While Oskar stood bare‑chested at the Pump World counter, signing membership cards like a man stamping passports into Valhalla, shouting, "Welcome to Pump World, my man!" and shaking hands with starstruck citizens, something became obvious:
So far, the gym was drawing mostly men.
Young men, older men, workers, students, a few daring girls in long skirts—yes. But by a large margin, Pump World was a male storm.
At the same time, just next door, something else was happening—something aimed almost entirely at the women of Potsdam.
Its opening was quieter, smaller, but no less world‑altering.
A new business was about to open. One that, unlike the gym's thunderous entrance, would shock Potsdam slowly—by whisper, by rumor, by trial and error—until suddenly everyone realized they needed what it sold.
The sign above its door said simply:
AngelWorks.
Tanya's AngelWorks.
Tanya had slipped out of Pump World the moment Oskar became fully absorbed in his handshakes and flexing. She smoothed her black maid uniform, straightened her neat white apron, and hurried around the building.
As she walked past the long line of people waiting for Pump World, she reached into her pocket and drew out a small, beautiful tube—metallic red and black, smooth and gleaming. She twisted it open, and the women nearest her caught their breath.
Inside was something pointed and deep red.
Their eyes flicked from the tube to the small printed words on the side:
"AngelWorks – Lippenstift."
Lipstick.
Real lipstick.
Tanya raised her chin and, with hands that only trembled a little, applied it to her lips. The color bloomed instantly—rich, vivid, like a rose in full sun. Her mouth looked soft, full, and unmistakably striking.
Men noticed.
Women noticed even more.
By the time she passed the last few people in line, the murmurs had already started.
The Pump World crowd wrapped all the way down the street—hundreds of people laughing, chattering, buzzing with excitement. Many of them glanced toward a smaller storefront just a little further along the street.
A storefront with cream‑white paint, sky‑blue accents, and bright posters in the windows.
Pictures of soft diapers stacked neatly.
Drawings of baby bottles.
Clean rolls of toilet paper arranged like little white bricks.
Shampoo bottles.
Toothbrushes.
Women's pads wrapped discreetly in charming packets.
Jars and tubes showing hair oils, creams, and makeup.
Each product had a short, catchy slogan beneath it—modern, simple, friendly:
"Cleanliness begins here."
"For your well‑being."
"Live more easily."
"For your little angels."
"For women – comfort without shame."
Eye‑catching colors.
Plain language.
Clear promises.
Marketing that worked because it wasn't commanding—it was reassuring.
Oskar's influence.
He was, somehow, a natural at this.
Most striking of all, though, was the blonde petite young woman who appeared in nearly every beauty product poster—the head of advertising without ever having asked to be.
Hair products showed Tanya with glossy, shining waves.
Lipstick posters showed her blowing a kiss, lips a perfect red.
Skincare ads had her face in close‑up, skin smooth and flawless.
There were even pictures of her hands and nails, elegant and well‑kept.
She was eye‑catching.
She was beautiful.
Men looked at her soft, feminine features with simple, instinctive admiration.
Women looked with envy—and desire of a different kind: the desire to look like that.
Some of the lipstick posters carried lines like:
"Red lips – the color of life and courage."
"Bold lips, bolder moves."
They did their job.
The people in the line had already been staring at the posters. But when they saw Tanya herself walk up to the shop door—looking exactly like the girl in the pictures, only better—the murmuring grew louder.
"That's her…"
"Isn't that the prince's maid?"
"She's the girl in the photos!"
"She looks even prettier in real life—look at her skin!"
"And her hair…"
"Wait—she owns this shop?"
In the window displays, the model demonstrating the shampoo, the cream, the pads, the diapers—
was Tanya.
Smiling.
Hair glossy.
Skin smooth and pale.
Makeup subtle but elegant—red lips, soft lashes, neat brows.
She looked like the embodiment of the "Angel" in AngelWorks.
But in reality, standing there in her maid uniform, cheeks pink with nerves, she somehow looked even more beautiful.
A living advertisement.
A walking promise that AngelWorks products worked.
Tanya's hands shook as she pulled out a small brass key and slipped it into the lock. Oskar had suggested she walk past the crowd like this—makeup on, hair styled just so, putting on the lipstick where everyone could see. He had even coached her, to her endless embarrassment, on how to do "the hair wave" and how to sway her hips "like any real model would do."
Now, as the street fell oddly quiet for half a heartbeat, all those instructions crashed around her mind.
Still, her fingers turned the key.
She pushed the door open.
And stepped inside.
Inside AngelWorks, the other workers were waiting—three young women, all wearing crisp white AngelWorks aprons over simple but brightly colored dresses.
AngelWorks had a simple color scheme: white like clouds, blue like the sky—to suggest purity, cleanliness, and a little bit of heaven.
The girls snapped to attention the moment Tanya entered.
"Miss Tanya!"
"Welcome—and congratulations! We heard the cheers from Pump World all the way here!"
"We cleaned everything again this morning. It's perfect. We're ready!"
They were young, inexperienced, but eager.
Tanya had made sure they understood that the Prince was truly behind all of this, and that despite his kindness, he would not accept laziness or failure.
All the women here had first been interviewed by Tanya, then hand‑picked by Oskar. They had not always looked like this.
Once, they'd been dirty and poor—thin, patched clothes, eyes dulled by worry. Former orphans, daughters of widows, girls caught between poverty and the factory floor. Girls who might have slipped into the darker corners of society if no one had intervened.
Now, their hair was clean and brushed. Their skin glowed with soap and cream. Clothes neat, hands steady.
One of them—a fierce young redhead—was Oskar's personal pick for store manager.
Oskar had seen potential under the grime.
Now, so would everyone else.
He insisted AngelWorks be that opportunity—not just for customers, but for the employees too. In return, he expected their gratitude to show itself in hard work and loyalty, because this shop, unlike Pump World, was meant to be the real cash cow.
They had conditions:
No smoking.
Alcohol only on holidays.
Exercise at Pump World at least three times a week.
Free gym membership.
Free uniforms.
Paid sick days and holidays.
Paid maternity leave.
A real wage—not servant pennies.
And one more rule:
If you were caught committing a crime, you were out.
If you had a minor record already, you were forgiven once. Only once.
AngelWorks wasn't just a business.
It was a controlled, disciplined welfare ladder—built by a prince who understood exactly how people fell, and how to stop it. Lessons learned long ago in another life, working in war‑torn places where people slipped through cracks every day.
But those rules—and that prince—also meant pressure.
Tanya felt it.
The girls felt it.
Early estimates said the shop could make at least twenty thousand marks a year in pure profit after expenses. But Oskar had laughed and waved that off.
"Two hundred thousand marks a year, my woman," he'd said confidently. "Minimum. Possibly more. Your beauty alone will sell half the store."
Which had made Tanya blush so hard she'd nearly fainted.
Now, with everyone in their places, there was nothing left to delay.
She walked to the front, reached up with still‑shaking fingers, and flipped the sign from:
Closed
to
Open
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, almost at once, a pair of curious women who had been staring at the diapers in the window exchanged a look, nodded, and walked inside.
The bell above the door chimed its first little ding-ding.
Tanya straightened.
"Good morning," she said softly. "Welcome to AngelWorks."
The women paused, looked at her—her face, hair, glowing skin—then at the neatly arranged shelves: soft diapers, shampoo bottles, baby creams, toilet paper rolls, children's toothbrushes, discreetly wrapped women's products, and the small silver stand full of red‑and‑black lipstick tubes.
"What… exactly is all this?" one of them asked.
Tanya smiled.
Like a spark catching dry wood, the first sales began.
At first, there was hesitation.
One woman picked up a baby diaper, pinched the fabric, frowned.
"This… folds itself?" she asked.
"Yes," Tanya said. "Watch."
She demonstrated with practiced ease, placing an invisible baby, flipping the cloth, fastening the buttons.
"It leaks less. It's easier to wash. Less work for you."
The woman blinked.
"…How much?"
"Half a mark each," Tanya replied. "Cheaper in bundles."
The woman hesitated, then squared her shoulders.
"I'll take five."
But it wasn't just the diapers drawing attention.
The women had been eyeing Tanya herself.
"How come you look like that?" the other customer blurted at last, cheeks flushing. "Your hair, your lips, your skin… Is it really possible for us to look like that too?"
Several heads nearby turned, listening.
Tanya suddenly became very aware of her own face. She blushed, then quickly collected herself.
"We have products for hair, skin, and lips," she said. "If you like, I can show you."
She led them to a metallic silver stand where the lipsticks were displayed—smooth red‑and‑black tubes lined up like little artillery shells. Each one was marked:
AngelWorks – Lippenstift
10 Marks
The women's eyes widened.
"Ten marks?" one whispered.
Tanya nodded calmly.
"At the moment, we only have these twenty‑two pieces," she explained. "That is all until the factory can make more. So it is… exclusive. And it lasts a very long time—you will not need to buy another immediately. The tube is strong, easy to carry, and the color does not fade quickly."
The women exchanged another look.
For them, with their husbands' incomes, ten marks was not nothing—but it was hardly ruinous. And the idea of being among the first women in the city to wear a true, brilliant red…
"I will take one," the first woman said.
"As will I," said the second. "My friends will die of envy."
Tanya didn't just hand them the tubes and send them away. AngelWorks had another promise: a small side room set up like a tiny modern salon—mirrors, chairs, brushes, basins.
"There," she said. "Come. Try it first."
A few minutes later, both women emerged with hair gently set and lips painted in the same deep red Tanya wore. They looked into a mirror together and nearly squealed.
"It really… it really suits us," one whispered.
They left the shop each carrying a paper bag stamped with the AngelWorks halo logo—lipstick, diapers, pads, powder, soap—nearly thirty marks spent apiece.
Tanya watched them go, stunned, then glanced at the small ledger by the till.
Sixty marks. Just from two customers.
This might actually work, she thought, heartbeat quickening.
By the time she finished with them, other women had already flowed in. Her workers were moving from shelf to shelf, explaining products, smiling, chatting, demonstrating. The hesitant quiet had turned into a gentle, excited buzz.
Not only women, either. Two men stepped inside, looking cautious and a little embarrassed.
"My wife…" one began.
"My fiancée…" the other tried.
Both were quickly intercepted by Tanya, who guided them through the shelves with calm, confident suggestions.
"A small bottle of this for her hair," she said. "Pads and diapers will make her life easier if you plan to have children. This cream for her hands. And perhaps…" She tapped the lipstick stand lightly. "…one of these. There is no higher gift than helping your beloved feel beautiful. In my opinion, there is no real price you can put on that."
The men exchanged a look, swallowed, and nodded.
When they left, each carried more than he had planned to buy—but neither seemed to regret it.
Soon enough, women young and old were coming in: mothers with babies on their hips, pregnant wives, housemaids on their short breaks, teenage girls with bright, hopeful eyes, all looking for ways to make themselves cleaner, more comfortable, more beautiful.
To each of them, Tanya and her employees recommended not just creams and powders, but health.
"If you train your legs and hips at Pump World next door," Tanya would say, "you will find childbirth easier when your time comes. Strong muscles help, and these"—she would gesture at the shelves of pads and diapers—"make the rest less frightening."
And they listened.
It did not take long before the opening of AngelWorks became an attraction in itself, much like Pump World. Before midday, people were talking not only about the half‑naked prince lifting iron and women, but about the little angel shop next door where a maid sold magic creams and red tubes that turned any mouth into something daring.
Reporters appeared—some with cameras, some with notebooks—drawn by the twin spectacles.
By the end of the morning, they were already scribbling down names and figures, sketching diagrams of treadmills and lipsticks, preparing the headlines that, later that day or the next, would blast Pump World and AngelWorks across the newspapers of Potsdam—
and send even more customers to both doors.
However, soon everything changed.
Oskar's flexing in front of a reporter's old‑school flashing camera came to an abrupt end as a black car pulled up beside him—the same driver as always behind the wheel.
The man leaned out, cap in hand. "Your Highness, please. His Majesty is waiting."
Oskar nodded, then turned, grabbed Karl by the collar and belt, and simply picked him up.
"Alright, my little man, let's go," he said.
Karl spluttered and protested about dignity and legs being for walking, not carrying—but in truth, he didn't struggle that hard. Being hauled around like a portable advisor was… embarrassingly convenient.
The driver watched the two of them climb into the back seat together and visibly paled, saying nothing. In his heart, he whispered a silent prayer that they would not start wrestling again and attempt to kill each other in the back of his car like last time.
Thankfully, the ride passed without incident. No headlocks. No flying elbows. Just Karl grumbling and Oskar humming some off‑rhythm tune.
When Oskar arrived at the palace and stepped into the Kaiser's study, he was shocked to see that his father had moved much faster than either he or Karl had expected.
Wilhelm II had already had the papers drawn up.
The Royal Friedrich Shipbuilding & Repair Yard in Danzig was being transferred to him—here and now, in his father's office.
Karl stared, stunned.
Oskar stared, stunned.
Apparently, being royalty had its perks. No waiting months or years for approvals, committees, and rubber stamps. Just a signature and a seal and things moved. Much like with AngelWorks: most of his products hadn't required endless testing or bureaucratic torture. As long as nothing clearly poisoned people and no one powerful complained, the state did not particularly care.
And he knew his products were safe. All‑natural ingredients, no crazy chemicals. Just… a lot of soap and common sense.
When Oskar signed the documents, his name and seal went onto the ownership line:
> Owner: Prince Oskar of Prussia.
He was now the legal owner of a shipyard capable—at least in theory—of building capital ships.
In practice?
The Royal Friedrich Yard was a rusting, creaking, money‑draining disaster.
But it was his disaster now.
His baby.
A baby that would, if he had his way, produce even bigger, louder babies called Nassau‑class battleships.
At the same time, the imperial treasury deposited the 120 million mark expansion loan into his account—with strict conditions attached.
In large, unfriendly letters:
> This money may only be used for shipyard expansion.
Not for factories, not for luxuries, not for your "lottery empire or other business adventures."
Any violation = immediate imperial intervention.
Oskar stared at that last line and could easily imagine what "imperial intervention" looked like: his father, the Kaiser, with a belt in hand, smacking his backside and shouting, "Bad boy! Bad!"
The image made him sit up a little straighter.
He had no objections, of course. Not if he wanted to save Germany.
A shipyard was worth more than gold.
They weren't done, either.
To go with the shipyard, he was also assigned a new manager.
Wilhelm II directed Oskar to consult with Essen von Jonarett—Karl's father. Essen had come prepared. He recommended a man:
Hermann "Brut" Brutus, age 42.
Oskar, hearing the name, immediately thought of Marcus Junius Brutus stabbing Julius Caesar in the Senate… or Brutus of Troy, the mythical first king of Britain. In Latin, "brutus" suggested something heavy, strong, or even a little dull. Somehow he liked it. It sounded solid.
Brutus, Essen explained, had been Deputy Director at Germaniawerft until a political dispute had forced him out.
He was known for:
hard discipline
brutal honesty
ruthless efficiency
an engineering mind sharp as a saw
He was the kind of man shipyard workers feared, but respected.
The Kaiser praised him highly, and that very same day Oskar met him at the palace, with Karl standing at his side like a small, serious son.
Brutus was tall and lean, stern‑faced, with a mustache like a sharpened blade and the posture of a Prussian officer. His suit was immaculate. His eyes missed nothing.
He saluted Oskar—not a full military salute, but something close, with unmistakable respect.
"Your Highness," he said, voice calm and clipped, "I can manage your shipyard. I can turn it profitable. But I will not tolerate incompetence. I work for results, not titles. To obtain those results, I must be allowed to handle most of the day‑to‑day decisions and do things my way."
Oskar, who did not particularly enjoy paperwork or micromanagement, liked him immediately.
"You're hired, my man," he said without hesitation.
Brutus blinked once at the phrase "my man," then accepted it without comment.
To Oskar's delight, Essen hadn't just plucked Brutus from Germaniawerft—he had brought several of its best people with him:
senior foremen
hull designers
boiler specialists
turbine engineers
draughtsmen
accountants
…and even a funny‑looking shipyard dog that, according to Essen, had never missed a day of work in ten years and bit anyone who kicked machinery.
Some were old, some young, but all of them were talent.
And talent, in Oskar's new world of steel and smoke, was priceless.
The Royal Friedrich Shipyard had been losing money for years.
Inefficient. Bloated. Mismanaged.
Full of dead weight.
Oskar—guided by Brutus—did not hesitate.
The moment their train arrived in Danzig and they walked through the yard gates, Oskar called an emergency management meeting.
The room of old managers stiffened as he and Brutus entered.
Without so much as a polite preamble, Brutus opened his notebook and began reading names:
"Dismissed."
"Dismissed."
"Dismissed."
"Transferred."
"Dismissed."
It was a slaughter.
Within twenty minutes, nearly every mediocre manager, incompetent supervisor, and nepotism-hire was gone.
Only a handful of capable men remained—white‑faced but, under the shock, almost relieved.
As for the normal workers?
Oskar kept nearly all of them.
They were terrified when the prince arrived—rumors said the new owner would purge the whole yard and replace everyone with his own men.
Instead, Oskar had them line up and, through foremen and Karl's help, made each one admit his "sins." If someone was a chronic drunk, a constant troublemaker, or had a serious criminal record, it was bye‑bye. A few men went pale, removed their caps, and walked out.
The rest stayed.
The relief on their faces was almost painful to see.
One old riveter actually bowed, cap in hand.
"Thank you, Your Highness… we thought… we thought we'd all starve."
Oskar smiled softly.
"You will build Germany's future," he said. "I need all of you. And when you build, you earn big bills. With big bills you eat well. And when you are old, you will sit, happy, fat, and lazy, like respectable old men should."
Some of them even laughed.
The Friedrich Shipyard—now renamed German Works—stood in the city of Danzig, on the left bank of the Vistula River. For now, German territory. If they lost the war he knew was coming, this place would be Poland's.
Across the water stood the much larger Schönbrunn Shipyard, a historical rival, now privately owned and expanded twice already. Modern. Massive. Well-connected.
As for his German Works?
He had just over three hundred workers, outdated cranes, slow slipways, a boiler shop that wheezed steam like an asthmatic, and a foundry that hadn't been seriously upgraded since before Oskar was born.
In other words: a lot of investment ahead of him, and a lot of hard work ahead of everyone else.
But Oskar stood on the pier, inhaled the cold river air, and didn't see what it was.
He saw what it could be.
In his mind, cranes moved like ancient metal dinosaurs through the fog. New hulls slid into the water one after another, big ships being born in steel, smoke, and fire. Maybe there were even dolphins in the river, jumping beside them—a good dream.
The real river just lapped quietly against rusting hulls.
The old cranes creaked in the wind.
The yard felt… asleep.
"Soon," he whispered, "I'll wake you up, big mama. You'll make many battleship babies."
Just after New Year's Day, Oskar and Brutus boarded a train bound for Berlin.
Brutus carried a thick stack of notes, sketches, and evaluations. He looked grim.
"Your Highness," Brutus said at last, "I've studied your Nassau‑class design carefully. It is magnificent. But…"
He hesitated.
"It will be extremely difficult to execute."
Triple turrets.
Oil‑fired boilers.
Steam turbines.
An all‑heavy‑gun layout.
These were bleeding‑edge technologies.
Even Germaniawerft would sweat building such a ship.
As for German Works?
A medium shipyard on life support?
It was nearly impossible.
Almost.
Oskar nodded.
"I know," he said calmly. "That's why we start expanding immediately. Construction will begin in the second half of the year."
He tapped Brutus' notes.
"Skill shortage? We poach. Any man who knows how to weld, rivet, or build boilers—offer him triple wages. Any engineer with turbine experience—we take him. Talent is expensive, but so is losing a war."
Brutus frowned.
"Your Highness… poaching will offend every major shipyard in Germany."
Oskar smirked.
"Good. Let them be offended. When our ships sail faster and hit harder, they'll be too busy begging for contracts to complain."
Brutus stared at him for a long second—then slowly nodded.
"Yes, Your Highness."
As the train rattled toward Berlin, Oskar rested his head against the window.
Outside, snow blanketed the fields.
Smoke curled from factory chimneys.
Churches chimed in distant towns.
Villages dozed under white roofs.
The world looked peaceful.
But Oskar saw what no one else did.
He saw battleships being built.
He saw cranes lifting armor plates.
He saw riveters hammering hulls.
He saw future dreadnoughts steaming across the North Sea.
He saw history bending.
"Right now," he murmured, "German Works is a money‑devouring beast."
He smiled faintly.
"But soon… all of Europe will see. And the fate of the German Empire may just change because of it."
He imagined the first Nassau‑class battleship sliding down the slipway into the water.
He imagined the thunder of its engines.
He imagined the look on British faces when they realized Germany had leapt ahead.
Aircraft carriers.
Submarines.
A modern fleet.
Steel.
Oil.
Gunpowder.
Future.
Germany's survival—no, Germany's supremacy—would be forged right there.
One shipyard at a time.
One battleship at a time.
One choice at a time.