A Narrow Escape Brings... Trouble?

"Life is so hard..."

Three days had passed. Smith lay idly in his crib, staring blankly at the ceiling, his gaze vacant and listless.

People always say, "A narrow escape from death brings great fortune." But for Smith, who had survived a "difficult birth," no such fortune had arrived. These days felt like years, and Smith desperately wished to grow up quickly. Living like a bedridden invalid, relying on others for everything, was pure torment.

What made it worse was the presence of his newfound mother, Victoria. In any era, gossip spreads like wildfire. Within the Prussian royal court, news of "Victoria's distaste for the newborn Wilhelm due to the difficult labor" was no longer a secret. Speculations ran wild. What storm would this shadow of childbirth cast? Could it disrupt the seemingly enviable marriage of Frederick and Princess Victoria? Might it even strain the harmonious relations between Prussia and Britain?

Even the most pessimistic rumors acknowledged that such consequences would take time to unfold. For now, Frederick and Victoria appeared as loving spouses and devoted parents in public, showing no sign of discord.

This gave rise to new opinions: perhaps the princess did love her child but was merely traumatized by the difficult birth. After all, Victoria was only 19—a child herself, some said.

Amid the cacophony of theories, Smith alone knew the truth:

Yes, Frederick truly cared for him. But Victoria's tenderness was an act. Whenever they were alone, her genuine disdain for him surfaced—not through words or actions but through subtle body language and fleeting looks of revulsion.

Smith didn't know how the historical Victoria had treated Wilhelm II. But judging from Wilhelm's strained relationship with his mother, it couldn't have been much better. No wonder Wilhelm often hesitated to speak about her, a look of bitterness on his face.

If Smith had been a mentally immature child, these experiences would have left deep scars. Thankfully, retaining his adult consciousness spared him. Still, being stuck with someone who disliked him was nerve-wracking.

Fortunately, Smith had found a way to cope: indulging in the tangible benefits of his predicament. After all, as the saying goes, "Milk makes the mother." A 19-year-old Victoria nursing him several times a day was its own consolation prize.

But this was just one of Smith's challenges. Another loomed large: Edward Martin was about to cure his supposed "intestinal hernia" with the latest British technology.

Martin insisted on urgency. The equipment, however, had to be shipped from London to Berlin—a process requiring telegraphs, steamships, and express trains. Three days had passed, and today was the dreaded day.

From dawn, Smith was on edge. The helplessness of having his fate in others' hands and the anticipation of physical suffering left him restless. Worse, his anxiety worsened his nausea, creating a vicious cycle.

When evening came, Edward Martin finally arrived, accompanied by a team of seven or eight formally dressed assistants. Six of them carried a large, coffin-like crate. Their professional demeanor and equipment screamed expertise.

Given that the procedure was for the only child of the future Prussian king, the event was a grand spectacle. Not only were Frederick and Victoria present, but so were numerous Prussian officials. The room was bustling.

Martin, unfazed by the pomp, confidently addressed the crowd before unveiling the contents of the mysterious crate. Inside was a machine bristling with tubes and gauges, all crafted from gleaming brass. Under the warm lamplight, the contraption exuded a steampunk-like allure.

Smith recognized the machine. He vaguely remembered seeing it in a book during his childhood. It was essentially a pressurized oxygen chamber. In the 21st century, such a device would be portable, but in the mid-19th century, it required this enormous, ostentatious form.

As Martin eloquently explained its workings, the Prussian nobles were captivated. Exclamations of "British technology, truly astounding!" echoed through the room.

Among the crowd, Frederick was one of the few who remained skeptical. After Martin's presentation, he made one last appeal for his son:

"Dr. Martin, is there truly no less painful treatment available? My son hasn't vomited in three days—perhaps he's already improving."

"Or it could be a sign of worsening," Martin replied smoothly. "Based on my expertise, some infants with intestinal hernias stop vomiting as the condition deteriorates. Only surgery can confirm and address the issue. I wouldn't recommend risking inaction."

Frederick's shoulders slumped. Looking at Smith, his eyes reddened.

"Oh God, have mercy on my poor son!"

Moved, the Regent William stepped forward and patted Frederick's shoulder. Turning to Martin, he said solemnly, "Do what must be done."

"At once, Your Highness!" Martin responded.

His team sprang into action. With the nurses' assistance, Smith was placed on a small bed beside the machine. Straps secured his limbs and even his head, ensuring he couldn't move an inch.

Some women in the room gasped at the sight, and a few even began to weep. Among them was the Regent's wife, Katharina. Yet no one noticed Victoria's stoic expression, devoid of grief or concern.

Smith, however, remained unusually calm. He didn't cry or struggle. What was the point? In a situation where his fate was sealed, lying still was his only option.

But then, something unexpected happened. Just as Martin raised a tube to insert into Smith's mouth, a loud explosion rang out.

Chaos erupted. Cries of alarm, hurried footsteps, and shouting filled the air.

Smith was baffled. Immobilized by the restraints, he couldn't turn his head to see what was happening. Judging by the commotion, something extraordinary had occurred.

As the uproar continued, some staff members finally remembered the helpless infant still strapped to the machine. Footsteps rushed toward him. Hands fumbled with the restraints, preparing to release him from the unsettling contraption.

At that very moment, Smith glanced down and noticed splotches of fresh blood spreading across his infant onesie. Yet, when he carefully examined himself, he felt no pain anywhere on his body. Clearly, the blood wasn't his own.

Having experienced such a bizarre transmigration event, Smith's composure was anything but ordinary. After confirming he was uninjured, he began calmly observing his surroundings. His gaze suddenly fell upon a figure lying in a pool of blood near the machine. Judging by the clothing, Smith was 90% sure—it was none other than Dr. Edward Martin!

Around this time, rationality seemed to return to those present. The Prussian guards stationed outside burst into the room, filling it with chaos—shouts and hurried footsteps rang out in every direction. Smith, however, remained aloof, hoping to glean some useful information from the commotion.

Indeed, the one lying on the ground was Dr. Edward Martin, and he was the only one injured. Somehow, a rivet had suddenly shot off from an oxygen tank and struck the doctor square in the abdomen, causing him to collapse into unconsciousness almost instantly.

Such incidents were not unheard of. In this era, where welding technology was still underdeveloped, all pressurized containers were riveted together—a primitive and unreliable method. Combined with immature quality control systems, no one truly knew if these rivets were secure until an accident occurred.

Yet this time, the rivet that shot off happened to hit Dr. Edward Martin—a coincidence so "perfect" that Smith found it hard to believe it could be dismissed as mere accident. Moreover, everything had unfolded alarmingly close to him. He vividly recalled that the small bed he had been strapped to was surrounded by many of these rivets. If the one that popped off had been on his side instead of Edward Martin's, it might have struck him instead. Given his fragile newborn body, such an impact would undoubtedly have been fatal.

"Could this really just be an accident?" Smith's delicate infant brows furrowed.

"Or… was it deliberate?"

If Smith had been an ordinary child, such thoughts might have seemed overly paranoid. But Smith was now a Hohenzollern. Historically, the Hohenzollern family had faced countless assassination attempts, both overt and covert. Even the current Prince Regent Wilhelm—later Wilhelm I—had survived attempts on his life involving gunfire, daggers, and poison. Luckily, the old man had been fortunate enough to emerge unscathed. But relying on Wilhelm's good luck was no reason for Smith to let his guard down.

And Zhao Hao was more than just a Hohenzollern; he was also a transmigrant. The words of "Smiling Willi," spoken before their departure, echoed ominously in his mind, heightening his unease:

"Could it be… the Temporal Bureau?!"