The Mercedes rattled through the crowded streets toward Potsdam, its engine growling, its passengers not much calmer.
People turned to stare as it passed—recognizing the royal crest and, in some cases, the tall blond head that popped out of the rear window now and then.
"My man!" Oskar shouted at a cluster of onlookers.
"My man!" a few brave souls shouted back, laughing.
The call-and-response had somehow become a thing. Even in Berlin, people now greeted him with that phrase. It warmed him in a stupid way.
But the warmth didn't reach his stomach.
There were no snacks in the car. No chicken breasts. No eggs. No protein. He could feel his muscles shrinking in his imagination.
Worse than hunger, though, was panic.
As they approached the Neues Palais, the scene in front of the great steps came into view:
palace guards in dress uniforms,
a line of cars and carriages,
liveried footmen,
women in glowing gowns,
men in uniforms and tailcoats,
a forest of decorations and orders on chests.
It looked like a cross between a battlefield and a peacock farm.
Oskar stared out the window.
His soul tried to exit his body.
"There are… so many people," he muttered.
The car pulled into its place in line. Ahead, another Mercedes unloaded a general and his family. Behind them, a carriage full of some prince from somewhere clinked and creaked.
Oskar turned to Karl with sudden desperation.
He grabbed the dwarf by the lapels and began shaking him like a towel.
"Karl, my man, you must take my identity!" he hissed. "Pretend to be me. No one will know. Nobody knows my face, right? The pictures in newspapers—blurry, trash quality. They will not see difference. Please, my man, if I go in there, big shame and big trouble, I feel it."
Karl's world turned into a blur of upholstery and terror.
He finally managed to pinch Oskar's wrist hard.
The prince yelped and loosened his grip.
In the same motion, Karl planted his polished black shoe on the back seat, twisted, and used Oskar's own arms as leverage to kick him in the face.
Oskar's head bounced off the car ceiling.
"OW—my man!" he spluttered.
Karl scrambled up onto the seat like an angry white-suited ninja, grabbed Oskar's collar with both hands and glared right into his eyes.
"Your Highness," he snapped, "get a grip. Do not be a coward. You are a Prince of Prussia. The people outside cheered for you. Are you going to hide behind a dwarf when they expect their prince?"
Oskar stared at him, stunned.
His body barely fit inside the car, his head bent against the roof—and now this tiny man was scolding him like a misbehaving schoolboy.
His pride stung.
Had he just lost face to a dwarf?
He groped for powerful, wise-sounding words to sway Karl.
"Ah… my man," he said slowly, "but… the scent of a rose will always stay on the hand of the giver, my man."
Silence.
Karl blinked once.
Then he let go of Oskar's collar with one hand, drew it back, and slapped him across the cheek.
The sound cracked in the confined space like a pistol shot.
The driver, seeing this in the rear-view mirror, shrank down behind the wheel and began praying to all known saints.
Oskar froze, hand flying to his burning cheek. The physical pain wasn't much; the emotional damage was catastrophic.
"How can you sla—"
"Stop spouting nonsense, Your Highness!" Karl barked. "You will get out of this car, walk up those steps, and greet your father. I will see if I can find a bride. You will not shame us both before you even enter the hall."
Oskar's hand twitched upward as if to deliver a retaliatory slap.
Karl's other hand moved faster.
Slap.
This time with the left.
The driver winced.
Karl turned toward the door—
And Oskar lunged.
He grabbed Karl's legs and yanked him backward onto the back seat, then clambered on top of him and began shaking him like an enraged golden retriever.
"How can you slap me? How can you slap me, bad man, bad!" he shouted.
The driver decided this was above his pay grade.
From the outside, the car began rocking violently. People on the steps turned to stare. A footman from a nearby carriage paused mid-door-open, mouth falling slightly open.
The driver, thinking fast, scrambled out of the front seat and rushed to the rear door on Karl's side.
He yanked it open just as Karl arched his back, slammed the back of his head into Oskar's nose, and wriggled sideways.
Karl rolled out of the car onto the palace drive, but the driver caught him before he hit the ground, setting him upright like a dropped child.
Inside the car, Oskar clapped a hand to his nose. A trickle of blood stained his skin. Outside, whispers rose among the waiting guests.
The driver slid back behind the wheel in a panic.
Oskar exhaled, wiped the blood away with his thumb, and forced his face into something approximating a "cool" expression.
He stepped out, picked up his suitcase from the seat, and closed the door behind him.
The driver needed no further hint. The Mercedes moved away at an almost unseemly speed.
Up ahead, Karl was already half-way up the stairs, slipping into the flow of guests with the natural stealth of a man who had spent too much time avoiding nobles.
"Damn slippery little monkey," Oskar muttered.
He squared his shoulders, adjusted his collar, and swaggered toward the steps while people whispered and tried to pretend nothing odd had just happened.
Inside, the warm light and high ceilings of the Neues Palais awaited.
Before the main banquet, the imperial family gathered for their own private meal in a grand side hall. It was usually presided over by the Empress, with Wilhelm II and their children arranged by rank.
For Oskar, this room was enemy territory.
His relationship with the Empress and his other siblings was… not harmonious. In truth, he barely remembered their names. "Old Oskar" had kept himself distant and aloof, and they had responded with mockery and bullying.
New Oskar had been too busy drawing warships and inventing cat sand to bother learning who exactly had bullied him in which year.
He only needed to know that they had.
He paused for a moment outside the threshold, gripping his suitcase.
Thanks to his father's warning—and Karl's hurried report—he knew that Crown Prince Wilhelm had already made moves against his company, insisting that Oskar's wealth ought to be placed under "proper imperial control."
That, Oskar could not forgive.
He had no ambition for the throne. None. He didn't want Crown Prince Wilhelm's chair, his job, his responsibilities, or his migraines. So being targeted by him anyway made the whole thing feel… personal and stupid.
He knew Crown Prince Wilhelm's type:
jealous,
narrow-minded,
obsessed with status,
unable to tolerate anyone else shining too brightly near him.
In theory, the Crown Prince's current power was limited. He could attend councils, give opinions, but nothing he said was guaranteed to be adopted. Wilhelm II ruled. Not his son.
And even the Emperor's power, for all its weight, was not the same as a Chinese imperial autocrat from centuries past.
As long as Oskar gave them no obvious handle—no disloyalty, no treason, no open scandal—then even as Emperor, Crown Prince Wilhelm would not easily be able to simply crush him.
Worst case, if everything really went to hell?
He could buy an island somewhere, become a very rich ghost with a German accent, and live out his days lifting rocks and eating eggs.
But he didn't want that.
His fate was tied to Germany now. Better not to get thrown out of the country like yesterday's trash.
He took a breath.
No balcony lurking. No creeping in the shadows.
Tonight he would actually walk into the lion's den like a proper prince.
He stepped through the doorway, suitcase in hand, and followed the signs of noise and laughter toward the palace gardens and the illuminated side halls where the imperial family gathered before the main event.
For once in this life, he would not watch from the edge.
He was going to sit at the table.
That was the brave thought.
In reality, when he got close enough to see them all gathered in one place, he did what any sensible coward would do:
He hid behind a hedge.
From there, peeking between two frozen branches, he saw them clearly for the first time since waking up in this world.
At the head of the long table sat a woman in her mid-forties, posture perfectly straight, her dark hair gathered beneath a small tiara, her face framed by a lace veil and soft curls. Her dress was a rich dark blue, heavy with embroidery, a silver cross at her throat. She had the stern calm of someone who truly believed both in God and in proper table manners.
Oskar squinted at her.
He tugged at the sleeve of a nearby guard.
"Hey, my man," he whispered. "Who is that old woman?"
The guard stiffened, eyes going wide.
For a moment he looked like a man who had just heard someone insult the Kaiser's artillery.
But he followed Oskar's pointing finger, swallowed, and answered carefully, "Your Highness… that is Her Majesty the Empress. Your mother."
Oskar froze for a heartbeat, then nodded as if this had been a test all along.
"Aha. My man knows things well," he said. "But do you know her name, her age, her likes and dislikes? What does she think of mighty me?"
The guard suddenly felt he had chosen the wrong career.
Still, with a prince towering a head above him and staring expectantly, he tried.
"Her Majesty, Empress Auguste Viktoria," he said cautiously. "Forty-six, I believe, Your Highness. She… is very devout, supports charities, loves church music, dislikes impropriety and loud behavior. And as for Your Highness…"
He hesitated.
"Yes?" Oskar prompted.
"…She is… grateful you survived your fall," the guard finished diplomatically. "And… prays for your recovery."
Oskar accepted that with a sage nod. Old world Oskar had left him no good reputation to work from, clearly.
He jerked his chin toward the other figures.
On the Empress's right sat Crown Prince Wilhelm: early twenties, tall but not as broad as Oskar, already sporting a neat mustache and an air of someone who practiced his own reflection. His uniform was immaculate, medals lined up like obedient soldiers, his expression a mix of boredom and calculation.
Beyond him, the guard quietly identified them:
Prince Eitel Friedrich – about twenty, dark-haired, solidly built, with a serious, soldierly look.
Prince Adalbert – a naval officer in blue, lean, with sharp eyes that kept drifting elsewhere from the table as if he'd rather be on a ship.
Prince August Wilhelm – softer features, perhaps nineteen, a bit rounder in the face, trying to look serious and almost succeeding.
Prince Joachim – still in his mid-teens, clearly the baby brother, fidgeting slightly in his seat.
Princess Viktoria Luise – the only girl, twelve or so, in a pale dress, hair coiled and pinned, eyes bright with curiosity and mischief.
So that was them.
His "family."
Oskar straightened up from behind the bushes, clapped the guard on the shoulder, and said, "My man, you are smart man. I am very happy now."
The guard stared back, utterly lost.
Oskar walked toward the table, suitcase in hand.
Conversations faltered. A few heads turned fully when they saw him—a tall, broad-shouldered young man in a dark Prussian uniform, hair neatly combed back for once, no visible dirt, and only the faintest trace of soap instead of the usual rumor of sewage.
He spotted an empty chair—his—and made for it.
As he reached the table, he gave a stiff, awkward bow.
"Ah… yes," he said, hunting for words. "This man is so sorry. Mother. Brothers. Sister. I am late, yes. But now I at least do not smell like sewers anymore. I hope big brother is pleased."
Silence descended like a blanket.
Around the walls, servants stared at the air, trying not to show expressions, but the tension in their shoulders said everything: this was not how princes usually greeted imperial family dinners.
Crown Prince Wilhelm broke the quiet first.
He laughed lightly.
"Welcome, little brother," he said, in smooth, polished German. "I see your speech is as refined as ever."
There were a few small, strained smiles.
Wilhelm swirled the wine in his glass, eyes never leaving Oskar.
"But don't worry," he continued. "I was just telling everyone that you are a great man now—a mighty businessman, famous throughout the Empire. So of course you are late to simple family matters. After all, family is… how did you say it to me? Ah yes—'not as important as money.'"
The Empress's expression darkened at once.
Her gaze, offended and hurt, slid from Wilhelm to Oskar, as if wondering whether her own son had truly said such a thing.
Several other pairs of eyes followed.
Oskar heard: "great man" – "famous" – "late" – "family" – "money."
Tone: very bad.
He did not fully understand the sentence, but he understood that a trap had just been sprung on his head.
He fell back on instinct.
He flashed a bright grin and said happily,
"Ah yes, my man. Now, should we eat?"
For a heartbeat, the table was dead silent.
Then Crown Prince Wilhelm let out a soft, incredulous chuckle.
A few of the others looked away in embarrassment. A couple of servants stared straight ahead with the fixed expression of people trying not to witness a crime.
To them, it felt like they'd just been reminded that one of the Hohenzollerns was… not entirely right in the head.
Oskar didn't understand every word being tossed around, but he didn't need to. He saw the tight lips, the downcast eyes, the uncomfortable shifting in chairs.
He knew he had just messed up again.
Prince Eitel Friedrich and Prince Adalbert wore small, strained smiles. Prince August Wilhelm pretended to adjust his cuffs. Young Prince Joachim and Princess Viktoria Luise just stared, utterly bewildered, like children watching an adult show they weren't supposed to see.
Oskar felt irritation rise—mostly at himself.
So he swallowed, forced himself to think, and then said, clearly and slowly:
"I did not choose this life. I was born, and this is what I am. Now I am only trying to do the best I can with what I have. Can you say you are doing the same?"
The words were simple. No "my man." No nonsense. No broken imagery.
Everyone at the table understood.
Money was a man's backbone. In their world, wealth spoke louder than excuses. And now Oskar had a backbone made of steel and diamond—enough that even the Crown Prince could not pretend it didn't exist.
He wasn't just the strange fifth prince anymore.
He was the man who made a river of marks flow into the imperial accounts.
Compared to that, what was Wilhelm but someone who happened to be born first?
Crown Prince Wilhelm's face reddened, first with shock, then with anger.
"Unbelievable!" he snapped. "How can you say that? Are you calling me lazy? At least, unlike you, I actually went to school and finished."
The other princes shifted again, this time with an edge of discomfort.
They liked to mock Oskar. He had always been an easy target. But deep down, they'd all seen the same figures—lottery profits, shipyard contracts, large donations to welfare and now to the royal household.
They were jealous.
And more than anyone, they knew: if Wilhelm one day wore the crown, his jealousy could make all of their futures… unpleasant.
"Enough," the Empress said sharply.
Her voice cut the air like a knife.
"You are brothers," she continued, looking from Wilhelm to Oskar. "This constant bickering is disgraceful. Wilhelm, leave Oskar alone. You know he is still recovering from that fall. We should be grateful he is alive and with us."
Being publicly reminded in front of his brothers that his younger brother had a "head injury" and he was expected to show leniency stung Wilhelm's pride badly—but he closed his mouth.
Oskar let out a small breath.
"Oskar," the Empress added more softly, "be at ease. It is Christmas Eve. His Majesty will host the banquet tonight, but our family should be together first."
Her tone was still distant, but less hostile than before.
Oskar nodded. He didn't fully understand, but he caught "be at ease" and "family" and decided that was probably permission to shut up and eat.
Crown Prince Wilhelm's eyes still held a simmering hatred, like banked coals under ash.
Oskar pretended not to notice.
Servants circulated with plates and wine, refilling glasses, placing small dishes of pastries, cold meats, and fruits on the table.
The conversation resumed, careful and measured.
Oskar, however, felt like he was sitting behind an invisible wall. Their German twisted like a vine, full of long, elaborate sentences and idioms he only half-caught.
He watched more than he spoke:
how they held their knives and forks,
how they never rested their elbows on the table,
how they dabbed at their lips with napkins,
how they laughed lightly at small jokes about court gossip he barely remembered.
He tried to mimic their table manners, mostly failing.
At least he succeeded at one thing: eating.
While the others nibbled, he quietly demolished his small portions, refilled from whatever came near. The imperial "family dinner" was meant as a prelude, not a real meal, but by the time he was done, he felt pleasantly full.
For a brief moment he thought he had made it through the worst of the evening.
He really should have known better.
"Oskar, my brother," Crown Prince Wilhelm said suddenly, raising his wine glass just enough to draw attention. "Christmas is here again. I was wondering—and I think we all are—what gift you have prepared for Mother. We have already given ours."
Once again, all eyes turned to him.
Oskar caught the important words:
"Oskar"
"Mother"
"gift"
He also caught the gleam in Wilhelm's eyes.
Trap. Definitely a trap.
He stood up, turned toward the Empress, and decided to disarm it with flattery.
"Mothers are the true gift to the world," he said. "They make babies and life goes on again. Yes, my man."
He waited.
Surely this time he'd nailed it. Complimenting mothers was universal, right?
The silence said otherwise.
Several faces had frozen midway between polite smile and horror. He cleared his throat.
"Yes. What a gift," he added. "With Mother, it is always easier to eat more than to talk."
Why did I say that, he screamed internally.
Still no reaction.
He forced a brighter grin.
"Yes, indeed. How could I—this handsome son—forget to prepare a gift for Mother?"
He bent down, opened his small suitcase, rummaged briefly, and came up holding something that turned the candlelight into a river of white fire.
A necklace.
An extravagant diamond necklace of 108 stones, each cut to catch the light, linked together in a pattern that would make any jeweler proud.
He had paid 500,000 marks for it to a very smug Frenchman whose name he'd already forgotten, but whose receipt Karl had not.
"Look, my family," he said. "This is a necklace I carefully selected for you, Mother. I hope you like it. It is very nice."
No one spoke.
The silence this time felt charged.
Oskar panicked.
He quickly lowered the necklace, stuffed his hand back into the suitcase, and fumbled out the next thing his fingers found:
A soft, plush teddy bear.
He held it up.
"Here, Mother," he offered. "A teddy bear. Very nice."
The Empress actually flinched.
"What? No, Oskar, you misunderstood me," she said, half rising from her chair. "Just give me the necklace. I liked the necklace."
She pointed urgently at the suitcase, as if she feared the diamonds might vanish forever beneath stuffed animal fur.
Oskar blinked, then nodded.
"Ah. Yes. Women and shiny things," he muttered.
He put the bear away and produced the necklace again.
This time, there was no pretence:
The Empress's eyes fixed on it. Princess Viktoria Luise's did as well. For a moment, mother and daughter shared the same expression: pure, undiluted desire for the glittering thing.
"Oskar," the Empress said, smile blooming like spring, "you're such a good boy."
She leaned forward, careful of her sleeves, and took the necklace from his hands without the slightest hesitation.
She had not expected anything of note from him. Now, that had changed.
In her mind:
> Odd son + expensive necklace = still odd, but much more tolerable.
Oskar grinned.
"Beautiful Mother, beautiful necklace," he said. "Very good combination."
Off to the side, Princess Viktoria Luise pouted.
"And what about my necklace, Brother Oskar?" she complained. "You're always ignoring me."
Oskar understood "necklace," "brother," "my." Enough.
"Haha, how could I forget small pretty woman also likes shiny things?" he said. "Calm your distress, woman. Your brother specially picked necklace for you."
He reached back into the suitcase and pulled out a second piece—smaller, fewer stones, less costly, but still beyond what most noble girls could dream of.
"Here, woman," he said, handing it to her. "Now you can smile and be silent with happy heart."
She took it, cheeks coloring.
Part of her wanted to be offended by his way of speaking. Another very large part wanted to run off and try the necklace on immediately.
"Whatever," she muttered, clutching it. "I'll take it. But I'm not going to wear it in front of you. It's a stupid necklace anyway."
The other princes—except Wilhelm—chuckled softly.
Crown Prince Wilhelm's knuckles had gone white around his glass.
Oskar sat back down, heart still thudding, and took a careful sip of wine.
Maybe, he thought, social life in this world was survivable after all.
As long as you had enough diamonds to cover your mistakes.