"Oh man, I'm so fucked."
That was the last thing Oskar muttered before he forced himself up from the riverside.
The mist curled around his ankles as if mocking him. Behind him the lake whispered quietly in the blue night; ahead waited the palace gardens, manicured and serene—too serene for the inner panic of a reincarnated Chinese truck driver whose only real job experience involved dodging drones.
He rubbed his face, wiped cold lake water from his too-noble blond hair, and stared up at the bedsheet rope dangling from his third-floor window.
"…Tomorrow," he muttered. "I'll think of something tomorrow."
Right now he was exhausted, wet, icy cold, and smelling like fear-flavoured lake water.
He started walking up through the gardens.
It was nearly midnight, dark enough that his brain kept jerking upward in terror, scanning the sky for drones. Somewhere in the distance, a gardener dropped a metal bucket. The sharp clang echoed across the grounds.
Before he could stop himself, his whole body reacted like it was incoming artillery.
He bolted forward five steps before freezing, slapping a hand over his face.
"Fuck—no drones, no artillery. Germany. 1904. Safe. Safe. SAFE."
The palace grounds were quiet—the eerie nobleman's quiet where even the trees behaved like they had court etiquette. Gravel crunched under his boots. Lanterns flickered along the path. Guards patrolled far off, talking softly.
His mind drifted, unwillingly, to the one object in the world that summed up his entire failure:
his diary
– currently sitting on his bedside table,
– packed with a whole year of unhinged reincarnator energy.
Inside were:
Battleship designs.
Tank sketches.
Infantry weapons.
Improved artillery.
Blueprints for gyms, planes, rockets, radios, paved roads, supermarkets, convenience-stores, industrial zones, airports, hospitals, sanitation, you name it.
And then the madness pages:
Pandas with rifles.
Penguins wearing steel helmets.
A Chinese flag on the moon.
A German flag on Mars.
A battleship with a smiley face painted on the bow.
A page labelled "Future Money Machine."
And a page labelled "Sexy Idea, Do Not Show Anyone."
He had the ideas.
What he didn't have was the one thing every reformer in German history needed:
German.
Not modern German.
Not Duolingo German.
Not Hollywood "SCHNELL!" German.
He could not read:
bureaucratic Gothic script
naval technical manuals
business forms
legal documents
newspapers
the goddamn alphabet when it curved weirdly
He had stared at a newspaper earlier and genuinely couldn't tell what was a noun and what was a verb. Or even if the font was upside-down.
He didn't know how to:
register a business
open a bank account
fill out a form
apply for a permit
politely ask a clerk for anything
read his own family's genealogy chart
No internet.
No Google.
No "How to Start a Corporation in 1904."
He was a man with a plan…
…incapable of filling out a kindergarten signup sheet.
His steps slowed.
"I'm running out of time," he whispered. "I need money. I need power. I need allies. I need… I don't know. Maybe I should make my little man Karl do all of it."
He stopped under his window, stared up at the bedsheet rope hanging like an accusation.
"Well," he sighed, "at least this body is good at climbing."
He grabbed the rope, braced his boots, and began climbing.
The muscles in this body felt incredible—clean, efficient, strong. Every pull was smooth. Every foothold secure. It was like finding himself suddenly upgraded from "squishy nerd" to "starter pack demigod."
But no amount of muscle answered the real question:
What the hell am I going to do with this life?
Would he get a normal job if the monarchy fell?
He had no German degree.
Couldn't read German.
Wasn't a real engineer.
Was a decent truck driver, sure—but who hired princes as truck drivers?
He groaned as he climbed:
"I really, really need to learn the language. Like actually learn it. Not meme-learn it."
He hauled himself up, swung in through the window, landed as quietly as a nearly 2-meter-tall teenager could—and froze.
Because sitting calmly on his bed, legs crossed, wearing a formal suit and reading his diary, was his dwarf attendant:
Karl von Jonarett.
Karl looked up slowly.
"Ah," he said dryly. "Your Highness. Back from your midnight suicidal lake-bath."
Oskar lunged for the diary—
"HEY! That's private!"
Karl lifted the book higher—about shoulder height—which, unfortunately for Karl, was still far below Oskar's reach.
Oskar simply plucked it from his hands like a parent removing scissors from a toddler.
Karl sniffed.
"Relax, Your Highness. I only reached page forty-seven. Tell me—why are there pandas wearing strange metal hats? And why is this woman wearing something labelled 'bikini'? What on earth is a bikini?"
Oskar frowned, not understanding most of the sentence, but recognising the sacred word.
"Ah, yes, my man. Bikini. Very good. For women to swim in less. For model citizens. But not your business, bad small man, bad!"
Karl pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You know what's bad, Your Highness?" he snapped.
"You climbing OUT your window.
DOWN three floors.
Bathing NAKED in the lake like a feral animal.
And YES—I saw all of it from your window. As I'm sure the other servants did, because it's not exactly subtle when a giant blond prince is out there splashing around past midnight."
He stopped, then asked, exhausted:
"Do you even understand what I'm saying?"
Oskar blinked thoughtfully.
"…Ah yes, my little man?"
Karl wiped a hand down his face.
No sarcasm could save him from the reality that his prince barely understood German and was one "my man" away from social self-destruction.
Oskar jabbed the diary at him like a weapon.
"No! Bad small man! You do NOT read panda plans!"
Karl threw his hands up.
"I didn't want to read about panda-infantry, Your Highness! I came for BUSINESS. All your ridiculous secrets are safe with me."
Oskar latched onto the one word he understood.
"…Business?"
Karl nodded, expression tightening.
"Yes. Political business."
Oskar went pale.
"…I was a good boy today, yes? I didn't do anything wrong… I think?"
"Not yet," Karl said. "But His Majesty is calling for you."
Oskar froze.
"Karl…" he whispered. "Why? Why would the Emperor want me?"
Karl shrugged in a way that said this is above my pay grade, my boy.
"You're sixteen. Eventually even you must do something useful. I believe the subject of schooling came up. Specifically—"
Karl hesitated, bracing himself.
"…the Naval Academy."
Oskar blinked.
Karl pointed to a bookshelf (full of unreadable tomes),
then to a painting of steamships on the wall,
then mimed sitting in a classroom.
Oskar understood instantly.
He went white.
"Karl… no. No, no, no. There's no way. I can't—I won't—the language—the exams—I'll die of shame!"
Karl patted his leg as if calming a panicked ox.
"Shh, shh. Just talk to him, Your Highness. Maybe it's ceremonial. Maybe they'll put you there 'officially' but not actually make you study. Maybe you'll just attend parade days."
"No," Oskar whispered. "I will be disowned."
Karl sighed.
"Well, panicking won't change it. The Kaiser wants you in his study. And you know how he gets."
Oskar shoved the diary into his uniform coat like contraband.
"Karl," he whispered, "walk with me. Please."
Karl rolled his eyes.
"You're not a child anymore. But fine. I'll escort you. I just cannot enter with you."
They walked through the palace halls.
Oskar's steps were shaky, breathing shallow.
Karl walked confidently beside him, small hands folded behind his back, posture perfect—the image of a miniature Prussian officer.
Every few steps, Karl muttered under his breath:
"You'll be fine, Your Highness."
Oskar wasn't convinced.
But he was convinced Karl believed it.
And somehow, that helped.
Just a little.
They reached the guarded doors of the Kaiser's study.
Oskar froze again.
He looked down at Karl and whispered, panicked:
"Karl, my man. What if—we make big business? You and me? We make lottery—big bills—LOTS OF MONEY—and then no school for me?"
Karl stared at him.
The guards stared at him.
Karl sighed heavily and cleared his throat.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Well… too late."
A guard knocked twice.
From inside, Wilhelm II's voice boomed:
"ENTER!"
Oskar swallowed hard.
He stepped inside.
Karl remained outside, hands clasped behind his back like a tiny, battle-hardened guardian.
He quietly whispered:
"…Good luck, Your Highness."
The doors closed.