First Blood (Part II)

This idea was nothing more than a spur-of-the-moment impulse. As the saying goes, "A wise person knows themselves." Smith had reflected deeply on who he was. He understood that, compared to fighting, sleuthing, or covert operations, he much preferred research and design.

What he was doing now was entirely out of necessity, forced by circumstances. While the thrill of it all had brought some ripples to the otherwise dull monotony of his second childhood, it was ultimately not what he wanted.

To put it bluntly, if there were another way, he wouldn't be doing this!

"Ah, people are always forced into things," Smith muttered to himself as he took off his nightgown.

He was going to use it to carry candles.

The candles in the palace kitchen were specially made for the Prussian royal family. Unlike the short, thin candles Smith was familiar with in the modern world, these were as thick as his forearm and tall enough to reach his waist when placed on the ground. Their pure white appearance resembled creamy white jade, and they burned far brighter than ordinary candles.

However, the light from one or two candles wouldn't be enough for Smith to complete his task. He needed at least five or six. These candles were not only large but also heavy, and Smith could only carry one or two at a time by hand. Hence, he had the idea of using his nightgown.

Calling it a "nightgown" was a bit of a misnomer—it was more of a nightdress. This was a popular 19th-century baby garment, exquisitely designed and suitable for both boys and girls.

(Apparently, men wearing skirts from a young age has been a thing for centuries!)

The nightdress's hem reached about Smith's knees—perfect for the task. He stuffed the candles in through the neckline, leaving just enough fabric to seal the bottom. The sleeves could then be tied around his neck and under his arms, turning the candle-filled nightdress into a makeshift backpack.

Smith did just that. He stuffed six candles into the nightdress, sealed the bottom, tied the sleeves securely, and slung it over his back. With a box of matches in hand, he was ready to go.

For a baby of Smith's size, this was an exhausting endeavor. On top of that, he hadn't slept all night, leaving him drained. Carrying the six heavy candles caused him to stumble slightly, but he managed to steady himself after a moment.

At this point, giving up wasn't an option. Abandoning his efforts now would waste all the work he had done through the night. Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward slightly, adjusted his balance, and slowly made his way to the kitchen door.

As he cracked the door open, a gust of cold wind blew in. The force of it slammed against the door, nearly knocking Smith over. The biting chill made him shiver.

He had already felt the cold earlier when he took off the nightdress, but now it was downright bone-chilling. The icy floor beneath his feet only added to his discomfort. But Smith didn't have time to dwell on that. He carefully closed the kitchen door behind him and tiptoed down the hallway toward his destination.

As he had observed during the day, there were no guards posted along the route from the kitchen to the treatment room. Still, Smith moved with extreme caution, sticking to the edges of the hallway and using doorways and potted plants as cover.

Whether from fatigue, nerves, or the cold, Smith's heart was pounding even faster than when he first set out. His small body trembled slightly, and the sensation was far from pleasant.

When he finally reached the treatment room door, he knew all his effort had been worth it. The distant toll of a clock announced that it was now 1:00 AM, giving him a few hours to execute the next phase of his plan.

"Alright, let's do this!"

Smith muttered to himself for encouragement. He rubbed his stiff hands, turned the doorknob, and stepped inside.

The treatment room at night was entirely different from during the day. If its daytime appearance was Victorian steampunk, its nighttime atmosphere was downright eerie. It was the perfect setting for a Gothic horror story.

As a staunch materialist, Smith wasn't about to let the spooky ambiance scare him. He quickly unloaded the candle-filled nightdress, set up one candle on the floor, and lit it with a match.

The room's appearance transformed instantly. The single candle couldn't illuminate the entire space, but its warm glow softened the atmosphere. The polished brass components reflected the light, giving the room an oddly cozy feel.

Smith had no time to savor the moment. Using the light, he surveyed the room to confirm its layout. Nothing had changed since he had last seen it during the day. Everything was as he remembered, except for the heavy velvet curtains that were now tightly drawn.

The curtains were crucial. They not only blocked light from entering the room but also prevented the interior light from being visible outside—a critical detail, given that a Prussian Guard post was stationed less than 100 meters away. If the guards noticed light coming from the room, things could get messy.

After ensuring the curtains were securely closed, Smith positioned and lit several more candles. The room was now brightly illuminated. With the enhanced visibility, Smith easily found a screwdriver. Holding it tightly, he felt a surge of confidence. With this level of light, he was sure he could figure out the machine's wiring, even without a schematic.

But first, he had to unscrew the panels.

This was pure grunt work. By the time he removed the last screw, Smith felt like he had exerted every ounce of his strength. And lifting the heavy panel off the machine would require even more effort.

No choice—just push through!

When the clock struck 2:00 AM, Smith was drenched in sweat, sitting before the now-exposed control panel. He stared blankly at the wiring inside.

What a mess! All the wires were the same black color, tangled chaotically like a bird's nest. The terminals were haphazardly installed, with some exposed ends sticking out.

The sight made Smith shudder. If there were ever a case study for unsafe electrical practices, this machine would be Exhibit A. Remembering how he had been shocked by this contraption over the past few days, Smith couldn't help but feel a sense of relief that he had survived the ordeal.

"Surviving this piece of junk—what luck!"

Despite his grumbling, Smith got to work. Patiently, he untangled the wires, tracing each one to its source. By the time the clock struck 3:00 AM, he had finally figured out the wiring. This task had been even more exhausting than the physical labor earlier. At least that had been straightforward—this was pure mental torture.

"Looks fancy on the outside, but it's garbage inside," Smith muttered.

He glanced at the gleaming brass components and decorative engravings on the control panel, finding their ostentatious design increasingly ironic.

"Wait... brass?" 

In a flash of inspiration, Smith's mind lit up with new ideas. 

Before seeing the wiring of this machine up close, Smith had entertained various possibilities. He had even considered creating an oscillating circuit to convert DC to AC, then using a transformer to generate high voltage and kill the target with an electric arc. But now, it seemed all of that might be unnecessary. 

Because the toggle switches on the control panel were made of brass. 

Of course, while the knobs were brass, there would undoubtedly be insulating material between the brass and the wires. Otherwise, every use of the switch would result in a disaster. But introducing a little "accident" seemed entirely feasible. After all, the machine's internal wiring was so chaotic that a short circuit or electrical leakage wouldn't be too surprising! 

With this thought in mind, Smith got to work. The principle was simple enough for him, but it was a bit challenging for his less-than-two-year-old body. His hands were still clumsy with tools like screwdrivers and wire strippers. 

Even so, the "modification" wasn't overly difficult. Working as quickly as possible, Smith restored the machine to its original state, extinguished the candles one by one, carefully cleaned the wax drippings from the floor, and retraced his steps back to the kitchen. He returned the used candles to the cupboard, pushed the serving cart back to the dumbwaiter, and climbed inside. Summoning the last of his strength, he ascended back to the small dining service room, tiptoed through the corridor, and finally returned to his bedroom. 

When Smith crawled back into his cozy crib, the clock had just struck five. He had no energy left to think about anything else. Almost as soon as he lay down, he fell asleep. 

After all, what a bizarre and exhausting night it had been! 

Perhaps due to the sheer physical exertion and the long hours, Smith slept soundly and deeply. When he awoke, it was already afternoon. In fact, if the sunlight hadn't been shining directly on his face, he might have continued sleeping. 

"A new day..." 

Smith lazily opened his eyes and shielded them from the dazzling sunlight. Memories of the previous night flooded back, leaving him with a lingering sense of disbelief. For a moment, he even questioned whether it had all been a surreal dream. 

But his memories soon confirmed the truth. With a mix of emotions, Smith ate his "breakfast." By the time the sun was setting, he was taken back to the treatment room. 

Everything proceeded as usual, as though nothing had happened. Everyone acted as if this was just another ordinary day. But in Smith's heart, he kept questioning himself: was what he had done the right thing? 

When he was once again strapped to the treatment bed by the assistants, their hands deftly fastening the straps, Smith finally came to a realization: 

Often, the question of right or wrong doesn't matter. What matters is whether you're willing to act to protect yourself when danger is clear and imminent. 

With this understanding, Smith felt at peace. When "Professor Yang" personally came over to secure the headband on him, Smith gave him a meaningful look. 

But "Professor Yang" didn't notice the significance of that look. He simply secured the copper buckle and turned back to the control panel, now outside Smith's field of vision. There, he gestured for his assistants to start cranking the generator. He himself placed one hand on the control panel and the other on the brass switch. 

Moments later, a bloodcurdling scream echoed through the palace, and chaos erupted in the treatment room. 

Smith, firmly strapped to the treatment bed, couldn't see the entire scene. From his perspective, a flurry of shadows darted around him, like a carousel of absurdity and comedy. 

He didn't have long to observe, though, as the ever-dutiful guards soon arrived. They quickly unstrapped Smith from the treatment bed. A tall, muscular head guard scooped him up and strode out of the room. As they exited, Smith glanced back at the treatment area. 

He saw a group of people gathered around a figure whose face was already blackened. One of the assistants checked the figure's carotid artery, shook his head, and muttered, "The professor is dead..." 

"Professor Yang" was dead. This news didn't surprise Smith much. 

What did surprise him was that, upon hearing of "Professor Yang's" death, he felt no guilt whatsoever. Regardless, Smith knew that with the professor's death, he would no longer have to endure the pseudoscientific "electroshock therapy." This incident might even put an end to such treatments in medical practice altogether. 

That wouldn't be a bad thing, would it? 

With this thought, Smith turned his head, smiled faintly, and felt a sense of accomplishment.