By the time Oskar's train screeched into Berlin, the lamps along the platforms were already glowing dimly through a thick veil of winter smog. From the capital, a half-hour carriage ride delivered him toward Potsdam.
True to character, Oskar refused an escort and traveled alone—one giant prince hunched in a rattling carriage like a slightly oversized sack of potatoes wearing a military coat.
But the city around him distracted him from fatigue.
Berlin at night was… beautiful, in that grimy, coal-powered way only early industrial Europe could be.
Elegant stone buildings lined the streets. Gas lamps flickered. Horse-drawn carriages clattered past on cobblestones that had seen centuries of boots and wheels. Asphalt was just beginning to appear on newer roads, but motorcars were still rare.
People dressed formally even at night—long coats, hats, gloves.
Which made the sight of a young couple walking down the sidewalk in hoodies and sweatpants absolutely surreal.
Oskar blinked.
He blinked again.
"Ah yes… Pump World staff going home. Good advertisement, my mans," he muttered to himself.
The couple waved when they recognized him. The girl nearly swooned. The boy nearly tripped.
But as the carriage rolled on, the winter air smelled… wrong.
Thick. Heavy. Burnt.
Smoke. Coal soot. Haze.
A brownish-gray fog hung over the streets like a dirty blanket. Chimneys vomited black clouds. Factories belched out soot like dragons with lung infections. Every child playing in the street wore a dusting of coal-ash on their hats and shoulders.
People burned coal in their homes nonstop—for warmth, for cooking, for survival.
Oskar coughed lightly.
He could FIX this.
In fact, his brain immediately began engineering solutions:
Simple soot traps in factory flues.
Brick filtration boxes with internal baffles.
Tree rows lining major roads to trap particulate matter.
And most important—clean electricity for home heating.
Germany was already green around the edges, but its cities needed a makeover before the lungs of an entire generation turned into charcoal briquettes.
"Add this to the list," he muttered. "Fix air. Fix trees. Fix factories. Fix… everything."
By the time the Brandenburg Gate of Potsdam appeared through the murky night, Oskar's head was buzzing with urban reform ideas.
And there beside it, glowing with warm lamplight, stood three proud buildings:
AngelWorks – Kinder und Frauenpflege
Pump World – Das Gymnasium der Zukunft
German Welfare Lottery Company Headquarters.
Tonight he headed straight for the Lotteries Headquarters. Thus soon enough Oskar pushed open the doors and inhaled the warm interior air. Only a few staff still worked this late—night guards, cleaning staff, a few accountants with dark circles under their eyes.
He greeted them cheerfully and properly this time, "My man, good evening! Hello my mans and woman!", then he marched straight to the third floor and burst into Karl's office.
"Karl, my little man—how's the company doing?"
Karl von Jonarett—General Manager, dwarf, financial genius, and veteran survivor of Oskar-induced heart attacks—looked up from ledgers with a grin.
"Your Highness, everything is going smoothly. Double Color Ball already controls more than half of Germany's lottery market. The old state lotteries are gasping for air. And with our profits, we've strengthened AngelWorks, Pump World, and Hans's safety factories—expanding into Berlin and beyond."
Oskar exhaled.
Good.
He needed this company more than oxygen.
He needed every mark it produced.
The debt to his father was now over 170 million marks. The Danzig Shipyard—his new colossal baby—devoured money like a starving lion.
The lottery wasn't just income.
It was lifeblood.
Karl continued, "Every time a five-million-mark winner appears in the newspaper, sales surge again. Instant advertising."
Oskar nodded.
He'd built a machine that printed two things:
Money and dreams.
Germans loved both.
But Karl's expression shifted.
"Your Highness… we may soon hit a ceiling."
Oskar folded his arms.
The German Empire had nearly 60 million people—a massive market, but a finite one. And already, miners, clerks, butchers, maids, shopkeepers, bored aristocrats, and half the bureaucrats in Berlin were buying tickets religiously.
"Germany's pockets have limits," he muttered. "We push too hard, they starve instead of gamble. Not ideal."
Karl nodded.
"So," Oskar said, tapping the desk, "we don't flood the market with new games. We expand outward."
Karl's eyes sparkled.
"Yes! Overseas expansion! And not just for the lotteries—AngelWorks, Pump World, Hans's helmets—everything can go abroad!"
He began pacing like a caffeinated professor.
"Your Highness, look at Europe:
Austria-Hungary—50 million people.
Russia—over 100 million, even if most are dirt-poor.
Britain and France—wealthy and gambling-friendly.
Italy, Spain, Belgium, Balkans—all have money to spare."
Oskar raised a hand.
"We start with allies. Austro-Hungary and Italy."
Karl immediately nodded.
"Austria-Hungary is practically our little brother, politically speaking. Italy is chaotic but loves gambling. If we bribe the right ministers—er, impress the right ministers—we'll be welcomed."
"But always mention the welfare part," Oskar said. "Religious conservatives melt like butter when they hear 'charity.' And poor nations love lotteries more than rich ones."
Karl snorted.
"Of course."
Oskar continued:
"Second wave: Britain and France."
Karl stopped pacing.
"You want to enter the markets… of our future enemies?"
A grin spread across Oskar's face.
"Yes. That's the beauty of it."
He tapped the desk rhythmically.
"Karl, imagine this:
British and French citizens buying our lottery tickets.
Our ads flooding their newspapers.
Pounds and francs pouring into our pockets.
And with every mark we earn…
We build guns.
We build tanks.
We build ships.
We build the most terrifying navy in Europe."
Karl nodded slowly.
"…Meaning we use British and French money to build the war machine that could one day defeat them."
"Yes. And Karl—you will figure out the legal stuff, I trust you."
"I may be a dwarf," Karl said, "but I am not short on brains. It's possible. In Britain, private lotteries are banned, but foreign charity sweepstakes are legal. We simply brand the lottery as a charitable European welfare draw and partner with a British charity. France is even easier—they gamble on anything."
Oskar clapped.
"My man!"
Karl smiled despite himself.
"And the third wave?" he asked.
"Everyone else," Oskar said. "Spain, the Balkans, Scandinavia, Belgium—even Russia. Only the Ottoman Empire may object for religious reasons."
Karl hesitated.
"Russia will be… difficult," he admitted. "We must disguise it as a Russian lottery for Russian charities. Let the Tsar take credit, we take the money. A concession from the court… some bribes… it could work."
"Correct," Oskar said proudly. "Wave money at Russian officials and they'll let us sell tickets on the palace steps."
Karl's eyes softened with awe.
"…Your Highness… this would make us the largest lottery company in the world."
Oskar grinned wide.
"And once we're established, I'll invent even more addictive games. Truly evil ones. Gambling that eats souls. But maybe that'll push people to find God after losing enough money. Win-win."
Karl coughed. He wasn't sure if Oskar was joking anymore.
"Our profits," Karl whispered, "would exceed factories… railways… even some banks. Possibly hundreds of millions a year."
"Correct, my little man."
Karl stared harder.
"…Your Highness, with that money… you could build an entire Navy."
Oskar turned toward the window.
Berlin sprawled outside, choking on coal smoke. Trams rattled. Workers trudged home. The empire hummed like a massive gray machine—alive, tired, unprepared.
"In less than ten years," Oskar said softly, "Europe will drown in blood. Armies will rot in trenches. Empires will collapse."
He turned back.
"But if Germany becomes big enough… rich enough… terrifying enough…"
He smiled.
"…no nation will dare start the war."
Karl felt a chill.
His prince—once a goofy, sweaty oddball—now sounded like a visionary. Or a madman. Or both.
"First wave—Austria-Hungary and Italy," Oskar declared.
"Second wave—Britain and France."
"Third—everyone else."
He slammed his palm on the desk.
"We will conquer Europe, Karl. Not with guns…"
He leaned forward, eyes burning.
"…but with hope."
Karl saluted stiffly.
"Yes, Your Highness."
Outside, Berlin rolled toward the new year.
Inside, one giant prince and one tiny dwarf began planning the quiet economic conquest of a continent.
And far away, in the royal palace, Tanya swayed on her feet—lightheaded, dizzy, and unaware that her pregnancy was about to change Oskar's plans even more than war.