The red ribbon trembled in the cold morning air, stretched tight across the doors of Pump World.
Up above, on the huge front banner, the mural of Prince Oskar flexing with two grinning women clinging to his arms loomed over the square like some unhinged new saint of iron and sweat. The crowd below was enormous: workers in flat caps, mothers in aprons, shopkeepers in Sunday coats, students, wide-eyed children, even a young priest clutching his hat like it was the last shred of sanity he had left.
Oskar took the oversized ceremonial scissors from Karl's small hands into his own.
"Your Highness," Karl hissed behind him, "please just cut it. No slogans. No strange English."
"Yes, yes, my man," Oskar murmured.
Karl flinched.
Oskar stepped forward anyway, tall and broad in his thick winter coat and crisp uniform, chest like an armored plate beneath the fabric. He didn't need a platform; he already stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd.
He raised the scissors high.
"MY MEN! MY WOMEN!" he roared. "WELCOME… TO PUMP WORLD!"
SNIP.
The ribbon fell.
The crowd exploded: cheering, clapping, whistling—half from excitement, half because when a prince shouts something that loudly, you cheer first and figure out why later.
Oskar flung the doors open with both hands.
"Inside! Inside, my people! TODAY IS FREE FOR ALL! LOOK WITH YOUR EYES! LIFT WITH YOUR HANDS! BECOME STRONG!"
The crowd surged.
Stepping inside, the first thing you saw was the lobby—a strange fusion of café and shop.
There were a few small tables and chairs, a long counter with a cash register, and behind it on the walls hung posters and rows of clothing: hoodies, caps, sweatpants, running shoes, socks, shirts. Every item had a price neatly written underneath and was marked for men or women. Each piece bore the Pump World logo, but more importantly they were revolutionary designs for 1904—soft, practical, meant for movement and comfort.
All the staff wore them, walking, breathing advertisements of a new kind of lifestyle.
From the counter, one could even order coffee. A gym and a coffee house in one—people whispered about the madness of it.
Beyond the counter, through a wide doorway, lay the true heart of Pump World.
The ground floor gym was roughly forty meters long and twenty wide: a big, rectangular hall that felt like a small factory had been cleaned, polished, and handed over to the cult of strength.
Heavy wooden beams. Whitewashed walls. The air already tinged with metal, chalk, and the faint ghost of oil.
Rows of crude but solid equipment filled the floor, built with whatever 1904 technology could manage under Oskar's direction:
long wooden benches on iron frames, with simple padded cushions and thick iron bars resting on hooks
squat stands built from riveted steel beams
rows of dumbbells from tiny to terrifying, stacked on hard steel racks like bits of a railway
simple pulley machines using thick rope and metal wheels
sandbags, medicine balls, and thick climbing ropes hanging from the ceiling
On every wall were chalkboards with diagrams: crude little human outlines with red-shaded areas showing which muscle each exercise worked.
People flowed in until the hall was shoulder-to-shoulder full. They touched the bars and benches with cautious fingers, murmuring in wonder, but their eyes kept drifting to the prince, curious to see what he would do next.
Oskar hopped up onto one of the bench press stations like a giant blond statue come to life.
He raised one hand. The noise dropped at once.
"MY MEN! MY WOMEN! LISTEN!"
The room quieted. Even the nervous creak of floorboards seemed to stop.
"This place," he said, voice booming, "is called the GYM. Not gymnasium. Not some boring old hall. Just—GYM."
He slapped his palm against his own chest.
"You come here to grow MUSCLE. You come here to become STRONG. You come here to change your body. You men—" he pointed slowly around the hall "—can become big like me. You women, do not fear the iron—muscles do not grow on you like on men. You will become toned. Beautiful. Healthy. Like the goddesses of the Greeks."
A wave of nervous laughter and red cheeks swept through the female side of the crowd.
He pointed to a big chalkboard at the far end of the hall.
"LOOK THERE—THE FIVE GREAT PUMP WORLD PROGRAMS!"
On the board, written in thick blocky chalk letters:
CHEST DAY
ARMS DAY (BICEPS + TRICEPS)
BACK DAY
SHOULDER DAY
LEG DAY
"And ABS," Oskar added, tapping his midsection. "Whenever you want ABS OF IRON."
He grinned.
"Each day, you train ONE main group—or two if you have less time to visit. At minimum: three days a week. At best: five. Not every muscle at once like an idiot horse trying to pull ten carts. Focus! Simple! Strong!"
He raised two fingers.
"There are TWO main styles of training. LIFT HEAVY with FEW REPS—for POWER! For punching, for lifting, for short bursts of strength." He raised two more fingers. "Or LIFT LIGHT with MANY REPS—for STAMINA! For endurance, for long work, for running all day. You choose. You plan. You are not donkeys. You THINK."
Murmurs of understanding rippled through the crowd. People nodded slowly, tasting the concepts like new words.
"Now…" he said, grin widening, "what am I talking about, you ask? Let me SHOW you personally."
He smirked.
Instead of undoing buttons like a normal person, he grabbed the front of his coat and shirt and, with a sharp jerk, tore them open in one violent motion. Buttons scattered like shrapnel. Fabric ripped.
Gasps and cries erupted.
Beneath, his upper body was bare from the waist up—huge shoulders, thick arms, a broad chest with dense, clearly defined muscle, every line and groove standing out. His abdomen was a neat brickwork of eight distinct ridges; his torso tapered into a sharp V down into his waistband. When he spread his lats, it looked like he unfolded wings from his back.
To most of the onlookers, it was like seeing the anatomy drawings from a medical book step off the page and move.
He ripped the last hanging rags free and tossed them without ceremony into a nearby cluster of young women. They shrieked and clutched the torn cloth like it were a bouquet at a wedding, not a shredded coat.
Tanya, in the staff line, was already blushing fiercely—but looking at the other women with unmistakable pride. That was her prince.
Karl sweated profusely, torn between panic and the dawning realization that this spectacle was, in fact, the best marketing on earth. Hans simply stared, along with half the room, in open-mouthed awe. Royalty had always been seen as somehow "different" from normal people—now they had proof. This prince looked like walking evidence that God occasionally handcrafted certain men for leadership.
Oskar flexed one arm and smiled.
Someone gasped so hard it sounded like a gunshot.
A woman near the front slapped a hand over her mouth.
A little boy on his mother's shoulders whispered, "Mama, is that even human?"
Oskar shifted, the muscles across his chest and shoulders shifting like living armor, and for fun flexed one pec.
It jumped.
A lady in a respectable hat gave a tiny squeak and dropped her handbag. Another actually swayed and fainted outright. Oskar hopped down lightly, caught her with one arm before she hit the floor, supporting her as gently as if she were made of glass.
For a brief second her eyes fluttered open, found herself pressed against his bare chest, and she promptly fainted again. The room roared with laughter.
He handed her carefully to two flustered female employees of Pump World standing nearby.
"Too much pump for first day," he said, chuckling. "She will be fine."
The tension broke. Nervous giggles turned into real laughter.
Oskar hopped back onto the bench press station and slapped the bar.
"This," he said, "is BENCH PRESS. This grows the CHEST. Watch what happens when I lift."
He began loading plates.
The iron clinked with deep, heavy notes:
Clank.
Clank.
Clank.
Every sound hammered home that this was no trick. These were real weights. Men who worked with steel and coal traded looks—this was familiar sound, familiar mass.
Soon there were three big plates on each side—around one hundred fifty kilos of crude iron.
People whispered:
"No, it cannot be…"
"He will crush himself…"
"He is insane…"
Oskar lay down, gripped the bar, and unracked it with a smooth, controlled shove.
His muscles swelled and shifted as he lowered the bar to his sternum and pressed it back up.
Down. Up.
Down. Up.
His chest compressed and then spread, pecs tightening, triceps and shoulders carving lines under his skin with each repetition. From where the crowd could see him clearly, it was like watching the mechanical workings of some living war machine.
"Look," he said between breaths, voice weirdly calm. "You see the chest working? HERE."
At the top of a rep he paused and flexed slightly; the muscles jumped again.
For a moment the only sound in the room was the rhythmic clank of iron and his steady breathing. Those farther back couldn't see, but they could hear, and that was enough to send shivers through them.
He racked the bar after eight easy repetitions, sat up, and rolled his shoulders.
"This is how you work the chest," he said. "You do repetitions. You feel the burn. You feel the sweat. You stop only when you cannot lift anymore. Few reps and big weights, or many reps and small weights—that is how you tell the body: GROW."
He slid aside.
"You!" he pointed at a sturdy-looking worker near the front. "Come, my man."
The man froze, then slowly stepped forward, stunned that the prince had picked him.
He lay on the bench. Oskar, standing above his head, demonstrated the role of a spotter—hands hovering near the bar.
"Now you see, my people," he said. "When someone lifts heavy, another stands behind to help if needed. This is called SPOTTING. We train together. We do not crush each other."
The man grabbed the bar and tried to push.
It did not move.
His face turned red with effort. Then, as Oskar hooked his fingers under the bar and added some invisible assistance, the weight began to rise and fall.
From a distance, it looked like the man was doing the impossible.
He managed a few shaky repetitions before giving up, laughing in breathless embarrassment.
"There is no shame," Oskar said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You start smaller. ALWAYS smaller. You build up. This was just to show you the difference."
He grinned mischievously.
"And when you are strong… you can add EXTRA WEIGHT. Like me."
He snapped his fingers.
"Two volunteers! Women!"
Giggles rippled through the front rows.
Tanya fought her way through the crowd immediately, along with another young woman who looked equal parts thrilled and terrified.
"Good," Oskar said. "You here. You here. When I say, you hang on like cats."
Each woman grabbed the bar with both hands and lifted their feet, letting their full weight dangle from it. Skirts and boots swung, laughter bubbled.
Oskar lay down again.
He unracked the bar—plus two full-grown women. Tanya barely weighed anything, but the effect was spectacular.
The room dissolved into delighted chaos.
He pressed them up and down, iron clinking, women squealing, skirts swaying, his chest and shoulders swelling with each rep. It looked like a strongman circus act, except the man on the bench was a prince of the empire.
When he racked the bar and helped the other woman down, she stumbled away laughing, face scarlet. Tanya, however, stayed defiantly near the bench, just in case he needed "another demonstration."
Oskar patted her head affectionately as he stood, chest rising and falling, and spread his arms to the crowd.
"You see?" he shouted. "With time and training, you become something new. Not weak and soft—but STRONG. And as you can see—the women appreciate it!"
Men burst out laughing. Some puffed their chests and hurried to the empty benches to attempt their first presses. Most failed to even get the bar off the hooks and had to be rescued by the Pump World staff, who moved quickly from station to station, demonstrating lighter weights and proper form.
Oskar, meanwhile, moved on through the crowd toward the dumbbell racks.
He grabbed a pair of heavy dumbbells and, to Karl's horror, hooked his arm around the smaller man's shoulders and dragged him forward.
"This is how you work your ARMS," Oskar called. "Biceps. Triceps. For lifting, holding, grabbing."
He and Karl stood side by side—Oskar with monstrous dumbbells, Karl with much more modest ones. They curled in unison. On Oskar's side, muscle bunched and swelled under the skin in dramatic ripples. On Karl's side, it was more… symbolic.
Several women bit their lips. A few men laughed and tried to mimic Karl's lighter curls. Children swarmed toward the smaller weights on the lower racks, picking up tiny dumbbells and copying the motion with fierce seriousness.
"First you learn with iron," Oskar said.
He set his dumbbells down.
"Then, when you are strong, this power can be used everywhere. At work. At home. On the battlefield. You become examples of what Germans can be."
He pointed at two small boys near the front.
"You two! Come!"
They ran forward, eyes huge. Oskar grabbed one under each arm and began curling them as if they were sacks of flour.
The boys shrieked and laughed, boots kicking the air.
The crowd roared.
"THIS," he shouted over the noise, "is FUN. Training should be HARD—but it can also be FUN! The gym is a place to train, but also a place to make friends."
He set the boys down and turned to Tanya, who was hovering near him like a small blonde satellite.
With exaggerated care he scooped her up.
Tanya yelped, going stiff and red as he shifted her into a princess carry.
"Now… curl with bonus motivation," he said, grinning.
Every time he flexed his arms and raised her a little, she squeaked and clutched his shoulders, the room dissolving into laughter and delighted shrieks. Men were inspired; a few immediately tried to lift their wives, girlfriends, or brave female acquaintances. Some managed; some failed and swore to return next month stronger.
"Biceps AND romance," Oskar called out. "Two for one!"
By now the hall was a storm of noise and joy.
Men were laughing and trying to copy curls with tiny dumbbells. Women were whispering and glancing at Oskar's back like they'd just seen a living statue walk off a church façade. Kids were darting between benches, flexing non-existent muscles at each other and announcing they were "big men now."
And Oskar was only getting started.
He set Tanya down—carefully, like she was made of glass and dynamite—and scanned the crowd.
His eyes landed on the young priest from the morning jog. The man was standing stiffly near the back, still holding his hat, trying to look calm and failing miserably.
Oskar grinned.
"Father!" he called. "Come, my holy man. Your turn."
The priest jumped.
"M–Me, Your Highness?" he stammered.
"Yes, my man," Oskar said. "You guide people in spirit. You must also be strong in body. That way you can be example to all the little sinners."
The crowd laughed and parted like the sea, cheering the unfortunate priest forward as if he were walking to the gallows.
Oskar led him to a barbell on the floor. He loaded it with a sensible amount of iron—heavy enough for a challenge, not enough to break a spine.
"This is DEADLIFT," Oskar announced. "Good for legs, and back, and making you stand tall."
He placed the priest's feet.
"Feet here."
He put the man's hands on the bar.
"Hands here."
He nudged his shoulders back.
"Back straight. Chest up. Imagine you are delivering sermon. No slouching."
A ripple of laughter.
Then Oskar placed one big finger gently against the small of the priest's back.
"Feel this spot, my man. When you lift, this area works hard. It burns a little. That is the muscle saying, 'I am alive.'"
The priest gripped the bar like it might bite him and muttered something that could have been a prayer.
"Now," Oskar said. "Pull!"
With a grunt and a determined glare at the ceiling, the priest heaved.
The bar rose off the ground.
His arms shook, his face turned red, his back strained—but the bar came up to his knees and then to his waist.
The room exploded.
"Ja, Father!" someone yelled. "He lifts for the Lord!"
He lowered the bar with a noisy thud and straightened, panting, sweat already curling at his temples—but there was a grin on his face now.
"There," Oskar said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You see? Even a man of God can lift iron for Germany."
The priest adjusted his collar with shaky dignity.
"If… if it strengthens the flock," he said, a little breathless, "then perhaps this… pump… is not entirely of the devil."
The crowd howled.
Oskar turned back to them, still half-presenting the priest like an exhibit.
"This feeling," he said, patting his own chest and biceps, which were now shining faintly with sweat. "When the muscle is full. When it burns a bit. When it feels like it is swelling, stretching under the skin. THIS is the PUMP."
He slapped the wall behind him with a flat smack.
"This is why this place is called PUMP WORLD. You come here to chase that feeling. The pump tells you: 'I have worked this muscle. I have told it: grow.'"
People murmured the word to themselves.
Pump.
The pump.
"Yes, my men, my women," Oskar said, tapping his temple, "pump is good. But listen carefully: MUSCLES GROW WHEN YOU REST."
He held up a big finger.
"You lift. You pump. You work. Then you REST. You EAT. You SLEEP. You STRETCH. If you never rest, you do not grow—you only break."
He glanced over and spotted Karl leaning against a pillar, gulping from a water pitcher after being bullied into curls by children.
"Even my small accountant man must rest," Oskar said. "If not, his brain explodes and I lose the only person who can count my money."
The crowd laughed again. Karl just sighed and lifted his cup in a tired salute.
Oskar spread his arms.
"Now! You have seen IRON. This is only the first part."
He pointed toward the stairs.
"Come. I will show you the rest."
They moved upstairs in a noisy wave.
"The first floor is for MUSCLE," Oskar called over his shoulder. "The second floor is for HEART and LUNGS. For STAMINA."
The second floor was a little narrower, but long, lined on one side with large windows that looked out over Potsdam's streets and rooftops. In front of those windows stood ranks of strange machines:
curved wooden tread frames with belts made of slats,
bicycles mounted solidly to the floor, their wheels turning against resistance drums,
a few "ski" rigs with ropes and pulleys attached to weighted stacks.
People stared as if they had stepped into a laboratory.
"These," Oskar said, hopping up onto one of the tread frames, "are RUNNING MACHINES. No horses. No mud. No rain. You stand here—"
He set his feet, started walking, and the belt slid under him.
"—and when you walk, the belt moves. When you walk faster—"
He sped up to a jog.
"—it moves faster. When you run—"
He broke into a brief sprint, feet slapping the wood, belt whirring.
"—it tries to keep up with YOU."
A chorus of astonished exclamations.
He stepped aside and waved to a couple of teenagers. "Come. Try."
They climbed on nervously. At first they nearly slipped, arms pinwheeling, then found the rhythm—laughing as their feet made the belts turn.
"See?" Oskar said. "You do not travel, but your HEART does. Your lungs work. Your legs work. All in one spot."
He moved to the stationary bicycles.
"And these," he said, swinging a leg over one and starting to pedal, "are for LEGS and HEART together. You ride, but stay here. Good for knees, good for lungs."
He pointed at the crude ski-rigs.
"These are for shoulders, arms, back—pulling as if you cross snow. Skiing, but without snow. Useful even if you never see a mountain."
He made a few long pulls, the ropes moving, weights lifting with dull clanks.
"Here on this floor, you chase BREATH," he said. "You build the kind of strength that lasts all day. A strong heart, strong lungs, no gasping after three stairs."
Several men in the back coughed self-consciously.
Oskar clapped his hands.
"Remember: you mix these with the iron. One day heavy lifting, another day some endurance. Or a little of both. You are not machines. You find balance."
He pointed upward.
"And now, one more floor."
The third floor was quieter.
It was mostly open—a long wooden hall with big windows on both sides, winter light washing the floor. There were stacks of simple mats along one wall, some low bars, ropes, a chalkboard, and not much else.
"This," Oskar said, "is for GROUP TRAINING. For classes. And most important—STRETCHING."
He raised a hand before anyone could scoff.
"Listen. Iron is good. Running is good. But if you only make muscle strong and never make it flexible, you become stiff. Hard to move. Like statue. Strong, but useless."
He stepped onto a mat and, to the surprise of many, bent forward until his fingertips brushed the floor. Then he twisted into a side stretch, then dropped into a deep lunge.
For such a massive man, he moved with almost catlike ease.
"Strong AND flexible," he said. "Like good steel—can bend a little, does not break."
He waved the first couple of rows closer.
"Come. Try simple things."
He led them through easy motions: hands reaching overhead, side bends, gentle twisting, toe touches that made many groan and curse under their breath.
"After lifting, after running," he said, "you stretch. You let the muscle relax, lengthen. If you do this, your joints thank you later. Your back thanks you. You do not become old man at thirty."
There was rueful laughter at that.
"Later," he added, "we will have classes. Breathing exercises. Maybe some dance. Movements for balance. For now, just remember: work, then REST. Contract, then STRETCH. This is how body stays healthy."
He finished with one more slow, controlled stretch that showed off both balance and mobility, and even the skeptical older men had to admit—to themselves, if not aloud—that perhaps there was something to this "stretching nonsense."
They descended again to the lobby.
The crowd was loud, buzzing with impressions, questions, nervous excitement.
Oskar hopped up onto the front counter, bare-chested, absolutely unbothered.
"MY WOMEN! MY MEN! MY PEOPLE!" he shouted.
The room fell quiet almost instantly.
He held up two rectangular cards.
"This," he said, shaking them slightly, "is your MEMBERSHIP CARD. One card stays here with the staff. One you keep. It has your name, your age, and when your membership begins and ends. When you come in, you show your card. No card, no pump."
A ripple of laughter.
Oskar pointed dramatically to the large sign now uncovered on the wall.
In enormous black letters:
PUMP WORLD MEMBERSHIP
5 MARKS – 1 MONTH
50 MARKS – 1 YEAR
Gasps rippled through the hall.
"Only five marks…?" someone whispered.
"That's… that's cheaper than cigarettes," another muttered.
"It's less than I spend on beer in a week," a factory man said, eyes widening.
Oskar spread his arms wide, beaming.
"Think, my people," he said. "FIVE marks a month. One less night in the tavern. Two fewer packs of cigarettes. For that, you get THREE FLOORS. Every day. EVERY NIGHT. Pump World is open twenty-four hours. No excuses!"
Women murmured approvingly.
Students pumped fists.
Children cheered because everyone else was cheering.
"You work in the morning?" Oskar said. "Come in the evening. You work at night? Come in the day. YOU ALWAYS HAVE TIME."
He swung an arm toward the clothing displays.
"And here—PUMP WORLD WEAR!"
Hoodies.
Sweatpants.
Running shoes with layered soles.
Caps.
Shirts with massive lettering:
NEVER SKIP LEG DAY
PUMP LIKE A PRINCE
MY MAN
"For today only," Oskar shouted, "the FIRST FIFTY MEMBERS get a FREE SHIRT OR CAP!"
The lobby exploded.
People surged toward the counter, waving coins and banknotes, shouting names, elbowing politely but aggressively in the way only excited Germans could.
Off to the side, another large poster hung on the wall:
PUMP WORLD – STAFF WANTED
3 MEN – 3 WOMEN
Good salary (above average workers' wages)
Free Pump World membership
Free Pump World clothing
Paid sick leave
Paid holidays (2 weeks per year minimum)
Paid maternity leave for women
Paid family emergency leave
Rotating shifts (morning / day / night)
Free training in exercise & safety
Career advancement for long-term workers.
All staff must:
learn every machine
train regularly
help members lift safely
clean and assist with daily upkeep
act as examples of health, discipline, and teamwork.
Two small-time industrialists who had slipped in out of curiosity stood in front of the poster, staring as if someone had shown them fire for the first time.
"Sick leave," one muttered. "Paid sick leave."
"Maternity leave," the other whispered. "For ordinary women."
"And paid holidays," added a third, voice halfway between awe and scandal. "Is he trying to bankrupt himself?"
"He is spoiling them," one grumbled.
"He is investing," another corrected quietly.
"And they will work like lions for him."
At the counter, the young priest hovered, looking as if he were deciding between joining a holy order or a traveling circus.
Oskar spotted him and bellowed:
"Father! Your deadlift was strong. For you—FIRST MONTH FREE. Then five marks like everyone. Even before God, that is fair."
The crowd laughed.
The priest blushed crimson but lifted his chin with dignity.
"For the health of the flock," he declared, "I shall… attempt to keep up with the flock."
More cheering. People clapped him on the back.
Tanya now stood proudly behind the counter, helping Karl write names and dates on the membership cards. Her cheeks glowed every time someone said, "One year, please," and slid fifty marks across the counter—sometimes shaking with excitement as they did.
Hans lingered near the door, arms folded, watching the line that had already doubled back into the street.
He shook his head.
"From coal to steel to muscle," he murmured. "The prince really intends to rebuild the whole country."
And Oskar—bare-chested, grinning, signing the very first membership card—looked out at the crowd and saw something dangerous and beautiful:
Hope.
Hope in the eyes of men who felt small.
Hope in the eyes of women who felt invisible.
Hope in the eyes of boys who had never believed they could be strong.
He raised both arms.
"If you wish to be STRONG," he shouted, voice echoing out the open doors,
"JOIN THE LINE!"
"If you wish to be BEAUTIFUL—inside and out—JOIN THE LINE!"
"If you wish to become a NEW version of yourself—JOIN! THE! LINE!"
They did.
The line stretched so far that people outside began climbing on benches to see what the commotion was.
And right then, Pump World stopped being just a building with some crude machinery.
It became a movement—
a promise—
a new culture awakening.
And Oskar, standing shirtless at the counter in the glowing morning light, was the living proof that the promise was real.
As Oskar signed another membership card—bare-chested, ink-stained, grinning like a madman—the morning sun slanted through the big glass windows of Pump World, casting long gold bars across the floor.
He looked up.
Hundreds of faces.
Men, women, children.
Laughing. Hopeful. Nervous. Excited.
A line stretching out the door, curling around the street like a living serpent of possibility.
Oskar felt something warm push up in his chest.
This… this business as it was, wasn't going to be a cash cow, he thought.
Profit would come, yes—some coins, some bills, enough to keep the lights on and the iron clean. Maybe about 25,000 marks per year from a single gym if things went well. But compared to the lottery? Compared to the empire he was building?
This gym was nothing.
And yet—
This is the point, he realized.
Not the money.
Not the shirts.
Not even the ridiculous mural of him flexing like a lunatic god.
It was the people.
A stronger people.
A healthier people.
A prouder people.
Citizens who could stand straighter, breathe deeper, lift heavier—
who would work harder, fight better, live longer—
and who would look at themselves in the mirror and feel worth something.
If Germany was to survive the storms he knew were coming, it needed iron fleets… yes.
But it also needed iron hearts.
He dipped his pen again, signed the next card, and handed it to a wide-eyed teenager whose hands shook with excitement.
"Welcome to Pump World, my man," Oskar said with a smile. "Now go become something great."
The boy beamed.
Oskar looked out at the crowd one more time.
This, he thought, is how we build a stronger Germany—one rep, one day, one person at a time.
And in that moment, he felt—for the first time since arriving in this world—
that he was finally beginning to shape history.