For a brief second after his "soup bowl Dreadnought" line, Oskar's brain actually caught up to his mouth.
…Wait. Did I just say that part out loud?
He stared at Field Marshal Count Alfred von Tirpitz and Konteradmiral Ludwig von Birkenhagen.
Both men were watching him with polite smiles and the kind of expression older officers wore when a junior said something… interesting.
Then Oskar thought:
Well. Floodgates already broken. Fuck it.
He took a slightly too-large breath.
"Ah, yes," he said. "Now I get it. Your Excellency Marshal—you speak of my promise to give big piles of bills to Navy, yes? This is what I should do."
He gestured vaguely toward Birkenhagen.
"If it were not for Director here being such a good man, granting my special request, I would still be wasting time at Naval Academy, and I would not have achieved what I have today." He squinted, trying to be clear. "Not that I mean Academy is garbage—no, no. Just that it is not for me. You understand, my man… ah, Your Excellency?"
Birkenhagen's mustache twitched.
"Well, Your Highness," Birkenhagen replied, "I will be frank. At first I believed you were simply looking for a way to avoid your studies. A clever excuse to escape discipline. But it seems now you truly can keep your promises."
In truth, when he first met Oskar in Kiel, Birkenhagen had written him off as:
undisciplined,
odd,
and wholly unsuited to command.
That opinion hadn't changed much.
But money had a way of altering one's tolerance for eccentricity.
Battleships were ruinously expensive. Even a thriving nation like Germany struggled to fund them. The idea that this strange fifth prince could, personally, finance one—or more—was staggering.
Oskar nodded solemnly, as if he were explaining something very reasonable.
"Your Excellency Director," he said, "since I have already made a promise, I of course will fulfil it. At the latest, next year we can begin constructing the battleship I promised to donate to the Navy. And later I can even gift you good soap, and egg protein, and maybe cool helmets for long bicycle rides, you know."
Birkenhagen opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Helmets? Egg… protein?
Beside him, Tirpitz hid a smile behind his glass.
In Tirpitz's mind, gears were turning.
So the boy really means to do it, he thought.
The Navy's budget was stretched thin. The British laid down dreadnoughts at a terrifying pace. Every year, the pressure to keep up grew worse.
A single dreadnought could cost forty million marks or more.
And here was a prince saying casually, Yes, of course, I will pay for one. Perhaps more.
Tirpitz knew very well that battleships were not loaves of bread sold by the pound. You did not simply "whip up" a battleship. Each was a national project.
But if this young Hohenzollern truly commanded a fortune large enough to finance even one hull… he was an asset worth cultivating.
At the very least, Tirpitz decided, it would be wise to remain on good terms with this "lottery prince," no matter how strange his speech might be.
"Your Highness," Tirpitz said, studying him, "you clearly have many unusual ideas. I must admit, I am curious. Do you have any particular thoughts about the future development of the Imperial Navy?"
It was a polite probe.
What he really meant was:
> Do you have more to offer than money and drunk jokes?
Oskar swayed a little. Viktoria Luise, standing just behind him, pressed her thumbs into his shoulders again, massaging him like a tiny physiotherapist fighting gravity and alcohol at once.
He focused very hard.
"Ah… yes," he said. "Very wise question, Your Excellency Marshal."
He nodded slowly, then smiled far too broadly.
"It is not so much that I have 'ideas'," he went on, wagging a finger vaguely, "it is more that I am… how to say… a man from the future."
He hiccuped.
"A time traveler, and such."
The words slipped out of his mouth as casually as if he'd said, I like beer.
For a moment, the entire world seemed to stop.
Birkenhagen's eyebrows rose visibly.
Viktoria Luise's fingers dug into his shoulders.
Tirpitz's monocle flashed.
His eyes narrowed by a fraction—just enough to show that he had heard Oskar's words, processed them, and filed them under: potentially insane, but too wealthy to dismiss.
Oskar stared back with the loose, dizzy smile of a drunk man who had just announced his greatest secret to the two most powerful naval officers in the Empire… and didn't yet realize it.
Viktoria Luise froze behind him, her hands mid-massage on his shoulders.
Count Tirpitz cleared his throat politely.
"…I see," he said, with the tone of a man carefully tolerating a precarious situation. "Your Highness, perhaps we might… discuss this in more detail elsewhere this evening? Unless you intend to dance with the young ladies?"
Oskar brightened immediately.
"Your Excellency Marshal, I have no idea how to dance," he said proudly. "So to save my face, it would be my honor to discuss things elsewhere."
Birkenhagen exhaled quietly through his nose.
(Of course the Fifth Prince couldn't dance.)
So the four of them—Tirpitz, Birkenhagen, Oskar, and Princess Viktoria Luise with Mister Ice Bear—shifted away from the center of the ballroom and tucked themselves into a quieter corner behind a marble pillar.
The sight was ridiculous:
two of the most powerful military men in Germany,
a drunken prince,
and a twelve-year-old princess sitting protectively on his lap like a loyal attack kitten,
holding a white stuffed polar bear.
The officers were clearly disturbed—but duty was duty.
Once seated, Oskar immediately launched into what he believed was "useful future knowledge."
Unfortunately, the first ten minutes were about ancient aliens, the Annunaki, and lizard people disguised as rich powerful banker's.
Tirpitz's face went stiff.
Birkenhagen's soul briefly left his body.
Viktoria Luise stared in horror. Mister Ice Bear stared in betrayal.
Within five seconds, both officers decided to abandon all questions about "the future" entirely.
"Your Highness," Tirpitz said gently, "perhaps we should… focus on naval matters?"
"Ah! Very good," Oskar beamed. "Talking Judo not useful for Navy anyway."
He straightened, then pointed sharply at them with drunken determination.
"My good men. Listen."
He lowered his voice.
"You have built—or are building—the Brandenburg-class, the Kaiser Friedrich III-class, the Wittelsbach-class, the Braunschweig-class, the Deutschland-class. Twenty-four ships total."
Tirpitz blinked.
That was correct. Uncomfortably correct. Too correct.
Oskar continued:
"But in performance and in numbers, we cannot beat British Navy. Their officers have been training at sea for centuries. They have colonies everywhere. Shipping routes everywhere. Britain dominates ocean like lion dominates savanna."
The two officers exchanged a glance.
This was the most coherent thing Oskar had said all night.
"And so," Oskar went on, "if war comes, German Navy will find it hard to win."
He leaned back, satisfied.
Both officers went grim.
They knew this. They had known this for years. But hearing it spoken plainly—by a prince, even a strange one—made the truth heavier.
"The British Navy is too powerful," Tirpitz said at last. "But the die is cast. Britain draws closer to France. And Russia. If war comes, they will certainly be our primary enemy."
Oskar nodded vigorously.
"If Kaiser still dreams of Britain as friend, he is dreaming," he said.
Tirpitz's brow twitched.
This was dangerously accurate.
"Your Highness," Birkenhagen asked carefully, "do you have… any ideas about this problem?"
Oskar inhaled deeply, as if preparing to deliver great wisdom.
"The future war will be worse than any war before it," he said. "If Germany loses, Empire dies. No more Kaiser. No more glory. No more nothing. And after that… more wars come. Another world war, and then another. Many dead people. Very sad."
Tirpitz stiffened.
Birkenhagen's hand tightened around his glass.
Viktoria Luise stopped breathing.
"And so," Oskar went on, "we must stop war. Or, if we cannot stop, then win."
"How?" Tirpitz asked slowly.
Oskar pointed at the floor for emphasis.
"With Navy."
He leaned in and whispered as if revealing a holy prophecy:
"Only when German Navy beats British Navy and breaks blockade can Germany survive long war. Only then can we buy food, oil, supplies. Only then can we breathe."
Tirpitz frowned.
"We can stockpile supplies before war," he said.
Oskar burst out laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair—and would have, if Viktoria Luise hadn't grabbed his coat and yanked him back upright with surprising strength.
"My man," Oskar said, wiping away a tear, "no you cannot."
Tirpitz blinked, offended.
Oskar waved a hand.
"In war like future one, supplies last months. Not years. Not five years. Not ten. And future war will be VERY long. Long like… very long noodle."
Birkenhagen's mouth twitched involuntarily.
Oskar leaned forward, deadly serious.
"Germany cannot save enough supplies."
He tapped his chest.
"Navy must beat British blockade. Or Germany starves. And then…"
He drew a finger across his throat.
"…game over."
Tirpitz and Birkenhagen were silent.
Because this was true.
Fearfully true.
Count Tirpitz exhaled—a deep, slow breath—as if the weight of the entire North Sea had settled onto his shoulders.
"It seems," he said gravely, "that the Navy's responsibility is greater than even we imagined."
Konteradmiral Birkenhagen folded his hands, jaw tight.
"Indeed, Your Excellency Marshal. But even with His Majesty's support, our funding is… insufficient." He hesitated, then added, "Desperately so."
For a moment, both men stared into their wine glasses as if they contained answers.
Then Tirpitz looked up at Oskar.
"Your Highness, I must repeat my gratitude. One additional battleship may not equal a fleet, but it strengthens us. And perhaps—just perhaps—gives us a fighting chance."
His voice held a tremor of sincerity.
Oskar, however intoxicated, recognized that emotion.
Fear disguised as hope.
Oskar nodded solemnly, attempting a wise expression.
"Your Excellency Marshal," he said, "it is not impossible to defeat the British."
Both older men froze.
Tirpitz's monocle glinted.
Birkenhagen leaned forward unconsciously.
"Your Highness…" Tirpitz said carefully. "Do you have… a way?"
Oskar raised one finger.
"It is unlikely," he began, "that Navy can win by building same number of big boats. Britain too rich. Too many shipyards. Too many sailors. Too much… ocean."
He waved vaguely toward the ballroom wall, where a painting of a ship hung.
"The only way," Oskar said, voice dropping, "is to surpass them. Not equal—surpass. Every battleship we build must be able to beat theirs. Totally crush. Boom-boom advantage."
Tirpitz and Birkenhagen exchanged grim glances.
Matching Britain ship-for-ship was impossible.
Surpassing them technologically was nearly as impossible.
Yet…
Oskar straightened, wobbling only slightly.
"The battleship I donate," he said, "will be completely new type of battleship. Revolutionary. After it appears, all previous ships go into dustbin."
He clapped his hands together for emphasis.
Viktoria Luise jumped slightly in his lap.
But Tirpitz didn't blink.
Because he understood perfectly what Oskar meant.
Dreadnought.
The ship that would soon render every battleship on Earth obsolete.
But the British would build it first… unless—
"Your Highness…" Tirpitz whispered. "Are you serious?"
Birkenhagen actually swallowed audibly.
"If you truly possess such a design," the dean murmured, "this could change everything. A decisive battle at sea might finally be possible. Our odds—however slim—would rise."
Oskar nodded, eyes earnest.
"Of course. I am not joking. I know exactly what is coming. We must build all-big-gun battleships. Heavy armor. Strong engines. Fast speed. Big guns everywhere. Triple turrets. Oil boilers. Turbines. No stupid mixed gun salad."
Tirpitz's pupils constricted.
Birkenhagen inhaled sharply.
This was not random rambling. This was impossibly specific.
"May… may we see the design drawings?" Tirpitz asked, voice strained with excitement.
Birkenhagen leaned forward as if Oskar were about to produce the Holy Grail.
Oskar smiled drunkenly.
"Not now," he said. "Tonight too many people. Too much wine. Too much… boom-boom talk. Later, later. Another time."
The two naval officers visibly deflated—but nodded.
They understood secrecy.
They also understood opportunity.
And right now, Prince Oskar von Hohenzollern looked like the most dangerous opportunity in the German Empire.
Across the hall, Crown Prince Wilhelm stood half-hidden behind a marble column, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched so tightly it seemed it might crack.
He had watched Oskar sit with Tirpitz.
He had watched his mother soften toward Oskar.
He had watched Viktoria Luise cling to him like a protective kitten.
Now he watched the two most influential naval officers in Germany listen to his idiot brother like he was some kind of prophet.
The Crown Prince trembled with barely suppressed rage.
"What is Oskar trying to do?" he hissed to himself. "Is he trying to befriend the Navy?"
He knew better than anyone:
The Navy was Wilhelm II's greatest passion.
Tirpitz's opinions shaped imperial strategy.
If Oskar gained their loyalty…
A chill ran down his spine.
If Oskar ever decided to seize the throne—
Would the Navy support him?
It was unthinkable.
It was impossible.
But it was not unheard of. Brothers had killed brothers for far less throughout European history.
"No matter what," the Crown Prince whispered, a cold flash in his eyes, "I cannot let that brat succeed. There is only one Crown Prince of the Empire… and it is me."
His fingers tightened around his glass until it cracked.
Later, long after the dancing and the politics, Wilhelm II retreated to his office to finish the night's paperwork. Even on Christmas Eve, his desk was a mountain of documents.
As he sat down, he noticed a long box set neatly upon his writing table.
"Essen," he asked, "what is this?"
Essen von Jonarett stepped forward.
"A Christmas gift, Your Majesty. From Prince Oskar."
Wilhelm II raised an eyebrow.
"That boy—" he muttered. "Even if he's making money, he shouldn't waste it on pointless extravagance."
Still grumbling, he opened the box.
And froze.
Inside was not jewelry. Not an antique. Not anything frivolous.
Inside was a large sheet of folded paper.
A blueprint.
His eyes widened.
It was a warship.
A warship unlike any he had ever seen.
His breath caught.
"Where…" he whispered. "Where did Oskar get this?"
Essen bowed.
"Your Majesty, Karl told me His Highness drew it himself. He has been locking himself in his room for days, working on it."
Wilhelm II stared at the design.
Triple turrets.
Oil-fired boilers.
Turbines.
All-big-gun layout.
Thick armor.
Compact citadel.
A silhouette that looked years ahead of its time.
He felt the hair on his arms rise.
"I knew it," he murmured. "I knew it!"
He slapped his desk, a grin spreading across his face, mustache twitching with excitement.
"How could a son of mine be an incompetent fool? Impossible!"
For the first time in years, he felt genuine, triumphant pride in his fifth son.
Prince Oskar—strange, awkward, ridiculous Oskar—might just reshape the future of the Imperial Navy.
And with it…
the fate of the entire German Empire.