At Oskar's sincere invitation—and to the astonishment of everyone present—Rudolf Diesel and his entire family agreed to join the rising empire of the Oskar Industrial Group.
It was a decision born of exhaustion, hope, and the sudden appearance of a young prince who believed in them more than the world ever had.
Standing with Diesel were:
Rudolf Diesel Jr., the eldest son, a young man in his early twenties already completing higher studies—serious, disciplined, and quietly brilliant.
Hedwig "Heddy" Diesel, the daughter… who was currently holding hands with Karl, cheeks pink and eyes shining with a mixture of shyness and curiosity.
Eugen Diesel, fifteen years old, slender and sharp-eyed, tugging self-consciously at his worn jacket.
And finally Martha Flasche, Diesel's wife—mid-forties, dignified despite visible hardship, a woman whose face carried years of worry but also the quiet pride of someone who had never stopped supporting her husband.
Oskar looked at them and understood something immediately:
This wasn't merely a household.
It was a family of survivors.
They hadn't just observed Diesel's work—they had lived around it, breathed it, endured the poverty, the lawsuits, the failures, the breakthroughs. In their own ways, each family member had helped him. They had sorted parts, copied notes, brought meals, swept metal shavings, and comforted him through sleepless nights.
Now, at last, they wouldn't have to struggle for survival.
They could simply create.
Diesel was not a lone tinkerer.
Behind him existed two struggling entities:
1. The General Society for Diesel Motors – a patent and legal management body meant to handle licensing and paperwork.
2. Diesel Motor Factory Augsburg – a small-scale production workshop intended to build engines for clients.
On paper, this looked respectable.
In reality:
The Society had almost no paying licensees.
The Augsburg factory had barely any customers.
Revenues were microscopic.
Both organizations existed only because Diesel refused to give up.
What he had built were foundations lacking walls—a skeleton structure waiting for an infusion of capital, talent, and direction.
Oskar saw it instantly.
"Diesel doesn't lack genius," he whispered to Karl. "He lacks a buyer."
Karl nodded, already calculating how many engines Oskar could realistically order in the first year and how many future markets could be built from scratch.
Within the next hour, Oskar, Karl, and Rudolf Diesel sat at a rickety wooden table surrounded by scattered gears and oil-stained blueprints. There, they negotiated the most life-changing business deal Diesel had ever experienced.
Everything was arranged:
Oskar Industrial Group would acquire both Diesel companies.
All patents, rights, and designs would be purchased outright.
The price: five million marks—a figure that left Diesel glassy-eyed and trembling.
The entire Diesel family would be hired as staff:
Rudolf Jr. as an engineering apprentice,
Eugen as a junior assistant or future engineer,
Martha in administration or quality control,
Heddy… whose position Karl immediately volunteered to "supervise personally."
In return, Diesel himself would take the title of Chief Engineer at the German Engine Research Division (GERD).
He would lead research into new generations of engines—for industry, agriculture, railways, ships, submarines, tanks, and anything else Oskar's imagination could dream up.
For a man who had been one step from bankruptcy, the transformation was indescribable.
For his family, it was salvation.
Of course, patents alone weren't enough.
Oskar outlined the next steps with the same confidence he used to order artillery plans:
10–20 million marks of fresh investment.
A state-of-the-art research center in Augsburg.
A factory complex capable of producing diesel engines at scale.
Dedicated testing grounds.
A talent pipeline between German universities and Oskar's industrial empire.
Priority access to navy contracts and military prototypes.
The deal with Rudolf Diesel wasn't just a contract.
It was the birth of Germany's first unified diesel-engine industrial complex—
and Diesel knew it.
As Oskar outlined plans, funding, engineers, factories, and testing grounds, Diesel breathed out for the first time in years. The tension in his spine loosened. His shoulders dropped. A quiet tremor ran through him.
For the first time since his breakthrough in 1897,
Rudolf Diesel felt as though the world was opening instead of crushing him.
The Diesel family insisted Oskar and Karl stay for dinner—simple stew, cheap bread, but shared with nervous pride and deep gratitude. As they talked, Oskar laid out plans, Karl took notes at lightning speed, and the Diesels listened like people hearing the promise of a new tomorrow.
Heddy and Karl were inseparable the entire meal, speaking in hushed excited tones, Karl showing her the little money-pouch he kept his pencils in, Heddy showing him how she helped her father with engine schematics.
Diesel and his wife exchanged bewildered looks.
Oskar merely leaned over and whispered:
"Your daughter is in good hands. He's smarter than he looks."
By the time the dishes were cleared, the Diesel family felt lighter—like hope had finally returned to their home.
But Oskar's schedule was relentless.
They said their goodbyes.
Karl promised to visit Heddy "very soon," and her shy, glowing expression made it obvious that she would be waiting eagerly.
Stepping out of the factory into the cool Bavarian dusk, Oskar and Karl froze.
A large group—almost a crowd—stood waiting.
The newspaper boy from earlier was at the front, clutching the 1000 Mark note in both hands as though it were made of fragile glass. Behind him stood his father—broad-shouldered, hands scarred from decades of tailoring—his mother, and an astonishing number of children: girls, boys, twins, and even a little set of triplets clinging to one another like ducklings.
Oskar blinked.
Karl blinked.
The whole family bowed deeply.
"Your Highness," the father began anxiously, "we've come to return this. My son must have misunderstood… surely you did not mean to give us such a sum. We are simple tailors. We are not fit to receive…" He swallowed. "Well, anything like this."
The boy held out the note with shaking hands.
Oskar's heart softened.
He had seen this before—back in his previous life in China. Poor, hardworking families refusing charity out of dignity. Street vendors trying to hand back emergency money. Kind people who insisted on paying back every yuan even when they had nothing but rice at home.
He chuckled warmly.
"No, no… It's yours," he said. "But only if you invest it well."
The father looked confused.
So Oskar stepped closer, gently taking the man's calloused hands.
"You're a tailor," Oskar said. "A good one, I can see that much. What if I told you I have work for you? Something unusual. Strange, even. But steady. And profitable."
Karl perked up instantly.
He already knew where this was going.
Oskar crouched to eye-level with the paperboy.
"You ever make clothes for cats?" he asked.
The entire family stared as if he'd spoken in ancient Persian.
Oskar straightened and explained:
He was forming AngelWorks' cat fashion division.
They needed tailors for:
simple everyday cat clothes,
comfortable "bourgeois" cat outfits,
elaborate noble cat garments,
and, at the very top, a Royal Tier—
gold-trimmed, silk-lined cat costumes meant for queens, duchesses, princesses… and their absurdly pampered animals.
Someone had to design and sew:
samples,
uniforms,
patterns,
custom pieces for royal and noble orders.
That "someone," he decided, would be the Schneiders.
He didn't buy their shop outright—not yet.
Instead, he folded them into AngelWorks as a partner workshop with:
guaranteed monthly orders,
funds for better tools and sewing machines,
all raw materials provided by AngelWorks.
In return, they would:
design and sew cat clothing,
experiment with patterns and styles,
uphold strict quality,
and deliver on schedule.
It was absurd.
It was ridiculous.
It was magnificent.
The Schneider family looked like they might collapse from gratitude.
Oskar signed the integration papers at their tiny kitchen table—knees almost hitting the wood as he tried to fold himself into the too-small space—while half the children used him as a climbing frame. One clung to his arm like he was a tree branch, another tried to see if his boots could be used as a sled, and one of the three-year-old triplets somehow fell asleep clutching his leg.
Karl presented sketches of cat outfits:
a British "officer" cat coat,
a French kepi-wearing cat,
a Bavarian cat in tiny lederhosen with a feather in a minuscule hat.
The older Schneider children gasped in wonder.
The younger ones just shouted "KATZE! KATZE!" and demanded more pictures.
The parents could only stare, half-terrified, half-convinced they had slipped into a fever dream.
> A prince of Prussia,
sitting on their rickety chair,
feet barely fitting under their poor man's table,
promising them steady work sewing luxury cat clothing for royal courts across Europe.
This wasn't just unusual.
By the standards of 1904 Imperial Germany, it was insane.
When Oskar finally stood and prepared to leave, kissing two of the triplets on their foreheads and shaking the father's battered hand as an equal, Theresia Schneider swayed on her feet.
"Frau Schneider?" Oskar asked.
She made a tiny squeak, muttered, "Der Prinz… wirklich… in unserem Haus…" and promptly fainted.
Markus barely managed to catch her. The children erupted into chaos. One of the older sisters ran for water; another fanned their mother with a dishcloth.
Oskar only smiled, a little embarrassed.
"Tell her," he said gently, "that it was my honor."
By the end of it all, the Schneiders had:
a future,
meaningful work,
and a place—however small—in the ever-growing constellation of the Oskar Industrial Group.
When all was finally settled, contracts signed, hands shaken, and Karl physically pried away from Heddy with promises of letters and future visits, Oskar and his dwarf companion made their way to Augsburg station.
They missed the evening express to Berlin.
The only train left that night was a slower service, third class only.
Karl looked at the ticket window, then at Oskar, pale.
"Your Highness," he whispered urgently, "we can stay the night and wait for a proper first-class carriage in the morning. Or… or commission a private coach. Or—"
"No," Oskar said, already pulling out money. "We're tired. We have beds in Berlin. Third-class will do."
The ticket seller nearly swallowed his tongue when he realized who was standing at his window asking for two third-class tickets.
The platform buzzed as the rumor spread:
> "The Fifth Prince is here…"
"He bought what?"
"Third class…? Impossible."
But there was no mistake.
So the Prince of Prussia and Germany and his dwarf accountant boarded a crowded, rattling third-class carriage—wooden benches, no upholstery, no separate compartments—surrounded by:
factory workers in coal-dusted coats,
machinists and fitters from the Augsburg works,
tired textile workers with calloused hands,
a few small shopkeepers heading to visit relatives,
soldiers on leave in plain greatcoats,
a priest nodding off with a Bible in his lap,
mothers with sleepy children bundled in wool.
This was where ordinary Germany sat.
When Oskar stepped through the carriage door, conversation died like someone had cut a wire.
Every head turned.
He stood straight in his officer's coat, towering, unmistakable, with Karl trotting in behind him. For a heartbeat, the entire car simply stared.
He smiled politely.
"Guten Abend," he said.
Then he squeezed himself onto an empty stretch of bench, knees almost touching the opposite seat, Karl hopping up beside him like a very well-dressed child dragged into church.
Whispers rippled down the carriage.
"Der Prinz…"
"Is that really him?"
"Look at his shoulders…"
"He's bigger than the Feldwebel at the barracks."
"And the… the dwarf? Is that his accountant?"
"What's a prince doing in third class?"
Someone tried to stand to offer him more room. Oskar waved him down.
"Bitte, bleiben Sie sitzen. We all paid the same ten Pfennig for this ride," he said with a grin.
A few people actually laughed.
Karl pressed his notebook against his chest, torn between terror and pride. Sitting among coal-stained workers and weary mothers beside a literal Hohenzollern prince felt like something out of a political cartoon.
As the train jerked into motion, the wooden carriage creaking and swaying, Oskar leaned back against the hard seat.
Today, he had:
recruited one of the greatest engine minds of the age,
rescued a family of ten from the brink of poverty,
founded the core of a future engine industry,
and done it all without ever touching a velvet-upholstered armchair.
Now he was riding home with the very people he intended to lift up.
To them, his presence there was an unbelievable story they'd tell their grandchildren.
To him?
It felt perfectly natural.
In its own strange, wonderful way—
It was exactly where he wanted to be.