Bruckner, Chief Engineer of the Naval Technical Committee, adjusted his spectacles with the slow irritation of a man about to crush someone's dreams. He rose stiffly, cleared his throat, and spoke with authority that smelled like mothballs and old textbooks.
"Your Highness," he said, "I must emphasize: while research into oil-fired boilers and steam turbines has begun, it has produced nothing of value. All of our capital ships rely on coal-fired boilers and tried-and-true triple-expansion engines. To leap recklessly into new systems—systems we do not understand—is to gamble with the fate of the fleet."
It was the eternal engineer's argument:
> If it is new, it is dangerous. If it is unfamiliar, it is wrong.
Oskar, however, didn't blink.
He opened Tanya's notebook—his secret weapon—and for once spoke with no stutter, no randomness, no "my man."
"Excellency," Oskar said calmly, "dismissing turbines because they are new will not stop the future from arriving. The British are already testing turbines on large ships. Successfully. That alone proves turbines surpass triple-expansion engines. The question is not whether we will use them—only when."
He let the words hang.
"And if Britain is already ahead… we must not widen the gap."
Several old engineers shifted uncomfortably, like children caught lying by a schoolmaster. They hated being corrected by a teenager. They hated even more that he was right.
Before Bruckner could recover, another voice cut in:
Smooth. Cold.
Sharpened like a dagger.
Crown Prince Wilhelm.
"Your Highness Oskar," Wilhelm said slowly, "if we use oil-fired boilers, do we not require enormous amounts of heavy oil? The Empire lacks such fuel. If war begins and our supply routes are cut, our ships will become floating coffins. Coal fits our national conditions. Coal is reliable."
A few committee members nodded—more out of fear of Wilhelm's rank than agreement.
But Oskar did not falter.
He saw the trap the moment the Crown Prince opened his mouth—and he stepped over it without breaking stride.
"Your Highness the Crown Prince," Oskar said smoothly, "Germany can stockpile large quantities of heavy fuel oil before war begins. We cannot do the same with coal—coal storage is massive, slow, and inefficient. Oil is compact, powerful, and gives us speed."
He closed the notebook.
"And if our navy breaks the British blockade, then our supply problem ends on day one."
It was brutally simple.
The room fell silent.
Prince Heinrich's eyebrow rose in approval.
Even Tirpitz allowed himself a small, satisfied nod.
This was no longer the foolish Fifth Prince who called the Naval Academy "garbage."
This was a young man who could argue strategy with admirals.
Tirpitz turned toward the commander of the High Seas Fleet.
"Your Highness," he asked, "your impression of the design?"
Prince Heinrich stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"This," he said, "is an outstanding warship. If the Fleet possessed such a vessel, our strength would increase significantly."
High praise—from the man who would command it.
Tirpitz's eyes gleamed.
Germany could not hope to defeat Britain by copying their ships.
To win, they needed something Britain did not yet understand.
Oskar's ship was exactly that.
Prince Heinrich leaned forward.
"Marshal, is it possible to overcome the technical challenges?"
Tirpitz considered.
"There will be obstacles," he admitted. "But none insurmountable. With proper resources… and pressure… the shipyards and Krupp will find solutions."
He meant:
> If we push them hard enough, they will obey.
Prince Heinrich nodded.
"Then it is up to this Committee."
Count von Warren straightened in his seat.
"Experts," he said, "any remaining doubts before we conclude?"
Brigadier General Gussard raised a hand.
"Your Highness, one final matter. You propose 305mm guns. Our current 305mm models are obsolete—slow, inaccurate, weak. The Krupp 280mm/45 is far superior. Should we not arm your ship with these instead?"
Oskar didn't even need Tanya's notes.
"Excellency," he said, "the Krupp 280mm is an excellent gun—but its shells lack the armor penetration needed to defeat heavily armored British ships. And the British are already using 305mm guns widely."
He paused.
"And the British next design will use 343mm guns."
The room gasped.
Even Crown Prince Wilhelm froze.
This was not general knowledge.
"Excellency," Oskar continued, "if we remain with 280mm guns, we fall behind permanently. Krupp can develop a modern 305mm gun easily. What we need is range and penetration, not comfort."
He let the silence settle.
For a moment, even the old engineers looked shaken.
Crown Prince Wilhelm sensed the shift—and panicked.
If the committee approved Oskar's design…
His own influence over the military would weaken.
So he struck fast.
He stood, smile sharp as a razor.
"Gentlemen," he said, "Prince Oskar has answered your questions. Time is nearly up. Let us hear the Committee's conclusion."
A forced ending.
A cut-off before Oskar could win any more ground.
The old men folded their arms, exchanged glances, and delivered the verdict Wilhelm wanted.
Sir Dietrich spoke first.
"Your Highness… bold, but too speculative. Caution is required."
Bruckner nodded.
"Too many new technologies at once. No proof. We must delay."
Brigadier Gussard.
Dawson.
Count von Warren.
Every one of them echoed a variation of the same theme:
Rejection.
Not because Oskar was wrong.
But because:
his design threatened their careers
his youth threatened their pride
his vision threatened their authority
and admitting he was right meant admitting they had fallen behind
Count von Warren gave the official conclusion:
"Your Highness, your design may one day be correct. But not now. We must take careful steps forward, not reckless leaps. Battleships are too costly, too vital, and too dangerous to rush. Therefore, the Committee cannot approve your proposal… at this time."
Crown Prince Wilhelm's smile spread.
Triumphant.
Fake-sympathetic.
Deadly.
"Oskar," he said lightly, "do not be discouraged. You are young. You will have other opportunities."
Oskar didn't say anything.
But he didn't miss the Crown Prince's expression—the joy of someone who had tripped his brother and watched him fall.
A Schadenfreude smile.
The smile of a man who enjoyed other people's misfortune.
In another life, Oskar would have gone full gamer-rage and flipped the table.
But not this time.
He inhaled slowly.
Because instead of defeat, he felt something else rising:
Determination.
Quiet.
Cold.
Certain.
If they rejected his design?
He would build it anyway.
He had:
the money,
the factories forming under his industrial empire,
the blueprint,
and the will.
And soon—
the Imperial Navy would be calling him "Your Highness."
Or, more likely:
my man.
Because the war was coming.
And if Oskar didn't act, history would repeat itself.
This time?
He refused to let it.
Looking at Crown Prince Wilhelm's smug, hypocritical face, Oskar felt a sudden, vivid urge to grab that brother of his by the collar, lift him bodily, and hurl him straight into a snowbank. Or a lake. Or possibly both.
He didn't, of course.
He kept repeating to himself:
Don't rage. Don't lunge. Think, adapt, overcome…
He had once raged at games.
He had once thrown controllers.
But those were childish days.
Now?
He had learned to examine a situation, not explode at it.
Yet the desire to do something violent was very much there.
Burning hot.
Clearly, spiritually, he still had a long way to go.
But it was impossible not to feel anger.
He had known Wilhelm was jealous, petty, and insecure.
He had known Wilhelm saw everyone—brothers included—as threats to eliminate.
But seeing that pleased little smirk, that glint of satisfaction at sabotaging his own brother even when the Empire's survival was at stake…
Something dark curled inside Oskar's chest.
This bastard…
Even his own blood means nothing to him.
Wilhelm didn't see Oskar.
He saw competition.
He saw a rival.
He saw a threat to his throne.
It was all about Wilhelm.
If Germany burned because of his pride?
If millions died?
That wasn't Wilhelm's problem.
Of course, it wasn't entirely accurate to say Oskar had no ambition.
He wasn't a saint.
He wasn't a monk.
He wasn't some enlightened Bodhisattva floating above the world.
He was a reincarnated streamer with a gym addiction and a maid he was definitely too intimate with.
But he understood reality.
Crown princes in Europe didn't get replaced unless:
they died,
they caused a scandal so massive it shook nations,
or they were physically incapacitated.
Plotting against Wilhelm would be suicidal.
Well… a "horse-fall accident" did briefly cross his mind, but no—too risky.
And Oskar had no desire to be Emperor.
That meant paperwork. Meetings. Diplomacy. Zero gym time.
His ambitions lay elsewhere, just like he had decided before hand:
Stop Germany from being obliterated.
Save millions of lives—by preventing the war, or shortening it.
Reduce child mortality through inventions.
Change the world for the better, even if just a little.
And if Germany won?
A stable, victorious empire would be a safe place for him to live out his life with Tanya, Karl, Luise, Mister Ice Bear, and a small army of factory-produced diapers.
But Wilhelm didn't see any of that.
He saw only Oskar The Threat.
So he attacked first.
Oskar inhaled deeply.
He had expected rejection.
He had expected resistance.
But he had underestimated the density of these old men's skulls.
No wonder Germany lost historically, he thought bitterly.
Half of these fossils would rather sink with tradition than swim with innovation.
He raised his head.
His jaw tightened.
His voice—when it came—was not loud.
It was cold.
"I understand," Oskar said, "and I respect the Committee's decision."
A lie.
Everyone knew it.
"But…"
He let the word hang like a blade.
"…I fear you will soon realize how wrong you are."
Several engineers stiffened.
Oskar continued:
"Your choices today will leave the German Navy far behind Britain—again. If Germany loses the next war, it will be because of you."
Silence.
He pressed forward.
"When the blockade clamps around our throat…
when German trade lanes choke…
when our people starve…
What will you say then?"
The room sucked in a collective breath.
Sir Dietrich nearly choked on air.
Bruckner froze mid-scowl.
Dawson's eye twitched violently.
Oskar had just slapped all of them at once.
Count von Warren's face darkened like a thundercloud.
Sir Dietrich exploded.
"Your Highness! You may be of noble birth, but you have no right to insult us! We serve the Empire—not the tantrums of an inexperienced child!"
His voice boomed through the hall.
"Battleships are not toys! They require proven methods, careful design—NOT piles of untested theories! You are too young! Your Highness, with respect, you should be in the Naval Academy studying, not lecturing men with a lifetime full of experience!"
Laughter—quiet, malicious—rippled from the back row.
Oskar's jaw clenched.
Count von Warren slammed his palm on the table.
"Enough! Opinions differ, but decorum must be maintained."
But the coldness in his tone made it clear:
He agreed with Dietrich.
And Wilhelm saw his chance.
He rose smoothly, voice dripping with sanctimonious righteousness.
"Oskar, apologize," he said.
"You cannot speak to imperial experts in such a reckless manner. Even if your design was rejected, you must behave with dignity. These men are the pillars of the Empire."
Oskar could practically hear Wilhelm's inner laughter.
Perfect.
Another stain on the Fifth Prince.
Another reason to discredit him.
If Oskar looked irrational—good.
If he looked arrogant—better.
If he alienated the Navy—excellent.
Oskar raised his chin.
His voice was controlled steel.
"I refuse."
Wilhelm blinked.
Then reddened like an hot iron.
"…Excuse me?"
"I said I refuse," Oskar repeated calmly.
"And I stand by my design. You will all see how wrong you are."
Wilhelm's mask cracked.
"You—! You insolent—! I will report this to Father immediately!" he sputtered.
His nostrils flared. He trembled with rage.
Just a moment ago, he had reveled in humiliating Oskar.
Now?
The humiliation was his.
Prince Heinrich chuckled.
Tirpitz hid a smile in his beard.
But the Committee—the old guard—had closed ranks.
They would not back down.
Not now.
Not after being insulted.
Not after being challenged by a teenage prince who made their life's work look obsolete.
They clung to pride like drowning men cling to driftwood.
Oskar looked at each of them in turn.
Then he smiled.
Not warmly.
Coldly.
"You are mistaken," he said softly.
"My design does not need your approval."
That got their attention.
"This ship is not the Navy's project. It is my project. My gift. My investment."
He raised a hand and flicked his fingers dismissively.
"Your decision means nothing."
The entire committee froze.
Oskar continued:
"I will build this battleship regardless—
with my own money,
in my own shipyards."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And when you see it on the water…
when you witness real firepower…
real armor…
real speed…"
He smiled.
"Then you may understand the size of the mistake you made today."
He stepped back.
"Money," Oskar added casually, "talks."
Sir Dietrich's jaw dropped.
Bruckner looked like he'd swallowed a wrench.
Dawson pretended to study the ceiling.
Count von Warren visibly winced.
Prince Heinrich burst into uproarious laughter.
"Hah! Bold indeed! Money makes you fearless, eh? You are a menace, Oskar!"
Tirpitz's eyes glimmered with approval.
Oskar hadn't just slapped the Committee.
He had walked into their domain, overturned their authority, and lit it on fire.
Crown Prince Wilhelm looked horrified.
Because Oskar was no longer acting like a foolish fifth son.
He was acting like a man who could build fleets.
In Wilhelm's mind, a terrifying crack formed.
A small one.
But cracks grow.
And Oskar—standing tall in the center of the room—felt something shift inside him.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Resolve.
Cold.
Quiet.
Absolute.
If they rejected him?
Then he would simply become too powerful for any of them to ignore.
He closed Tanya's notebook gently.
Then, without another word—
Without bowing,
without looking back,
without giving the old men even the dignity of a final glance—
he turned his back on the entire Naval Technical Committee.
A collective gasp rippled through the room.
Then came the sound:
THUD.
THUD.
THUD.
Each step of Oskar's heavy boots echoed against the walls, impossibly loud in the stunned silence.
Every footfall carried the weight of defiance—of a prince who no longer needed permission.
He walked like a man leaving a coffin behind.
The future of Germany, Oskar realized, would not be shaped by cowards clinging to tradition.
It would be shaped by him.
By his factories.
His wealth.
His will.
And he would make certain it was not a future built out of ashes and graves.
The room behind him was silent—utterly silent—as he walked away.
The old men sat frozen, faces twisted with indignation, too furious to speak, too shocked to react. Their pride had been struck harder than any shell.
But one man wasn't outraged.
Hidden from most eyes, seated near the end of the long table, Prince Heinrich, Grand Admiral of the Navy and younger brother of the Kaiser, watched Oskar leave with a very small, very dangerous smile.
He leaned back, stroked his beard, and murmured under his breath:
"Interesting… very interesting."
Heinrich was a man who lived for innovation.
A man who respected boldness.
A man who wanted a navy capable of winning real wars, not polite naval parades.
And for the first time—
he saw in Oskar not a foolish prince…
…but a force.
Someone who could break old patterns.
Someone the Navy might desperately need.
And the thought lingered in Heinrich's mind long after Oskar's footsteps faded:
> This boy may be the storm that blows the entire German Empire into a new age… whether we are ready or not.