Oskar had talked with Wilhelm II and Field Marshal Tirpitz until two in the morning.
By the time he stumbled back to his room in the Berlin palace, he felt like a man who had spent hours juggling:
naval doctrine,
imperial politics,
future history,
and unhealthy doses of caffeine.
He collapsed onto the bed, but sleep did not come immediately.
His head was stuffed full of new words, new concepts, new responsibilities. A few months earlier, he'd hardly spoken German to anyone. Now he found the language coming more and more naturally with every conversation—even if his grammar still looked like it had been beaten with a shovel.
That part, at least, was good. He was improving. Soon he would have to speak much more, in far more dangerous situations, and he couldn't afford to keep making a fool of himself forever.
One thing, though, he decided firmly:
No more drinking.
Alcohol blurred his thoughts, slowed his tongue, and made him say things like "I am a time traveler" to admirals. Smoking he already avoided. He'd seen too many ruined lungs in hospitals and trenches.
He looked down at his hands.
In his old life, he had died young by normal standards, body soft from too many hours sitting in front of screens. In this life, as Prince Oskar, he had done the opposite—training until muscles ached, pulling on tree branches, pushing his body toward something stronger.
He vowed to keep this body in the best condition possible.
To live long.
To stay sharp.
To do… what, exactly?
That question nagged at him.
He'd never really been religious. He hadn't bowed to any one god. If anything, he'd been closest to a kind of loose, practical Buddhism—not the "temple tourism" kind, but the idea that:
Buddha was a teacher, not a god,
life was about reducing suffering,
and one should not cling blindly to any single belief, but adapt when better ways appeared.
He liked that.
To him, Buddhism had been more a flexible way of life than a rigid religion.
But now?
Now he had died.
Now he had woken up in another body, in another time.
Even a skeptic had to admit: that was… not normal.
If he wasn't hallucinating, if this was real, then something in the universe was not as he'd been taught. Karma, fate, some higher power—or just a very sick joke from the cosmos—had selected him to reincarnate as a German prince before the worst war in history.
It felt like a test.
Why else would he be here, of all times, of all bodies?
If he was truly "chosen" for something, then he had to ask himself:
Was he taking the world toward a better future—or a worse one?
He knew from history that the world wars had brought oceans of blood and very little true benefit. It would be best if they never happened. But if they did happen anyway, how was Germany supposed to win?
He thought about the cold math.
Germany had maybe sixty, seventy million people.
If you added up all of Germany's potential enemies:
British Empire,
France,
Russia,
eventually the United States,
later even Japan and China joining the other side in different ways…
You were looking at hundreds of millions to billions stacked against the German Empire.
Manpower. Industry. Resources. Colonies.
"Victory" would require:
blood,
time,
endless bullets,
ships,
planes,
bodies to fill trenches and man guns on every front.
He doubted Germany could sustain that alone, even with smarter designs and a head start.
So what if, he thought, instead of saving millions, I cause tens of millions more to die?
Would he be willing to:
send young men into a war he knew would be horrific?
push a strategy that might work mathematically but turn entire regions into graveyards?
Could someone who once watched men bleed out in ruins sit behind a desk and say:
"Yes, that many casualties is acceptable"?
The thought made his skin crawl.
He stared at the ceiling.
He pressed his hands together awkwardly—more instinct than habit—and for the first time in either life, he prayed.
Not to a specific god.
Not with any formal words.
Just a silent desperate thought:
If anyone is listening—Buddha, God, fate, cosmic spaghetti monster—
show me if I'm doing the right thing. Please.
I don't want to lead humanity into something even worse.
The room stayed silent.
Then, a soft voice at the door:
"Your Highness? Are you awake?"
He wasn't. But she came in anyway.
Tanya slipped inside, shutting the door behind her. She had sneaked out of the servants' quarters again, barefoot, hair loose, cheeks pink from the cold corridor.
She didn't say much.
She didn't ask about the Kaiser, or the Navy, or his nightmares.
She simply crossed the room, climbed onto the bed beside him, and curled up against his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Her presence said everything:
It's alright. You're here. You're trying. You're not alone.
He wanted badly to believe that.
So he did.
His thoughts slowed.
The warmth of her body, the quiet rhythm of her breathing, the familiar smell of soap and clean linen filled the space where fear had been.
And finally, he slept.
He did not sleep peacefully.
He dreamt of muddy trenches and cratered roads.
Burning vehicles abandoned on winter tracks.
Ditches with men lying in them, some groaning, some already still.
He heard artillery in the distance.
The buzzing of drones above—ghosts of wars not yet invented.
He saw:
limbs blown off,
torsos missing,
maggots writhing in wounds,
men calling for their mothers with voices that already sounded like echoes.
He remembered Ukraine.
He remembered war documentaries from his old world.
He remembered that wherever men started wars, it was always the same:
screaming,
choking,
silence,
and once-bright eyes staring at nothing.
But he also remembered another side:
soldiers who still ran into fire to pull a comrade back,
men who sacrificed themselves to save others,
stories of hard, ruthless decisions taken not for cruelty but for a hope—however naïve—that a brutal act now might prevent a worse catastrophe later.
Someone had once said:
"Sometimes, to make a better world, you must walk through hell first."
He didn't know if he believed that.
He wasn't sure if he wanted to.
Yet somewhere inside him, there was a terrible understanding:
If he truly wanted to change this timeline…
He might have to choose between clean hands and real impact.
He tossed, frowned, muttered in his sleep.
Tanya, half-asleep herself, nudged closer and wrapped an arm over him.
Outside, the palace was quiet under winter stars.
Meanwhile, Wilhelm II and Tirpitz remained awake, staring at Oskar's blueprint long after he'd left.
They both approved of the concept.
And they both knew that what they chose next could determine not just the shape of the German fleet—
but whether the boy who had drawn this ship would be remembered as a savior…
or as the fool who armed an empire for ruin.
But approval alone wasn't enough.
Battleships were colossal undertakings:
2–3 years of construction,
titanic budgets,
and immense political risk.
Even the British Dreadnought had taken an entire year just to launch—and that had been with the world's best industrial capability and urgency. Outfit the ship, test it, crew it, then finally commission it… two years minimum.
If Germany was going to gamble its future on a revolutionary battleship drawn by a half-drunken teenage prince…
They needed the Naval Technical Committee to sign off.
That would not be easy.
Those old men had been designing ships since before Oskar was born (in this life).
They did not like being told their ideas were outdated—especially by someone who still confused noun genders.
But the decision was made.
At 2:00 p.m. on Christmas Day, the Committee would convene for an emergency evaluation session.
Oskar would have to explain his design to:
the most rigid,
conservative,
stubborn,
and prideful men in the entire Imperial Navy.
He fell asleep muttering to himself:
"Tomorrow meeting… old fogies… big trouble… my man…"
The Next Afternoon – Naval Technical Committee Headquarters
The meeting room smelled of ink, cigar smoke, and wounded pride.
Every seat was filled.
At the head sat Count von Warren, Chairman of the Naval Technical Committee—an old aristocrat with eyebrows like steel wire and the expression of a man allergic to anything "new."
Beside him sat:
Sir Dietrich, Director-General of Naval Shipbuilding, moustache bristling with offended dignity.
Commodore Gussard, naval weapons expert, thin as a bayonet.
Chief Engineer Bruckner, a round man with the permanent scowl of someone who hated surprises.
Erich Dawson, one of the Navy's senior battleship designers—thin-lipped, sharp-eyed, skeptical.
Admiral Müller, Chief Cabinet Officer of the Navy, trying not to look tired already.
They were already complaining before the meeting even started.
"Why are we here evaluating a child's doodle?"
Sir Dietrich slammed his palm on the table.
"Your Excellency Chairman," he snapped, "why are we wasting Christmas Day evaluating a battleship designed by a teenager? Since when has naval engineering become a hobby for schoolboys? If this continues, what use do they have for the rest of us?"
Bruckner grunted.
"Prince Oskar is only sixteen. He should be in the Naval Academy, not skipping class and playing draftsman! I have heard he tried every trick imaginable to avoid attending. Can such a boy design anything serious?"
Erich Dawson nodded with a sardonic snort.
"Indeed. He may be a 'genius' at gambling enterprises and lotteries, but ship design? Please. The German Navy's future cannot be placed in the hands of a boy who barely speaks coherent German."
Sir Dietrich leaned back, arms crossed.
"And what next? Shall we let him design torpedoes? Submarines? Carve hulls from gingerbread?"
Count von Warren cleared his throat sharply.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice calm but edged, "the Kaiser and the Marshal have demanded this evaluation. We will review the prince's design professionally. If it is nonsense, we will say so. If it is not nonsense…"
He let the possibility hang in the air.
"…we will act accordingly. Pride does not excuse us from our duty."
The room grumbled but fell silent.
Admiral Müller checked his pocket watch.
"Enough. The debate will start in five minutes. And I remind all of you—gossip about the royal family in public is dangerous."
Sir Dietrich muttered something under his breath about "drunken princelings," but let it go.
Then some minutes later, footsteps began echoing down the long marble corridor like distant drums.
Every head in the Naval Technical Committee turned toward the double doors.
They expected a boy.
A nervous brat.
A half-educated prince with ink-stained fingers and no understanding of engineering or war.
The doors opened.
The first to enter was Crown Prince Wilhelm, expression carved from cold stone, wearing his hostility openly. His presence signaled unmistakably that the Kaiser himself was watching this meeting through his eldest son's eyes.
Behind him came two giants of the Imperial Navy:
Field Marshal Count Alfred von Tirpitz, posture rigid, beard immaculate, sharp eyes burning with calculation.
Prince Heinrich, Commander-in-Chief of the High Seas Fleet, calm, stern, and famous for his professionalism.
The old engineers straightened reflexively. These men alone could approve—or bury—an entire generation of capital ships.
But then the room shifted.
Because the next figure through the doorway was not the fragile, foolish boy they expected.
Prince Oskar entered like a stormfront in uniform.
He was taller than Tirpitz.
Broader in the shoulders than Heinrich.
Clean-shaven, jaw sharp, blond hair tied neatly back.
Not a pampered princeling, but a young man built like a front-line grenadier—muscles visible even through the stiff Prussian formal uniform.
He walked with steady purpose, not swagger.
Under his arm was a long blueprint tube, held with the calm grip of someone carrying something important, not something flashy.
The old men exchanged startled glances.
This was not the awkward, sewer-smelling, half-present creature from court rumors.
This was an imposing, disciplined, intimidating presence.
This… is Prince Oskar?
His face was composed.
His back straight.
His gaze stayed forward—not defiant, not fearful, but focused.
Unknown to them, he clutched a small leather-bound notebook in his left hand—Tanya's handwriting filling half the pages with carefully structured German sentences, technical vocabulary spelled phonetically, and reminders like:
"BREATHE."
"SLOW WORDS."
"NO 'MY MAN'."
"DO NOT CALL THE NAVAL ACADEMY GARBAGE AGAIN."
As he walked, he quietly repeated the first lines of his prepared speech inside his head.
"Calm. Speak slowly. Read if needed. No mistakes."
He looked exhausted—eyes slightly puffy from a night of fear and heavy thinking—but the exhaustion only made him look more human, more earnest.
Behind him, Viktoria Luise was not there to steady him.
Karl was not there to whisper reminders.
He was alone.
He had chosen to come like this.
And it showed.
Every pair of eyes turned toward him now.
Not with mockery, but with stunned recalculation.
The weight of their skepticism hung in the air like a dense fog—thick enough to sink a pre-dreadnought.
But Oskar did not flinch.
He stepped to his place at the presentation table with steady boots, unrolled the blueprint tube, and placed it gently on the polished wood.
For a heartbeat, the room was silent.
Prince Heinrich raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself.
Tirpitz allowed the faintest flicker of approval.
Even Crown Prince Wilhelm's expression twitched—not in warmth, but in unease.
Oskar inhaled once, deeply.
It's time, my man, he told himself silently. Time to take all this seriously.
He opened Tanya's notebook discreetly, letting his finger rest on the first line of the speech she helped him craft.
And calmly, clearly, he spoke:
"Gentlemen… thank you for coming. I am Prince Oskar von Hohenzollern. And today, I will present to you a new class of battleship—one designed not to match the future, but to meet it."
Not a single "my man" escaped his lips.
Not a single stutter.
A ripple of surprise passed across the table.
This is not what we were told to expect.
Oskar looked up, meeting each skeptical veteran's eyes in turn.
Time to either impress these old men… or destroy them with competence.
And unlike earlier in his new life—
This time, he knew which one he was aiming for.
The meeting was about to begin.