The Emperor's study smelled of paper, ink, and cigar smoke, as always.
Oskar wrinkled his nose very slightly at the last part. In his previous life, he'd read enough to know that grandfather Frederick III's throat cancer had been worsened—if not outright caused—by smoking like a steam locomotive. Shortest reign in Prussian history, courtesy of cigarettes.
The room itself, though, was respectable enough. Dark wooden shelves lined with leather-bound volumes. Maps rolled and unrolled on side tables. A stern portrait of Frederick the Great glaring down from above the mantel. Paintings of ships and seascapes everywhere. Little model warships set carefully on shelves and cabinets.
This man really loves the sea, Oskar thought. And Queen Victoria. Her photograph was there too, in a fine frame. Father respected and loved her memory. The problem was that he didn't like the new British king, and the feeling was mutual. Awkward family politics on a continental scale.
Oskar closed the door quietly behind him and walked in.
Despite everything—the bath with Tanya, the lottery, the battleship design—walking into his father's study still made him feel, for a moment, like a small boy summoned for failing some invisible test.
That had been true in his past life. It was a different father in this one, but the sinking sensation was the same.
Wilhelm II was already seated behind his desk.
"Sit down," he said.
Oskar obeyed, perching on the edge of the chair facing the desk like a student awaiting punishment.
In his head, his imagination helpfully supplied possible opening lines:
First you try to escape the Naval Academy. Then you go there and call it garbage. Now you are sleeping with a maid. You insulted senior officers. You will apologize or I will drown you in the ornamental lake and send your corpse into exile.
Instead, Wilhelm II simply looked at him for a long moment and then sighed.
"Don't worry, my boy," the Emperor said at last. "I did not call you here to discuss your… unusual decision to turn a palace maid barely old enough to be called a woman into the head of a company, or any of your other business dealings."
Oskar blinked.
"Nor," Wilhelm went on, "did I call you here to ask why Karl gave you a bloody nose in front of half the court. Imagine it: the dwarf who punched the largest man in Germany. What a headline that would make."
A wry glint crossed his eyes.
"And not just anyone saw it. The King of Bavaria and his wife, of all people. Fortunately, they had the good sense to tell me privately instead of shouting it to every newspaper editor in the Empire. Otherwise the headlines about you being 'the sweaty Prince of Germany' would have competition."
He sniffed.
"Regarding those headlines, I have made sure they will not reappear. And, fortunately, you seem to have cleaned yourself up, so we may avoid such things in the future."
Oskar sat very still, absorbing all of that.
"But no," Wilhelm II said, the humor fading. "I called you here because you were too reckless at the Naval Technical Committee."
Here it comes, Oskar thought.
"Even if they reject your design," Wilhelm continued, "you should not speak to them in that tone. Sarcasm, raised voices—these things damage your reputation, not theirs. And that ridiculous 'my man' phrase of yours has apparently glued itself into the public mind. Now when people think of you, they think of 'that tall my-man prince.' It is absurd."
He shook his head, but there was a grudging amusement in it.
"Luckily, despite everything, your image before the German people is, in fact, extremely positive. They seem to love you. The Naval Committee, however, is not the German street. Speak to them like that and you will only make enemies of men whose support you may need later."
Oskar dropped his gaze, heat in his cheeks.
"Yes, Father," he said quietly. "I was… impulsive."
He meant it.
Losing his temper hadn't been part of the plan. He'd meant to be controlled, to be clever, to nudge them into his camp. Instead, frustration and anger had slipped out sharp and hot.
Arguing now would just light Wilhelm II's temper. Oskar knew enough of the man from history, and from the fragments of the "old Oskar's" fear, to recognize the warning signs.
Better to eat this blow like a small, intelligent man.
Wilhelm II watched him in silence.
The young man sitting in front of him was no longer the drifting, half-useless Oskar he had mentally written off a year ago. The posture was straighter. The eyes were clearer. The aura… different.
Finally, the Emperor exhaled and waved a hand.
"Forget it," he said. "Everyone is young once. A hot head at your age is not unusual."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Just remember: when you speak to officers and experts, you speak to men whose service predates your birth. Do not throw their dignity onto the floor, even if you disagree with them. Speak normally. Do not insult people. Understood?"
"Yes, my Emperor—no, I mean, Father," Oskar corrected himself softly.
Some of the tension melted from Wilhelm's shoulders.
There was a brief pause.
Then Oskar lifted his head.
"Father…" he began, voice low but steady. "What I said to them was still true."
Wilhelm's brows drew together.
"In what sense?" he asked carefully.
"We must not miss this chance to get ahead of the British," Oskar said. "The ship I designed is advanced, yes—but it is not impossible with what we know today. I am certain that we can build it, and after that, even better ones. With those ships, we can win whatever war comes our way in the future."
He hesitated only a heartbeat before adding:
"And the concern about fuel is not as serious as they believe. We don't have to rely only on oil from outside. We can build… synthetic plants. Chemical factories that take coal and turn it into fuel and rubber. I know this sounds new and strange. But it is possible. In time, with the right support, I can show you."
Wilhelm II's eyes narrowed slightly in thought.
"You are very sure of yourself," he said. "And of your design."
"Yes," Oskar replied simply. "I am."
The Emperor sat a little straighter.
Oskar pressed on, the words coming from somewhere deeper than simple ambition now.
"Father," he said, almost pleading, "I guarantee that once my battleship is built, it will be the most powerful in the world. More powerful even than the new all–big–gun ships the British are preparing. If we move now, we can surpass them. We can crush them in the dreadnought race instead of always chasing their shadow."
Silence settled over the room like a heavy cloak.
Wilhelm II stared at him.
Behind the mustache, the Emperor weighed a dozen things at once:
The pride of his senior officers and engineers.
The risk of a failed prototype.
The cost of a radical new design.
The political danger of backing one son too openly.
And the intoxicating vision of a German-built ship that made the Royal Navy look old.
His gaze flicked to the blueprint tube resting on the desk.
Then back to his son.
A son who, not long ago, had spent his time avoiding social events, climbing trees, pretending to be ill, and training like a madman in the park.
Now here he sat—broad-shouldered, eyes burning, speaking calmly about remaking the fleet and beating Britain at her own game.
Finally, Wilhelm II exhaled.
"Oskar," he said slowly, "as your father… and as Emperor of the German Empire…"
He let the two titles hang in the air for a heartbeat.
"…I am willing to support you."
Oskar blinked.
"My man?" he blurted before he could stop himself.
Wilhelm II visibly flinched at the expression, but pushed on.
"You are not the best with words," he said dryly. "You mangle phrases, you invent idioms, and you sound like a strongman reading bad poetry."
His eyes softened a fraction.
"But your talent is real. Your courage is real. If your design is as good as you claim, Germany would be mad to ignore it. And perhaps"—his lips twitched—"you truly are a genius, despite your… conversational style."
He leaned forward, hand resting on the blueprint tube.
"You stood before the Naval Technical Committee and announced you would build these ships even without their approval," he said. His eyes hardened. "Very well."
He tapped the tube with two fingers.
"Then go and do it."
For a heartbeat, Oskar could only stare.
"F–Father?" he managed.
Wilhelm II's mouth curved into a sharp, almost boyish grin.
"Build your battleship, Oskar," he said. "You have my permission. And my protection. The Empire will watch. If you succeed, Germany will be stronger."
His gaze gleamed.
"And if you fail…" The grin widened. "I will personally make sure you hear about it for the rest of your life."
Despite everything, Oskar laughed.
A short, incredulous burst, half joy, half panic.
"Yes, Father," he said, rising. "I won't fail."
The Emperor's grin faded into something cooler, more calculating. Oskar was still holding the blueprint tube in his hands when Wilhelm II spoke again.
"Oskar," he said, "before you run off with that, there is one more matter."
Here it comes, Oskar thought. The bill.
Wilhelm II steepled his fingers.
"You talk of building a battleship. But that is only half the battle. Even with your… unusual income stream and my blessings,"—his mustache twitched—"no shipyard may be willing to take this project from you."
Oskar winced. "Yes, Father. I know. Money isn't really the issue—my lottery company earns at least two hundred million marks a year now, probably more. A battleship costs forty or fifty million at most. But…"
He grimaced.
"…no shipyard will touch my design. Not after the Naval Committee. They'll block it out of spite the moment they realize I'm serious."
Wilhelm II leaned back in his chair, frowning thoughtfully.
"That is indeed a problem. Even I cannot simply command every shipyard in Germany to obey. Privately owned yards care more for profit than royal enthusiasm."
He began counting on his fingers with practiced irritation:
"Kiel Naval Shipyard… Germaniawerft… Wilhelmshaven Royal Shipyard… Weser, Vulcan, Blohm & Voss, Schichau…"
He scowled.
"All of them are overworked, fully booked, or stubborn. And if the Naval Committee whispers in their ears, they will find excuses."
Oskar nodded miserably.
"Exactly. So I thought… maybe I should just build a shipyard myself."
That got Wilhelm's attention.
He sat forward sharply. "Build a shipyard from scratch?"
Oskar nodded. "I have the money, but… no experience. No engineers. No managers. And no connections in that world. Even if the design is possible, I can't build it alone."
Wilhelm II tapped his desk slowly.
"Hmm. Starting from nothing would take years. That is not wise."
He paused.
Then his eyes brightened.
"But… acquiring a shipyard? That is another matter."
Oskar blinked.
"Acquire?"
"Yes." Wilhelm II nodded, pleased with himself. "It would give you an existing foundation. Skilled workers. Docks. Slipways. Management systems. All already in place."
Oskar's excitement spiked. "That's—Father, that's brilliant. But which shipyard could I possibly—"
"How about," Wilhelm II said, with theatrical slowness, "the Royal Shipyard?"
Oskar's heart leapt.
"The Royal Shipyard? In Wilhelmshaven? Father, that's— that's perfect! But I don't have two hundred million marks just lying around. Not yet. I would have to—"
Wilhelm II raised a hand.
"Ah. No. Not that Royal Shipyard."
Oskar's excitement hiccuped.
"…What?"
"I meant," Wilhelm said delicately, "the Royal Shipbuilding and Repair Yard."
Oskar stared blankly.
"…where?"
"Danzig," Wilhelm II said, clearing his throat. "A fine facility. Very respectable history."
Oskar mentally reviewed the map.
Then the reputation.
Then the reality.
The Royal Shipbuilding and Repair Yard in Danzig was:
small,
outdated,
lacking a battleship-capable slipway,
chronically underfunded,
and famous mostly for burning money like a coal stove.
So in other words:
a lemon.
"Father…" Oskar said slowly, "that shipyard can't build battleships."
Wilhelm II waved this off with the energy of a man swatting at a fly.
"That is easy! You will expand it. Build a larger slipway. Hire more technicians. And I will transfer engineers from Kiel and Wilhelmshaven to help bring it up to standard."
He smiled, a bit too brightly.
"No problem."
Oskar squinted.
This sounded suspiciously like someone trying to get rid of a problem by wrapping it in shiny paper and handing it to their son as a Christmas gift.
"Father…" he said, "are you trying to sell me the shipyard because it's losing money every year?"
Wilhelm II's smile didn't move, but the skin around his eyes twitched.
"Oskar," he said sternly, "Germany is booming. All major shipyards are doing very well. Acquiring a profitable one would cost you far more than you can afford right now. And they certainly will not lend you money like I will."
Meaning:
No one else is stupid enough to buy this place.
Oskar sighed.
He needed a shipyard.
He needed one fast.
He needed a facility he could control.
And the Emperor was offering one… even if it was a fixer-upper.
He swallowed.
"Alright. Then… Father, how much would you sell the Royal Shipyard for?"
Wilhelm II did not hesitate.
"Fifty million marks. Not a single mark less."
Oskar nearly fell out of his chair.
"Father, I don't have fifty million! I only have about ten on hand right now."
Wilhelm II waved his hand as if the details bored him.
"Yes, yes. Then we shall do installments. Ten million at a time. Given your lottery company's earning power, plus whatever other projects you and your little group of friends are planning, I'm sure you'll pay it off quickly."
Then, with the ease of someone who had been waiting years to unload an embarrassing asset:
"And once you take ownership, it becomes your problem. Expand it. Modernize it. Turn it into a proper battleship yard if you like. I will transfer engineers. The Navy will contract the ships. You will build your ship. Everyone wins."
Oskar stared at him.
Everyone wins, he thought.
Except I'm buying a sinking shipyard for fifty million marks that even the rats want to flee.
But…
He didn't have a choice.
He had promised a battleship.
He had sworn it.
Germany needed it.
His future needed it.
And his father—who could have refused everything—had said yes.
Oskar drew a long breath.
"Alright," he said quietly. "I'll take it."
Wilhelm II's smile turned victorious.
"Wonderful! I knew you would see reason."
Then he stood, offering his hand.
"Oskar, my boy—welcome to the shipyard business."
Oskar shook his father's hand.
It felt like grabbing the paw of a very satisfied lion.
But the conversation wasn't over—he could feel it simmering under his skin.
"Ah—Father, my man—no." Oskar coughed. "I mean, there's one more thing."
Wilhelm II blinked. "…What now?"
Oskar reached into his uniform and pulled out his diary.
The Emperor's eyes immediately narrowed at the sight of the thing. It looked more like the fever-dream notebook of an overcaffeinated mathematician than anything a prince should carry.
He opened it.
His eyebrow rose at the first page.
A sketch of a ship—not sailing, not steaming—but flying through the stars, complete with calculations estimating the distance to the moon and the speeds needed to get there.
Wilhelm II muttered, "For heaven's sake…"
He flipped the page.
A drawing of something that looked like a giant armored tractor covered in rivets with a short cannon sticking out of it. Underneath it was written:
TANK (land-battleship).
Good for scaring British infantry, my man.
He blinked.
"…Is… is this useful?" he asked cautiously.
"It is," Oskar said. "Very useful."
Next page—technical notes, slipway diagrams, cost breakdowns for industrial expansion, and a long list of items labeled:
Things Needed for Real Germany, My Man (Version 7.3).
Finally, Oskar took a slow breath and leaned forward.
"Father… buying the shipyard is only the beginning."
Wilhelm II looked up with the wary expression of a man who sensed his wallet about to be punched.
"I've been planning for a long time," Oskar continued. "The Danzig yard is small. Too small for what I need. To build a battleship of my design—truly build it—we must expand. New slipways. Drydocks. A modern forge hall. Cranes. Rail lines. Housing for workers. Offices for design engineers. I wrote everything down here."
He tapped the diary.
"My book of Genesis. A new beginning for Germany."
Wilhelm II raised an eyebrow. "…Genesis?"
"Never mind," Oskar said quickly. "The point is: according to my calculations, expanding the shipyard will cost…"
He winced.
"…maybe one hundred twenty million marks."
Wilhelm II stared at him.
Then he leaned back and said, "One hundred and twenty million? That's all?"
Oskar nodded helplessly.
"Yes, Father. Conservatively. I want to build eight large slipways capable of ships of thirty thousand tons or more—plus several smaller ones. And, eventually—well, I was going to build a rocket launchpad, but—actually, forget that. For now. Ships first."
Wilhelm II blinked. Twice.
"Eight slipways? Thirty thousand tons?" The Emperor rubbed his forehead. "Oskar, even our major yards don't have that many. And battleships aren't that big. And what in God's name is a rocket?"
"Like a very big firework," Oskar said earnestly. "But later. And Father—technology is advancing. In ten years, major powers will build ships larger than anything we have. Armor will increase. Turbines will get stronger. Guns will grow. If we don't prepare now, we'll fall behind."
Something flickered behind Wilhelm's eyes.
That familiar blend of:
curiosity,
ambition,
and patriotic hunger.
He tapped the desk.
"Hmm… very big ships indeed…"
Another pause.
Then he nodded decisively.
"Very well. I will allocate one hundred twenty million marks from the royal treasury—as a loan—to expand the shipyard."
Oskar exhaled in relief.
Wilhelm II raised a finger.
"Add the fifty million for purchasing the yard. That brings your total debt to one hundred seventy million."
Another finger.
"With interest—reasonable interest—your final payment is two hundred million."
He lowered his hand.
"You have no objections, I assume?"
Two hundred million marks.
To anyone else: insanity.
To Oskar: manageable.
Especially once Hans's factories and Tanya's Kleine Engel Werke bloomed into industrial giants.
He nodded.
"No objections, Father."
Wilhelm II smiled proudly—just a bit too proudly, like a cat who had finally found someone foolish enough to adopt the problematic kitten he couldn't get rid of.
"Good. I'll have the lawyers prepare everything."
Oskar was about to speak—when a new idea struck him like lightning.
"Father," he said suddenly, "what do you think of my battleship design? Honestly?"
The Emperor hesitated.
Then he gave a grudging nod.
"Although the Naval Technical Committee rejected it, I believe it has merit. If it performs close to your figures, it will surpass our current ships. Perhaps even form the basis of our next class."
He paused.
"Though it is not as elegant as my yacht, the Hohenzollern II. A beautiful vessel."
Oskar smiled weakly. One day, he would see that yacht. One day.
Then he inhaled—and took the gamble.
"Father… instead of debt in money, what if I repay you in battleships? Let my shipyard build the next class for the Navy. All four ships."
The Emperor's eyes widened.
Clearly, he had not expected that.
He frowned immediately.
"Oskar… the next-generation capital ships are far too important to entrust to you. Even if you expand the yard, it is still a medium facility. And the other shipyards—Germaniawerft, Vulcan, Blohm & Voss—they will scream treason. Those contracts are political dynamite. Giving all of them to you would anger half the Empire."
Oskar leaned forward.
"Father… without orders of that scale, the Danzig yard will collapse even after expansion. If you give me those battleships, I guarantee I will raise the yard to the level of our best facilities."
He pressed on, voice burning:
"And Father… the Naval Technical Committee is stuck in last-century thinking. If the Navy adopts ships built at my yard, it will force the entire Admiralty to modernize."
Wilhelm II drummed his fingers.
He had wanted to shake up the Naval Committee for years.
He had wanted ships that would terrify the British.
And here was his son—offering to build them at his own expense.
Finally, Wilhelm II exhaled through his mustache.
"…Very well."
Oskar blinked.
"…Very well?"
His father nodded, slower this time.
"We will do it your way. Your shipyard will build the next class of battleships for the German Navy… on one condition."
Oskar swallowed.
"What condition?"
"That the ships perform"—Wilhelm II tapped the blueprint tube—"exactly as your data claims. Or close enough that my admirals cannot complain."
His gaze hardened.
"If you deliver four masterpieces, Oskar… the Naval Committee will kneel."
Oskar felt heat in his chest—something between pride and terror.
He stood.
"I won't fail you, Father."
Wilhelm II nodded, satisfied.
"One last thing," Oskar added, smiling a little. "A battleship needs a name. Since this will be the first of a new era… perhaps you should choose?"
The Emperor's eyebrows rose in pleased surprise.
He sat straighter, savoring the moment.
After a long, thoughtful pause, he said with quiet imperial pride:
"Then let the first ship of a new age bear the old, proud name—
the Nassau-class."
Oskar bowed deeply.
A new ship.
A new class.
A new destiny.
Two hundred million marks in debt.
A failing shipyard to resurrect.
A battleship to forge from steel and will.
And the Emperor's blessing behind him.
It was mad.
It was impossible.
It was perfect.