can count on…" Smith thought bitterly. If those closest to him were powerless, then more distant relations were even less likely to help.

"Fine. If no one else can help, I'll help myself!" Determined, Smith decided that in a life-and-death situation like this, he could only rely on himself.

But what could he do?

While being massaged, Smith stared at the ceiling, pondering his options.

Yes, what could he do? He was barely over a year old, after all.

On the bright side, things had improved significantly since his newborn days. His vision and hearing were now fully developed, granting him sharp senses. His limbs, though still developing, allowed for rudimentary movement. And, as a time-traveling soul with a fully mature mind, he possessed a wealth of knowledge far beyond this era's understanding.

These, then, were the resources Smith had at his disposal.

But how to use them? That was the question. Time was not on his side. According to Professor Yang's "prescription," these electric treatments were to be administered daily. In less than 24 hours, another round of shocks awaited him. If he couldn't devise a plan and act on it before then, he would once again be at the mercy of this barbaric "therapy."

"What should I do?"

When the massage ended, the clock struck eight. It was Smith's usual bedtime, but tonight he had no intention of sleeping. The lingering effects of the shock kept him in discomfort, and his frantic brainstorming left his mind racing too much for rest.

As Smith lay in bed, he closed his eyes—not to sleep but to think.

And think he did, for two whole hours. But the more time passed, the more anxious he became. The clock was ticking, and he was no closer to a solution. Never before had he faced a situation so dire, so urgent. For a brief moment, he felt like he might lose his mind.

"What a cruel irony," Smith mused bitterly. "If I go mad, wouldn't that just prove that damned Brit's nonsense correct?"

Smith tried to soothe himself inwardly. That "damn Brit" referred to none other than the English doctor Edward Martin. This man had declared shortly after Smith was born that "this child is definitely ill," a statement that had caused Smith's family great distress.

"Wait a second! Edward Martin?!" Suddenly, a flash of inspiration lit up Smith's mind.

Back then, Edward Martin claimed that Smith suffered from gastrointestinal hernia and proposed venting therapy. But fate took a different turn when a stray rivet ended Martin's life during the procedure. Since that mishap, venting therapy had fallen out of favor—

—Not because the Hohenzollern family feared losing another doctor, but because they were worried about something similar happening to Smith!

This realization struck Smith like lightning.

"Exactly! If something happened to that 'Professor Yang,' electroshock therapy might never be mentioned again!"

Smith's thoughts started racing in this direction.

Indeed, while Frederick and Victoria had since given birth to Charlotte, who seemed to be in good health, Charlotte was a girl. For now, Smith remained the only male heir of his generation in the Hohenzollern family. This meant he was still the sole future successor of the royal lineage!

True, Frederick and Victoria might have more children. According to history, their next child would be a boy named Heinrich. But Smith had no guarantees about this—what if some butterfly effect altered the course of events? No one in this timeline, himself included, could predict such things with certainty.

With this thought in mind, Smith was now almost certain that even a rigid and cold family like the Hohenzollerns would never allow the sole heir to risk his life for a treatment!

"That's it. If 'Professor Yang' were to have an accident during one of these treatments, this whole electroshock nonsense might just fade into obscurity!" Smith calculated, "At least until my future little brother is born!"

According to history, his brother Heinrich wouldn't be born until 1862, nearly two years from now. Although Smith had no confidence that his "language barrier" would improve within that time, who could predict what might happen? Perhaps a turn of fate awaited him.

In any case, this plan had potential!

"But that 'Professor Yang' is still a human being..." As this thought emerged, a voice seemed to question Smith's conscience.

Taking a life was never an easy decision. True, as the son of a doctor, Smith had seen countless deaths growing up. Doctors like his parents fought death daily, though victory wasn't always on their side. But the death resulting from failed rescue efforts was entirely different from deliberately causing someone's demise. The latter clashed deeply with everything Smith had been raised to believe and severely violated his moral compass.

Besides, Smith thought, this 'Professor Yang' might genuinely be acting out of ignorance, unlike the other 'Professor Yang' Smith was more familiar with. In Chinese, there's a saying: "Don't blame the ignorant." If ignorance were a crime, it certainly wasn't one punishable by death. And who was Smith to pass such judgment?

This hesitation gripped Smith, leaving him sleepless that night. He couldn't make up his mind or find an alternative solution.

"What should I do..." he muttered to himself as the first rays of sunlight pierced the sky. But no answer came.

As his indecision lingered, the second day of treatment loomed over him.

Just like the first day, Smith was led into the room, bidding farewell to the tearful Frederick and Victoria with his eyes before being strapped into the electric belt.

But the moment the current was activated, Smith immediately noticed that something was different. Not only did the discomfort arrive more intensely and rapidly, but a new, indescribable unease also took hold. Just five minutes in, Smith felt as though his head would explode, and his internal organs twisted and churned with excruciating pain. In an instant, he realized his sphincter had relaxed.

"It's coming..." he thought grimly.

The inevitable happened, and as expected, the release provided no relief. Although 'Professor Yang' cut off the power for the maids to clean up, Smith's body was gripped by uncontrollable spasms and convulsions.

This was unlike anything Smith had experienced before. While his body betrayed him, his mind remained disturbingly clear, making the ordeal even more unbearable.

Amidst the torment, Smith distinctly heard the assistant's low voice:

"He can't take this voltage... Should we lower it to yesterday's level?"

"Lower it? Why lower it?" snapped 'Professor Yang' coldly. "He's not going to die. Let me remind you, your job is to record the subject's reactions, not to tell me how to do mine!"

"Damn it! I treat you like a human, and you treat me like a lab rat?!" Smith's anger erupted. Already dazed and disoriented from the shocks, his fury muddled his thoughts further.

"You think I'm a sick cat because I don't roar like a tiger, huh?!"