Oskar stepped out of Wilhelm II's study, closing the heavy oak door behind him with a quiet thunk that seemed to seal away the echo of his father's voice.
The corridor outside was almost empty. Oil lamps burned low in their brass brackets, their flames shivering in the draft. Moonlight slanted in through the tall arched windows, turning the marble floor into a patchwork of silver and shadow.
Only the guards remained.
They stood at their posts in stiff lines, leather belts creaking faintly when they shifted their weight. A couple of them had that glassy, far-away look of men fighting sleep with every fiber of their being. They snapped to attention as he walked past, heels striking stone.
Oskar's eyes flicked over them, then the corners of his mouth twitched.
In my world, he thought, half of you would be sitting in a warm little room watching cameras and drinking coffee, not freezing your balls off in a corridor at 2 a.m.
Here? No CCTV. No monitors. Just real men, real boots, real cold.
If someone came up those stairs with a knife, it'd be these poor bastards between them and a massacre.
I should invent heaters for guard posts, he decided. Or at least better boots. Maybe that's a project for Hans.
He moved on.
Further ahead, through a half-open door, he saw the last of Christmas being cleared away from the banquet hall. Servants carried out silver platters, the great candelabras burned low, and the huge wreaths and garlands drooped tiredly. His family was gone; only the faint echoes of laughter and cutlery remained.
His stomach grumbled.
He hadn't eaten since dinner. For a normal man, those delicate portions might have been enough. For him — nearly two meters of muscle and nerves — they were an appetizer.
As he turned back into the main corridor, fate took pity on him.
A palace maid came hurrying around the corner, arms full with a heavy silver tray piled high with delicate pastries — Bienenstich squares with caramelized almond tops, neat little Vanillekipferl, and tiny Stollen slices dusted with sugar. Each piece was worth more than most workers saw in a day; the tray as a whole was easily a few hundred marks of butter, sugar, flour, marzipan, and kitchen labor.
She didn't see him in time.
"Ah—!"
The tray tipped.
Oskar moved before his brain did.
One big hand shot out to catch the tray; the other wrapped firmly around the maid's waist, hauling her upright before she could go flying across the marble.
She found herself pressed against a wall of warm, solid prince.
She was no giggling girl, this one. Perhaps late twenties, maybe thirty at most — a brunette with thick hair pinned under a starched cap, full mouth, long lashes over soft brown eyes, and a figure that childbirth had only made more lush. Her hands were work-roughened but still delicate. A thin gold band hung on a chain at her neck — a wedding ring repurposed as a memory.
Widowed, he guessed. Three kids at home in some staff quarters or a cramped Berlin tenement. Husband probably dead from a lung infection, an accident at the rail yard, or some stupid infection that penicillin hadn't been invented yet to cure.
Her breath caught, chest heaving against his uniform.
"Y-Your Highness, I… I'm so—"
Oskar smiled, cutting her apology off with a small raise of his hand.
"Yes, woman," he said gently, eyes amused, "you are so… beautiful."
The words hit her like a cannon.
Color flooded her cheeks from throat to hairline. She stared up at him, wide-eyed, the way a woman does when the world suddenly remembers she exists.
Without letting go of the tray — still perfectly level in his hand — he eased her back onto her feet, his other hand lingering for a second at the small of her back.
Then he lifted the tray to her shoulder height.
"Take one," he said. "My treat to you."
She looked down at the pastries, then up at him, torn between duty and sheer temptation.
"B-but, Your Highness, these are for—"
"Take one," he said again, softer. "You carried them all the way here. That deserves a reward, yes?"
She swallowed and, with careful fingers, selected a small Bienenstich square, its honeyed almond crust glistening.
The moment her hand closed around it, he let her go — slowly, almost reluctantly — and gave her a gentle pat on her head.
"There. Eat well," he said. "And have a good night, beautiful lady."
He flashed a grin, turned away with the tray balanced effortlessly in one hand, and strolled off as if he hadn't just made a widow's entire month.
She stared after him.
"Your Highness… aren't you going back to say goodnight to the family?" she managed to call after him.
He waved lazily with the hand holding a pastry.
"Tell them 'Merry Christmas' from me," he replied around a mouthful of flaky crust.
The maid stood in the hallway long after he disappeared from view.
Slowly, she pressed the stolen pastry to her lips, both hands cradling it as if it were sacred.
She took a bite.
Sweetness burst over her tongue — honey, cream, butter, sugar — and her eyes filled with tears.
"He called me beautiful," she whispered to herself. "He held me…"
Her knees gave way and she sank onto the floor, laughing quietly at her own foolishness.
But she still smiled.
Oskar, oblivious, wandered on through the Neues Palais' endless corridors.
The marble floors echoed under his boots. Above him, rows of portraits tracked his progress — Hohenzollerns in armor and powdered wigs and stiff uniforms, looking down with that familiar mix of arrogance and exhaustion.
It had all really started with 1415, he remembered: Emperor Sigismund granting the Margraviate of Brandenburg to Burgrave Friedrich of Nuremberg. A bargain that had turned a minor Franconian noble family into rising power brokers.
Five hundred years of Hohenzollern scheming, marrying, fighting, centralizing.
Five hundred years of clawing their way from "some counts out east" to "Kaisers of a united German Empire."
And in my world, he thought darkly, all that ends in exile on a Dutch estate and a moustached corporal painting postcards.
He chewed thoughtfully, crumbs dusting the front of his uniform.
"I'm not letting five hundred years of save-file progress get deleted because a few idiots misclick war," he muttered around marzipan. "Not this time."
Tapestries shifted lazily in the draft. Pine garlands still shed their needles on the stone, reminders of the celebration he'd walked away from. He felt the weight of the blueprint tube bump against his leg — the new Nassau-class, humming in his mind like a sleeping beast.
"No matter what I do, the Nassau still comes," he murmured. "Timeline's got… inertia. But this time my Nassau will be so good the British will poop themselves."
His voice echoed faintly down the stone.
He thought ahead:
submarines, carriers, synthetic fuel, radar, tanks, industrial safety, gyms pumping out iron freaks, baby diapers saving lives, cat sand saving carpets.
The world he'd come from.
The world he was trying to improve before it set itself on fire again.
"Just gotta keep going," he said under his breath.
His boots thudded.
The palace stretched out: huge, empty, echoing.
For a second, even with all the gold and marble and history, it felt… lonely.
Then—
Footsteps.
Light. Quick. Familiar.
He smiled before he even turned.
"Tanya," he said.
She came skidding around the corner, nearly colliding with him just like the other maid, skirts swishing. Her blonde hair had come a little loose from the cap, cheeks flushed from running, blue eyes wide with worry and something softer.
She caught his arm in both hands and pressed herself against him without thinking.
"Your Highness— Oskar… my love…" she whispered, the last two words tumbling out in a rush. Her face flushed scarlet. "How did it go? Did His Majesty punish you? Did he shout? Did he—?"
He had to laugh.
Before she could wind herself into a panic, he dipped his head and kissed her.
She made a tiny sound against his lips, then melted into it, fingers curling into his sleeve. For a moment, the world was just warm lamplight and the faint taste of sugar and wine between them.
When he pulled back, she was breathing fast, eyes glossy, hands still clutching his arm like she might float away if she let go.
He slid his free arm around her waist, pulling her snug against him as they walked.
"Oh yes, my love," he said, savoring the way she flinched adorably at the words. "Everything went very well. Believe it or not… tonight, we can actually sleep with both heads still attached."
Her blush deepened.
"S-sleep?" she echoed. "Together?"
He leaned down, his voice dropping, teasing.
"Mmm. Together. Or…" His mouth brushed her ear. "We could take a long, hot bath first. Very relaxing. Good for stress. Very good for… muscles."
Tanya made a strangled noise, somewhere between a giggle and a gasp.
"I… I…" she stammered, eyes sparkling, torn between propriety and everything in her that wanted to scream yes. "I… would like… bath," she finally managed, voice barely above a whisper.
Oskar grinned.
"Bath it is, then," he murmured. "My love."
He felt Tanya shiver against him, and for one brief, surreal moment, the five hundred years of Hohenzollern glory and the encroaching storm of European war faded away.
There was only:
a man who'd seen two lifetimes,
a tiny woman who adored him,
and a long, empty corridor in a palace older than most nations.
He brushed a thumb over her waist—
and the universe immediately punished him.
Because suddenly—
SLAP-SLAP-SLAP-SLAP-SLAP!
High-speed, righteous little boots hammered the marble floor like a miniature infantry charge.
Oskar's head snapped up.
Tanya froze, gripping his arm like a startled kitten.
A heartbeat later, a small whirlwind of frills and blonde hair exploded between them like a cannon shot.
"LET GO OF MY BROTHER!"
Princess Viktoria Luise—barely 130 cm tall, all silk and fury—threw out her arms like she was blocking artillery fire, shoving Tanya aside with surprising, outrage-fueled strength.
Tanya stumbled back with a soft gasp, nearly tripping over her own skirt.
Oskar, who had still been holding the entire tray of pastries in one hand like it weighed nothing, almost dropped it from sheer shock.
"Luise! What—"
"NO!" she screeched, hugging his waist fiercely—her tiny arms barely reaching around a quarter of him. "You cannot have him! He's mine! You're just a maid! A MAID!"
Tanya looked like she'd been stabbed straight through the soul.
Oskar closed his eyes and rubbed his temple.
"Okay… hold on—"
"I saw you!" Luise snapped, spinning to point at Tanya like a miniature prosecutor. Then she whirled back to Oskar with a scandalized glare. "I SAW YOU TOUCH HER BUTT, YOU PERVERT!"
Oskar almost choked on air.
Tanya squeaked loudly, face bursting into flame.
"I—Your Highness!! I did no such thing! It was just—my—his—my—UM!!"
Oskar slapped a large hand over his own face.
"Oh my GOD—Luise, I did NOT—"
"LIAR!" Luise bellowed, her little voice echoing like church bells. "I heard everything! You asked her to sleep with you! In your bed! And something about a BATH!" She stomped her tiny foot. "Why would a prince sleep with a maid?! Tell me or I'm telling Mama!"
Oskar froze like a deer in headlights.
Tanya looked ready to faint, curl up, and reincarnate again.
Very slowly, Oskar knelt (which still made him taller than Luise), set the pastry tray down, and placed his huge hands on her small shoulders.
"Luise… listen carefully," he said gently. "Remember after the banquet… when I was very drunk… and you slept in my bed? Because I was lonely?"
She blinked, her anger pausing.
"Yes…"
"And remember how hugging Mister Ice Bear makes you feel safe?"
"Yes…"
"Well," Oskar said, dying internally, "your big brother gets lonely too. So I asked Tanya to be like Mister Ice Bear. Just… someone warm to hug. Nothing bad. No bottoms. No funny business. Just comfort."
Tanya nodded so fast she looked like she might launch into orbit.
Luise narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
"Really?"
"Yes," Oskar said.
"REALLY really?"
"Yes!"
A long pause.
Then her expression softened instantly.
"Oh…" she whispered. "I didn't know you were so stressed…"
She hugged him tighter—her cheek pressed against his stomach because she wasn't tall enough to reach anywhere else.
"I'm sorry, brother…"
Oskar exhaled in deep relief—
Until she added with bright innocence:
"But if you're lonely… instead of hugging only her… why don't you hug me too? Two is better than one!"
Oskar choked.
"W-wait—Luise—"
"No buts!" she declared. "We're having a sleepover! And you can't tell Mama! I ran away from my maid and everything."
Tanya looked horrified, cheeks blazing.
Oskar looked like his soul was leaving his body.
But Princess Luise—only a little shorter than Tanya and infinitely more stubborn—grabbed both their hands in her tiny fists and dragged them down the corridor like a miniature field marshal towing two prisoners of war.
Five Minutes Later.
The Fifth Prince of the German Empire lay in his enormous four-poster bed, covers rumpled, heart pounding.
On his left:
Tanya, small and warm, curled against his arm, cheeks pink, one hand shyly resting on his chest.
On his right:
Viktoria Luise, hugging Mister Ice Bear with the sacred devotion of a holy relic, glaring protectively at Tanya every few seconds.
And in the middle:
Oskar.
Huge.
Awake.
Staring at the ceiling like a man contemplating his life choices.
"…Being a prince is weird," he whispered.
Luise snuggled closer, patting his chest with the air of a nurse tending a wounded soldier.
"Shh, brother. No talking. You're stressed."
Tanya, not to be outdone, scooted closer until her shoulder brushed his bicep.
"Yes… rest, Your Highness…" she murmured softly, her fingers tapping nervously on his shirt.
The two girls glared at each other over Oskar's enormous torso, each inching closer in a silent, deadly battle for optimal snuggling position.
Oskar closed his eyes.
Somewhere between future dreadnoughts, doomed naval committees, imperial politics, and maid-princess cuddle warfare…
He tightened his arms gently around the tiny princess and the tiny maid.
This, he decided, was somehow one of the strangest… and nicest… nights of both of his lives.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow would be even stranger.
He could feel it.
The morning after the strangest Christmas night of his life, Oskar barely had time to breathe.
He woke up wedged between:
one tiny princess (Viktoria Luise)
one tiny maid (Tanya)
and one very large stuffed polar bear named Mister Ice Bear
And the universe, in all its cruelty, elected to introduce Karl into this tableau.
The door flew open without warning.
"Your Highness, we need to prepar—OH SWEET GOD NO."
Karl froze.
His eyes bulged.
His jaw dropped so far it almost hit the floor.
There, on the bed, lay:
A half-naked giant prince
A blushing maid curled under one arm
A princess clutching a bear under the other
And the prince blinking groggily like a confused lion awakened from hibernation.
Karl's soul left his body.
He slowly backed out of the room, whispering,
"Nope. No. I saw nothing. That was not real. I am erasing it from my mind."
He closed the door so gently it was almost reverent.
The moment the latch clicked, Oskar groaned into his pillow.
Tanya turned beet-red and buried her face in his chest.
Luise yawned and declared, "Brother, you snore like a horse."
Karl, to his credit, never asked questions later.
When Oskar finally found him in the afternoon and apologized for panicking in the car during the banquet, Karl simply patted his shoulder.
"Your Highness," Karl sighed wearily, "at this point I am just thankful you no longer smell like the inside of a swamp."
Which, in dwarven-speak, was a warm embrace.
New Year was days away, and while most wealthy families were still sleeping off feasts and wine, Potsdam woke to something unexpected:
The grand opening of the world's first Pump World gym.
Nobody knew what "Pump World" was.
The newspapers had only said:
"Prince Oskar will personally attend."
That was enough.
Crowds formed outside the building before sunrise.
And what a building.
It stood proudly near the Brandenburg Gate in Potsdam:
A three-story glass-and-brick marvel,
banners hanging from the balconies,
giant windows showing strange metallic machines inside,
and along one entire wall, a massive painted advertisement.
The mural showed:
A cartoonishly muscular Prince Oskar, shirtless,
flexing like a demigod,
two beautiful women hanging from each of his arms,
smiling adoringly,
while a speech bubble read:
"WANT TO BE A REAL MAN?
COME TO PUMP WORLD!
(P.S. WOMEN ALSO WELCOME)"
It was ridiculous.
It was gaudy.
It was shameless.
It was perfect.
People stared at it for minutes at a time, unsure whether to laugh, pray, or join.
But the real chaos began when Oskar himself suddenly ran past the crowds.
Not in uniform.
Not in princely attire.
But in a simple worker's athletic outfit:
white sleeveless undershirt,
rolled-up trousers,
strong leather shoes,
hair tied back,
sweat glistening under the winter sun,
muscles moving like coiled steel ropes.
And he was jogging from the palace.
Through the city.
Eating a pastry.
Yelling "GOOD MORNING, MY MAN!" at startled civilians.
"WHAT IS THE OCCASION?!" a baker cried as he poked his head out the shop door.
"A GOOD GYM DAY BEGINS WITH CARDIO!" Oskar called back mid-stride. "COME JOIN ME AT PUMP WORLD! LET'S GET BIG AND STRONG TOGETHER!"
People blinked.
People whispered.
And then—
People followed.
At first it was a few curious children.
Then a handful of workers.
Then nearly thirty teenagers.
Then a growing wave of people jogging behind the Fifth Prince of Prussia through the streets of Potsdam.
Women, breathless, were laughing and trying to keep up.
Workers cheered as he passed.
A group of university students began chanting, "PUMP! PUMP! PUMP!"
An elderly priest at first made the sign of the cross and muttered,
"That boy is trouble, Lord…"
But then Oskar slowed beside him, grinned, and said:
"MY MAN—COME ON! LET'S BUILD STRONG BODIES AND STRONG SPIRITS FOR THE GOOD OF GERMANY!"
The priest hesitated.
Children tugged his sleeves.
"Father! Father, come! The prince is so STRONG!"
He sighed heavenly.
"…Fine. Perhaps this is God's will."
And he joined the jog.
By the time Oskar reached Pump World around eleven o'clock, nearly two hundred people were following him like a strange, sweaty parade.
Karl, Tanya, and Hans were already waiting outside.
They stood flanked by the very first Pump World staff, half men and half women, all wearing:
black-and-white Pump World hoodies,
matching track pants,
newly designed running shoes,
and baseball caps with the Pump World logo — a stylized dumbbell shaped like an imperial eagle.
The color scheme was pure Prussian black and white, honoring:
the Teutonic Order,
old Prussian discipline,
and the Hohenzollern dynasty.
The effect?
They looked like the world's first gym cult.
Karl adjusted his cap and muttered, "Your Highness, this is either the greatest success in German fitness history… or the beginning of a revolution."
Oskar grinned, raised both arms, and yelled,
"MY MEN AND MY WOMEN!
WELCOME TO PUMP WORLD!"
The crowd erupted.
History had just been rewritten.