Oskar stood before the tall windows, looking down over Berlin. From this height the city looked almost toy-like—tramlines glinting, roofs smoking, people moving like dots.
His hands were clasped behind his wide, muscular back. Clean-shaven, no mustache, just a sharp jaw and a grin that would've looked perfectly at home on a comic-book villain.
Not so long ago, he'd only had ideas with no clue how to make them real.
Now he had a key.
The key was currently standing behind him on a footstool, rustling papers like an irritated squirrel.
Karl von Jonarett.
Oskar stared at the city and allowed himself a tiny, private moment of cringe:
Good… good… now we execute Order 66…
Except in his case, "Order 66" didn't mean killing off a Jedi council.
It meant opening the gates and letting money pour into Germany from abroad.
Foreign currencies flooding German banks.
German marks flowing into German factories, railways, shipyards.
If the national pie grew big enough, then wages would rise with it, and one day maybe the average German would live like some smug Swiss banker in his old world. A sort of supersized Switzerland with better uniforms and worse humor.
That was the fantasy, anyway.
He wasn't a finance genius; he knew that much. He had instincts, modern knowledge, and a turn-of-the-century dwarf with a functioning brain. The rest they'd have to figure out as they went.
Behind him, he heard Karl moving around: the scrape of wood as he climbed onto his high chair in front of the big map-covered desk.
"Your Highness," Karl said suddenly, "you've forgotten an important country."
Oskar's inner Emperor vanished.
…Did I miss something?
He kept his gaze on the window, lifted an eyebrow, and tried very hard to sound unfazed.
"Oh? You sure, my little man?"
He could practically feel Karl bristling at the nickname.
"Yes, Your Highness, I'm sure," Karl said. He stabbed a finger at the map. "Across the ocean. The United States. Currently the largest industrial nation in the world. Their output has already surpassed ours and Britain's. They have, what, eighty… perhaps ninety million people by now. If we can enter that market and sell, the profits would be… considerable."
Oskar turned half-way, just enough to glance over his shoulder.
"Ah. Yes. The United States," he said. "Very important market. If we succeed there, we can indeed make a lot of profit. Maybe I could even star in one of their Hollywood movies as a western cowboy. Marketing at its finest. Super cool."
Karl stared at him.
Oskar coughed.
"I mean, yes. Business and money. Big bills. All that good stuff. Well noticed, my little man."
Truth was, he had almost forgotten America.
No McDonald's. No Starbucks. No Hollywood billboards. No neon New York in newsreels.
Just a big, slightly smug country across the ocean that Europeans still half-treated like an overgrown teenager with too much corn.
A teenager who, in his old timeline, would end up owning half the planet.
Right now, Europe still led in many things. Germany had Krupp's steel and gun production, world-class chemistry, electrical engineering, power systems, precision machine tools. Britain still commanded the oceans. France had industry and research of its own.
But the United States…
The United States was huge.
Land, rivers, coal, ore, oil, wheat. A population that would keep growing. Two oceans as moats, neighbors that couldn't threaten them even if they tried. Safe geography plus absurd resources.
And wars in Europe would only help them.
World War I and World War II had crippled Europe in his world and showered the Americans with gold. They'd cashed in on everyone else's disasters, turned debt into leverage, and walked out of the ruins as the superpower.
If he changed Germany's fate—if he made it stronger, more resilient—then the line of history would bend.
Maybe there would be no Hitler. No Nazis. No Second World War as he knew it.
But even in a better timeline, the United States wouldn't just vanish.
If Germany survived and stayed strong, then sooner or later, America would be its biggest rival instead of its savior.
Thinking about that made him wary.
In this era, Americans already weren't the harmless isolationists they liked to pretend to be. They'd fought Spain in 1898, smashed the Spanish colonial empire, annexed the Philippines, waded into Cuba and Puerto Rico, started treating the Caribbean like an American lake.
Under Teddy Roosevelt, they were putting on muscle fast.
From now until 1909, the U.S. Navy's battleship count would jump from seven to twenty-five, with more hulls under construction. The Army would grow from roughly twenty-five thousand regulars to over eighty thousand. And with the 1903 Militia Act—the so-called Dick Act—their state militias would slowly turn into a national, federally supported reserve force.
On paper they talked peace and neutrality.
In practice, they had already proved they were perfectly happy to swing a big stick whenever a weak enough target wandered into range.
To Oskar, all of that screamed one thing:
Build Germany up. Or be crushed between giants later.
He turned fully toward Karl.
"Karl," he said, "we start the first round of expansion as soon as possible. Make sure the United States is on the list for this round, not the next. Europe first, yes—but America early."
He lifted a hand and counted off on his fingers.
"Goal: we get our lottery into the first wave of countries before the second half of the year," he said. "Second round expansion in the first half of next year. Third round in the second half. Within three years, I want the German Welfare Lottery to be a monster. The monster. The biggest lottery company on the planet. At that point, the profits will take care of themselves."
All his other plans—shipyards, gyms, diapers, helmets, cat sand, battleships—hung from that single golden hook.
Without the Lottery printing money, everything else was just interesting drawings in his diary.
"Yes, Your Highness," Karl said, eyes bright. "I'll start drafting the expansion plan at once. If we proceed as you say… we really can turn it into a behemoth."
He glanced at the map again, and his pupils practically turned into little marks symbols.
"The German market alone already brings me—us—tens of millions in profits a year," he murmured. "If we spread across Europe, and then into the Americas… the numbers could multiply several times over."
He straightened, small chest swelling with ambition.
"It is… foreseeably," he said, choosing his words with care, "an extremely lucrative sector, Your Highness."
Oskar grinned at the window.
"Good," he said softly. "Then let's go bully the world with colored balls, my man."
Karl sighed.
"Please don't ever say that in public," he muttered.
But he was smiling too.
"By the way, Karl—my little man," Oskar said, still gazing at the map with hands behind his back, "when we enter foreign markets, it's best to recruit some local strongmen to join us. And by strongmen, I mean influential locals—business leaders, industrialists, ambitious politicians, newspaper owners. People who can push doors open."
Karl perked up. "Influential locals… yes, that would minimize resistance."
"Exactly," Oskar continued. "In terms of profit distribution, we can reduce our initial local welfare contributions and hand the share that would've gone to the royal family to them instead. Once they're on our side, our position in those markets becomes… secure."
He waved a hand dismissively.
"And besides, even in the eyes of foreign regulators, we're still giving a few percent to charity. Nobody's going to check too carefully—not yet, anyway. There's no legal standard forcing us to donate X amount to qualify as a charity-oriented enterprise."
Karl scribbled notes at lightning speed.
Although cooperating with locals meant losing a slice of profit, Oskar saw it as an investment in stability. His title as a German prince meant something in Berlin, and perhaps even in New York among certain circles. But in London, Paris, Rome? They would scoff at royal titles unless accompanied by influence or money.
Well—maybe the Olympics in 1908 could help with fame. If he could join in and win… now that would be marketing. A real-life prince winning Olympic medals? Tickets would sell themselves.
"Yes, Your Highness," Karl said, nodding vigorously.
With the lottery empire's expansion now in Karl's hands, Oskar turned his attention back to the project that mattered most: the German Works shipyard.
The Nassau-class battleships would be his first real strike—his first tangible contribution to German military power. If this succeeded, everything afterward would be easier. Arguments with the Admiralty, funding, naval influence—success had a way of silencing doubters.
After Brutus took over as general manager, the shipyard exploded into motion.
Massive investments poured in.
Slipway construction began.
Recruitment drives went out across the Empire.
Brutus launched a predatory hiring spree, poaching aggressively from rival shipyards. Germaniawerft—his former employer—became his favorite hunting ground.
It caused outrage, letters of complaint, furious telegrams.
But Brutus didn't care.
He had Oskar backing him, and Oskar had money. And power. With the prince behind him, German Works moved like a hungry wolf in a flock of fat sheep.
Before long, the shipyard's capabilities swelled. Engineers, accountants, draftsmen, metalworkers—everyone worth stealing joined for better wages and better prospects.
If German Works succeeded—if they built four Nassau-class battleships at once—other shipyards would suffer a devastating blow. They would lose the Navy's most lucrative contracts. Small and medium warship orders alone would never keep them afloat.
But success still required solving enormous technical problems.
Steam turbines. Main guns. Armor plates.
The beating heart of a modern battleship.
For turbines, Oskar had already dispatched men—along with Brutus—to the United States. The American engineer Charles Gordon Curtiss had developed a single-stage steam turbine that fit Oskar's design perfectly.
The British Parsons turbine was off the table entirely. The British would sooner drown themselves in the Thames than sell Germany critical naval technology.
So the Curtiss turbine became the only viable path.
Then there were the guns and armor.
Triple-mounted 305 mm guns with 50-caliber barrels—superior penetration, higher muzzle velocity. Armor thick enough to shrug off the British 12-inch shells.
And in Germany, only one titan could solve those problems.
Krupp.
"Karl," Oskar said, "contact Krupp for me. I'll visit them tomorrow."
Krupp wasn't just a company—it was Germany's industrial empire within an empire. Steel, cannons, armor, shipbuilding subsidiaries… a colossus straddling half the nation's industry. If Oskar could pull them into his orbit, the rest of his plans would accelerate dramatically.
The thought made him grin.
Sometimes he felt like a walking cheat code.
Knowledge of future wars.
Future technologies.
Future innovators.
Future disasters and breakthroughs—
and exactly which scientists he could poach early if he felt like it.
It wasn't fair, really.
But life had never been fair in the first place.
Now, at last, he had the chance to rewrite the fate of an empire.
Oskar stretched, rolled his shoulders, and let out a long, satisfied breath.
Karl, meanwhile, was still staring at his notes like a priest poring over holy scripture. Finally, he cleared his throat.
"Ah, Your Highness… before we leave, there is one more matter."
Oskar paused mid-stretch and turned.
Karl shuffled through yet another stack of papers.
"It concerns Hans. Or rather, the industrial safety line—helmets, gloves, and boots. Albrecht Safety Works."
Oskar raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How goes that little crusade?"
"Surprisingly well… and frustratingly slow," Karl said. "As you instructed, Hans made sure everyone knows the equipment is designed and sponsored by the Fifth Prince himself. Branding is highly effective."
Oskar smirked. "Who wouldn't want their fragile bodies protected by royal authority?"
Karl continued, lifting one sheet.
"In the coal mines we've reached so far, reception is overwhelmingly positive. Several crushed-toe incidents were prevented thanks to the reinforced boots. Workers report fewer hand injuries. And the helmets… well." He smiled faintly. "Some miners call them 'miracle pots.' Apparently a few chunks of falling rock bounced off with only bruises, no blood."
Oskar snapped his fingers. "Damn it. I should've trademarked 'Miracle Pot.'"
"But," Karl said, holding up a cautioning hand, "many mines only purchase helmets for the deepest shafts. Some factories refuse to issue gloves except in the most dangerous sectors. Boots are adopted fastest, but even then… usage is inconsistent."
He looked up, a troubled expression forming.
"Some workers have begun coming directly to our factories to buy equipment themselves. Their employers refuse to provide it. This is… not the outcome you desired."
Oskar sighed deeply.
"Typical leadership. Needs three near-deaths before they accept a good idea. Sometimes even that's not enough."
Karl nodded solemnly.
"Quite so, Your Highness. Which brings me to my suggestion."
He gathered his courage.
"If… perhaps… you could persuade His Majesty to support a new worker-safety regulation? Nothing extreme. Just a basic law requiring helmets, gloves, and boots in workplaces where injury is likely. Mines… factories… shipyards. It would protect workers. It would strengthen the monarchy's image. And it would win the Social Democrats' favor without costing the industrialists much at all."
Karl tapped one page.
"The cost of equipment per worker is roughly nineteen marks total. Helmets four. Gloves two. Boots thirteen. Equipping a medium factory or mine with, say, three hundred workers would cost around 5,700 marks. A very affordable expense considering that mines earn millions and factories thousands to hundreds of thousands annually. And the gear lasts a long time."
Oskar tilted his head thoughtfully.
A safety law.
He hadn't planned to wade into labor reform this early… but it made perfect sense.
Mandatory equipment → guaranteed stable contracts.
All companies forced to participate → level playing field.
Safer workers → fewer injuries, fewer strikes, fewer socialists screaming.
Longer working careers → more productivity.
It was—he had to admit—brilliant.
"I see," Oskar murmured. "I'll look into it. Perhaps Father can be… nudged."
Karl brightened almost instantly.
"Excellent, Your Highness. Now—just one more tiny matter."
Oskar groaned.
"There's always one more tiny matter."
"This one is good news, I promise."
Karl pulled out a small folder stamped with the AngelWorks crest.
"The cat sand and cat brushes," he announced. "We finally have working products. The first batches will reach the AngelWorks stores tomorrow."
Oskar blinked.
"Stores? As in plural?"
Karl puffed up slightly.
"Yes! We now have three. The first became such a popular attraction—people visiting just to marvel at all the products—that we opened two more. All three shops should be profitable within their first month. Although…"
He hesitated.
"I fear the lines outside may only grow longer."
A slow, smug smile crept across Oskar's face.
"Of course they will. People love health and beauty almost as much as they love good food."
Karl straightened his suit.
"Indeed, Your Highness. With the pet line emerging, the safety equipment expanding, and the lottery spreading abroad… your industrial network is becoming Germany's strongest private force."
He hesitated again.
"And if you do intend to negotiate with Krupp… and perhaps integrate parts of their steel or armaments divisions with our own ventures… then the Oskar Industrial Group could grow into something truly immeasurable."
Oskar let out a low whistle.
"Karl, my little man… that actually sounds like a very good idea."
"Thank you, Your Highness."
Oskar stretched again, cracking his spine loudly.
"Well then," he said, rolling his shoulders, "what do you say? Back to the palace? A drink or two—milk, of course, no alcohol. And then I desperately need some well-earned beauty sleep."
Karl checked the clock, blinked, and nodded.
"Yes… it is quite late. Very well, Your Highness."
Oskar grabbed his coat from the rack, flung it over his shoulder in dramatic princely fashion, and strode toward the door.
Karl hurried behind him, clutching his folders like the blueprints of tomorrow.
Together they stepped into the hallway—
one prince armed with ambition and forbidden future knowledge,
and one dwarf armed with ledgers, logic, and growing dreams of empire.
As the office lights flicked off, Oskar bent down, hoisted Karl onto his shoulders like a gleeful child—
and then broke into a full sprint toward the palace,
Karl shouting in panic and indignation the whole way.