Oskar's mind snapped into motion before his shock could catch up.
His gaze swept the hall and locked onto the Pump World staff—his first and most loyal trainers—clustered near the side wall. Six men, six women; all of them already showing the unmistakable signs of almost a year of regular training: stronger shoulders, straighter backs, the quiet physical confidence of people who had sweated under iron and discipline.
They moved the instant they saw his look.
The women rushed forward and formed two two-person arm carries—linking wrists and forearms to create sturdy "chairs" of human muscle. Tanya and Anna were eased into those living thrones, supported on all sides. The men hovered close, ready to lift, steady, or swap in if needed.
"To my room!" Oskar commanded, his voice ringing through the hall, surprisingly steady. "Now. Follow me!"
The improvised procession sprang into motion.
Pump World trainers carried the women; two of them ran ahead to throw doors open. Karl darted after them, dragging Heddy Diesel by the hand, both of them pale and wide-eyed.
Guards and maids scattered in every direction. Some raced ahead, shouting for the palace doctor, the midwives, anyone with experience in childbirth. Kitchen staff pressed themselves flat against the walls to clear the way. One court musician dropped his violin with a clatter.
The Kaiser, the Empress, and Luise followed quickly behind Oskar, determined not to miss the birth of their first royal grandchildren—however unconventional the setting.
The other princes, less eager or simply better at hiding their discomfort, remained in the hall to entertain guests, smooth ruffled feathers, and keep the gathering from descending into complete chaos.
The House of Hohenzollern had celebrated many birthdays, in many palaces, over many generations.
None had ever begun like this.
The moment Oskar's door slammed shut behind them, the atmosphere changed.
Out in the hall it had been a spectacle. In here, in his private sanctuary—soft-lit and warm, walls padded with hangings, cribs lined up and tiny clothes folded on chairs—the crisis became terrifyingly real.
Tanya's breathing came in short, sharp bursts.
Anna's nails bit through his sleeve as she clung to him.
Oskar scooped them both up as if they weighed nothing and eased them onto his enormous king-sized bed, settling them among the pillows and blankets he'd had laid out "just in case."
Without thinking, he climbed onto the mattress between them, bracing his broad body as a living pillar for them to lean against. One arm slid behind Tanya's shoulders, the other around Anna's; his big hands found backs and arms and fingers to hold.
"Easy, easy, I've got you," he murmured, voice already shaking.
They were beyond words, groaning through clenched teeth, clutching at him as the next wave of pain hit.
Anna's nails dug straight through the cloth of his trousers into his thigh.
Tanya's hand locked around his bicep and squeezed until it hurt.
Oskar's pulse hammered.
God above—engines, steel, factories, laws, I can handle. But this? How do you fix screaming, bleeding, terrified women?
He forced a breath in, then another, and made his voice as steady as he could.
He began to knead Anna's shoulders, slow and gentle.
She hissed, then her breathing fell into something like a rhythm.
His other hand moved over Tanya's lower back, thumb pressing and circling.
"Breathe," he urged. "With me. In… and out… that's it. You're doing perfectly."
They leaned into him, trembling, each contraction sharper than the last.
The door burst open again.
Karl skidded across the padded floor, nearly tripping, Heddy Diesel yanked along in his wake. Both of them looked as if they'd seen a ghost.
Heddy clapped a hand over her mouth. "Karl, we shouldn't be here—this is—this is utterly improper—"
"I know, I know," Karl hissed back, eyes never leaving Oskar on the bed. "But if I leave him alone he'll do something heroic and idiotic and we'll all regret it. I'm staying."
He dashed to the bedside and clambered up with surprising agility.
"How can I help?" he demanded.
Oskar, half wild with stress, glanced over.
"Karl—Tanya's back. Gently. No, gently. You're small, she's small—perfect match. Do what I'm doing, here."
Karl blinked, then planted his hands on Tanya's lower back and copied Oskar's movements, pressing and sweeping in little circles.
"L-like this? Is this right?"
Tanya choked on a gasp—then let out a breath that was almost a sob of relief.
"Yes… Karl… that… thank you…"
Karl's face lit with frantic pride. He kept working, utterly focused, as if he'd just been given the most important job in the Empire.
Heddy, still blushing to the roots of her hair, edged closer and took Anna's free hand, squeezing it gently.
"I'm here," she whispered. "It's all right. Just breathe. You're not alone."
Another set of footsteps thundered against the floor.
Luise burst into the room, nearly stepping on Karl's discarded hat. She stopped dead at the sight: her enormous brother stripped to his shirtsleeves in the middle of the bed, pinned down by two screaming women; Karl kneading Tanya's back; Heddy clutching Anna's hand; Pump World staff milling in the background.
Then she did the only thing that felt natural to her.
She climbed straight onto the bed.
Planting herself between Tanya's and Anna's knees, she pressed both hands against the straining bellies and, in utter seriousness, declared:
"Alright, little Oskar-babies—be good. Come out nicely, and don't you dare make my Oskar cry. Do you hear me? God, please make them healthy."
Tanya actually barked out a laugh in between groans.
Anna managed a wet, shaky smile.
Oskar almost choked. And yet, somehow, Luise's ridiculous little prayer took the edge off the panic.
Then came the heavier tread of many boots and skirts.
The Empress swept in like a field marshal, skirts caught up in one hand, eyes blazing with fear and fury. The Kaiser stumbled in behind her, followed by a flurry of maids and nurses and, moments later, two breathless midwives in white aprons.
"MOVE!" the Empress snapped.
Half the room jumped.
"Pump World staff—OUT. Kitchen girls—OUT. Only those who know what they're doing stay."
The trainers, proud and terrified, bowed themselves backward out of the room. A few maids scurried away. Karl and Heddy stayed rooted where they were; Luise refused to budge. Oskar, Tanya, Anna, the Empress, the Kaiser, the midwives, and a handful of essential servants remained.
The palace doctor arrived last, hair disheveled, coat misbuttoned, medical bag clutched in his hand.
"Wh-where are the—oh, dear God—Your Highness, why are you—"
"Quiet," the Empress snapped without looking at him. "This is a birth, not an examination. Make yourself useful or get out."
The doctor shut his mouth with an audible click.
The midwives moved to the bed, one to each side, hands brisk and practiced as they checked Tanya and Anna.
One looked up at the Empress.
The other met the Kaiser's eyes.
Both had gone pale.
"Your Majesty… Your Highness…" one whispered. "They're… both ready. It's begun. There's no time to move them anywhere. It has to be here."
Tanya screamed into Oskar's arm.
Anna clutched his leg hard enough to bruise.
Oskar felt his own breath catch.
Then he drew himself up as best he could between them, hands still on their backs, his voice suddenly deep and steady.
"Alright," he said. "Everyone to your places."
He looked from the midwives to the doctor, to Karl, to Heddy, to Luise, to his parents.
"We're bringing my children into the world."
And the room exploded into organized chaos.
What followed was a long and grueling labor—
the kind that folds hours into strange shapes,
the kind only women understand,
the kind that makes the world shrink to pain, breath, and prayer.
As the day dragged forward,
the sun crawled across the summer sky,
and the palace grew quieter and quieter.
Every corridor held its breath.
Servants walked on soft feet.
Guards exchanged worried glances.
Even the kitchens whispered, as if a loud sound alone might break something fragile.
Inside Oskar's chamber, the universe had narrowed to:
contractions
whispered prayers
hot tears
cold cloths
trembling hands
and the unwavering presence of one very large, very terrified young prince
who held both women against him every time another wave hit.
Evening settled over Berlin.
The sky turned gold, then orange, then the deep rose of a fading day.
And then—
at last—
the silence shattered.
It was Tanya who delivered first.
Just as the last ray of sunlight disappeared behind the rooftops,
a thin, piercing cry rose into the warm air—
small, but fierce, like the sound of life announcing itself.
A boy.
Red-faced and strong, lungs filled with fire.
Tanya sobbed with relief.
Oskar's hands shook so badly that one midwife had to guide his fingers as he cut the cord.
The Empress pressed a trembling hand to her lips and whispered:
> "A grandson… my first…"
The Kaiser said nothing.
He simply stared, wide-eyed, as if afraid to blink.
Anna, older and seasoned by life, labored differently.
Her breaths were slower, her pushes steady and deliberate—
as if her body already understood there was twice the work to do.
Nine minutes after Tanya's son was born,
another cry rose up—higher, softer.
And then—
another.
Two girls.
Twins.
Small, yes—too small for the date on the calendar—
but breathing, warm, pink,
their tiny fingers curling instinctively toward the nearest touch.
Three infants born in a single hour.
Three voices crying over one another.
Three new Hohenzollerns entering the world on their father's birthday.
No birth in the history of the imperial family had ever unfolded like this.
The midwives cleaned the babies with careful, reverent hands,
wrapping them in soft white blankets,
before placing each tiny bundle into the arms of their mothers.
And the room fell utterly silent.
Because all three babies—
every single one—
had hair so pale it looked like spun silver,
as if moonlight had woven itself into their scalps.
Hair that gleamed like frost, like winter sunlight on fresh snow.
Then, one by one, the infants fluttered open their eyes.
Gasps rang through the chamber.
They were violet.
Not blue.
Not grey.
Not the washed-out newborn eyes of an ordinary infant.
Violet.
Bright.
Luminous.
Striking like amethysts in lamplight.
The Empress dropped to her knees with a soft, broken sound.
The Kaiser pressed both hands to his mouth.
One midwife began to cry openly.
The doctor murmured a prayer without realizing it.
Anna held her twin daughters as if afraid they'd vanish.
Tanya stared at her son in stunned wonder, tears streaming freely.
And Oskar…
Oskar looked at all three children as if the world had tilted on its axis.
Three perfect newborns.
Three tiny miracles cradled in soft arms.
Three infants who held their mothers' sweetness—
and his sharp, bright eyes.
There was no doubt who their father was.
Not to the midwives.
Not to the Empress or Kaiser.
Not to Karl, Luise, or any witness present.
And not to Oskar.
They looked like destiny made flesh.
For a long moment, Oskar simply stared at the three newborns—
at their tiny fingers curled like budding leaves,
their soft silver hair luminous under candlelight,
their impossible violet eyes blinking lazily at the world.
His heart felt too full.
His breath too thin.
His thoughts… barely thoughts at all.
Instead, a storm of half-remembered characters from video games, xianxia novels, MMO skill trees, biblical archangels, anime protagonists, and cool-sounding idol names whirled inside his reincarnated brain like an overclocked server.
God, they look like they walked out of a fantasy cutscene…
When he finally found his voice—
after ten seconds of rapid-fire internal brainstorming—
it came out rough, trembling, and strangely solemn.
He rose slightly from the bed—still wedged between Tanya and Anna—and gently lifted his son, holding the newborn boy like a war banner he was presenting to Heaven.
And then he proclaimed, with dramatic flair worthy of a JRPG final boss introduction:
> "My son's name shall be… Imperiel!
A brave warrior of light and justice!"
The midwives jumped.
Someone gasped.
The Empress blinked.
Oskar continued, unfazed, turning toward the twin girls nestled against Anna:
> "And my daughters shall be… Juniel and Lailael!
Pure and good, and more beautiful than anything this world has ever seen!"
He placed Imperiel gently back beside his sisters on Anna's lap, staring down at the three tiny faces with shining eyes.
The babies didn't object.
They merely blinked up at him, as if accepting their fate as protagonists of a very dramatic future.
The room, however, erupted into stunned silence.
The Kaiser opened and closed his mouth twice.
The Empress looked as if she'd been struck with a Bible.
One midwife dropped a towel so abruptly it slapped onto the floor.
"…Absolutely not," the Empress whispered at last, in the voice of a woman confronted with calamity.
The Kaiser cleared his throat—imperial dignity wavering like an old chandelier in a storm.
"Oskar, my boy… you are strong and wise, yes, but these…" he gestured vaguely, "…names… are somewhat too… creative. These are not names a Hohenzollern has ever carried. And the church—"
His voice trailed off as he realized the names sounded like a cross between the Book of Enoch and a manga.
To him: dangerous.
To Oskar: perfect.
Like something from a video game trailer.
Oskar lifted his chin stubbornly.
"It's because they're miracle children," he said.
"Miracle children deserve names that are… bad ass."
The Empress's jaw fell open.
Karl, from the corner, punched the air in support.
Luise nodded eagerly. "They sound epic!"
Heddy Diesel looked faint.
The Kaiser looked scared.
One midwife nearly crossed herself.
Oskar pressed on:
"In my world—uh—my heart—I've always believed names should carry power. Meaning. They must be unique. Memorable. Names that make the people say: these are Oskar's children."
His modern Chinese gamer brain was firing on all cylinders now:
archangel suffixes,
MMO protagonist aesthetics,
biblical flair,
and the instinctive desire to brand his children with names no mortal had ever used before.
He wanted names that no other child on earth would ever carry.
Names German children would whisper with awe.
Names that would become legend.
The Empress buried her face in her hands.
The Kaiser muttered a defeated-sounding "Um Gottes Willen…"
And thus began the first-ever Imperial Baby Name Emergency Council.
It lasted exactly six frantic minutes.
Servants hovered awkwardly.
Maids exchanged terrified glances.
Karl attempted to argue theological justification for the "-el" suffix.
Luise adopted a battle stance in Oskar's defense.
The Empress demanded at least some normalcy.
The Kaiser insisted on middle names so traditional they could be recited by monks.
Oskar threatened to name them all after dragons if pushed.
When that failed, he tried bribing his parents with money and political promises.
This made them angrier.
One of the midwives fainted when she heard the boy's name started with "Imper-."
Finally, Oskar threw down his trump card.
"It's my birthday," he said gravely.
"And this is my wish."
The Empress let out a long, exhausted sigh—the sound of a woman defeated by a son far too powerful for his own good.
"Fine," she said, flinging a hand into the air.
"Fine! The first names may remain.
But the middle names follow proper custom, or God strike me down."
Oskar grumbled, but nodded.
And so, with half the room trembling in disbelief and the other half crying from emotion, the three newborns were blessed with names that would echo through Germany:
Imperiel Friedrich Wilhelm Oskar von Preußen
Karl nearly tripped trying to pronounce the full string.
Juniel Anna Luise von Preußen
Anna burst into tears when she heard her own name included.
Lailael Sophie Cecilie von Preußen
The Empress approved. Cecilie would be touched later — or deeply confused.
Oskar scowled at the middle-name avalanche,
but pride practically glowed from him.
Because he had protected the names that mattered:
Imperiel. Juniel. Lailael.
Names that belonged to no one else on Earth.
Names that sounded like they had descended with the silver hair and violet eyes.
Names worthy of children touched by something greater.
And so it was that on the 27th of July, 1905—
the seventeenth birthday of Prince Oskar—
three new lives came into the world.
Three healthy infants,
born early but strong,
perfect, luminous.
Three silver-haired, violet-eyed stars
whose names would be whispered across Germany by dawn
and across Europe within the week.
Oskar gathered all three into his arms—
one boy, two girls, three miracles—
his eyes burning, his hands trembling.
Tanya wept softly beside him.
Anna kissed her daughters' foreheads through tears.
Karl openly bawled into Heddy Diesel's shoulder.
Luise, torn between jealousy and joy, beamed with pride.
And Oskar bowed his head over his children and whispered:
> "Thank you… truly… thank you."
In that moment, with three tiny destinies against his chest, Oskar knew that nothing in either of his lives had ever felt so perfect.
When the naming debate finally ended and the Empress stopped threatening divine wrath, the doors were opened just enough to let in the waiting crowd.
One by one, the guests from the birthday hall streamed into Oskar's chamber—nobles in silk and medals, generals still smelling faintly of cigar smoke, industrialists craning their necks for a glimpse, even a few maids too excited to hide their smiles.
Congratulations washed over the room.
Hands clasped Oskar's shoulders.
Blessings were murmured.
An artist, breathless with excitement, began sketching the scene for a future painting—and for every newspaper in Berlin.
And that was when Crown Prince Wilhelm finally dared to step into the doorway.
At first, he saw only backs and shoulders and movement—people clustered around the great bed, bodies shifting with cheerful murmurs. His parents stood near the headboard, laughing at something Oskar had said. Luise was perched on the edge of the mattress, talking animatedly, practically glowing with joy.
Then the crowd shifted—
—and Wilhelm finally saw them.
Oskar sat in the center of the bed like some mythic figure carved in marble. Shirt open, hair damp with sweat, skin flushed from exertion, his massive frame gleaming in the lamplight:
Shoulders broad enough to block the view behind him.
Chest and arms corded with muscle.
Abs defined like they were sculpted.
Neck thick as a wrestler's.
Jaw sharp.
Eyes bright.
A prince?
No—something larger, something that made the generals stare and the servants hold their breath.
Tanya clung to one of his arms, glowing with exhaustion and triumph.
Anna leaned against his other side, cheeks still wet with tears of joy.
And in Oskar's arms—
three tiny bundles.
Three perfect infants.
Three impossibly beautiful newborns with silver-blond hair that shone under the candlelight—
and eyes that opened just enough to reveal a rare, gleaming amethyst-violet.
For a full heartbeat, Wilhelm forgot how to breathe.
He had never seen anything so beautiful.
Not the Crown Jewels.
Not the imperial regalia.
Not even Cecilie in her wedding gown.
And the thought struck him like lightning:
How can these possibly be Oskar's?
How does he get this?
Beside him, Cecilie gripped his arm.
"Mein Gott…" she whispered. "Wilhelm… they're beautiful."
Beautiful.
The word sliced through him.
His jaw tightened until something clicked in the hinge.
Around him, whispers seeped like poison through the crowd:
"Truly, Prince Oskar is blessed by God…"
"Three children—on his seventeenth birthday!"
"This is a miracle for the Empire."
"The House of Hohenzollern will flourish for centuries."
"He must be chosen by Heaven…"
Wilhelm felt something cold coil under his ribs.
Chosen by God?
No—he did not believe that.
Could not believe that.
In his eyes, Oskar was not blessed by God but tempted by the Devil, given gifts no normal man should hold.
Because what kind of seventeen-year-old looked like that?
He wasn't small or weak himself—standing taller than most officers, well-trained, leanly muscled.
He had spent months in the palace's Pump World gym Oskar had created, lifting iron, breathing hard beside his brothers.
And what had he gained?
A slightly better physique.
Modest strength improvements.
And Oskar?
In one year—
—Oskar had transformed from a sweaty, awkward boy into a creature who looked as if he'd stepped off the pages of legend.
No training did that.
No routine explained it.
Either he was blessed by God—
or cursed by the Devil.
Wilhelm preferred the second.
At least then God might still be on his side.
He was snapped from his dark thoughts when Cecilie tugged his sleeve.
"Oh Wilhelm, please—let's go closer. Maybe we could hold them!"
He looked up at her.
As always, she was too tall.
Even barefoot she nearly matched him; in her favorite shoes, she was slightly above him.
The humiliation gnawed at him every day.
At public events he often had to stand on higher steps, or arrange for her to sit so that the difference wouldn't be captured in photographs.
But outwardly, he managed a reasonable smile.
"No, my dear," he said softly. "Go if you wish. I can see perfectly from here."
She seemed disappointed, but obeyed, moving toward the bed with genuine warmth in her eyes.
Wilhelm watched Cecilie go—watched how the lamplight caught the soft brown of her hair, how gracefully she moved in pearls and silk—and felt… nothing.
She was respectable, yes.
Noble, yes.
Proper, yes.
A perfect picture for photographs and parades.
But he did not love her.
Their wedding night had been… fine.
Polite.
Expected.
Two well-bred young people doing what duty demanded of them.
There had been no wildness.
No heat.
No sense that the world might crack open.
At one point he had tried, awkwardly, to introduce something different—
a length of rope, a whip he'd brought half-hidden, hoping to recapture some echo of what had once made his blood sing.
She had only laughed softly, assuming it was some silly joke, and tossed the whip onto a chair before kissing him with gentle, innocently dutiful affection.
After that, he had not tried again.
Miss Love had been different.
Miss Love—
the notorious woman the Berlin papers had whispered about,
the older courtesan with the painted lips and clever eyes,
the one they said was too far past her prime to bear children anymore.
With her, he had not been a crown prince.
He had been a man.
She had understood pain and pleasure in equal measure.
Had understood what he needed without him fumbling for words.
With her, the whip and the rope hadn't been a joke.
With her, humiliation and devotion had comically, obscenely coexisted.
With her, he had felt alive, seen, unmistakably himself.
Father had called it depravity.
Had banned him from visiting her and shamed him for it.
Had declared such "BDSM nonsense" unworthy of a future Kaiser,
as if the mere taste for it made him unfit to wear a uniform.
And yet here was Oskar.
Oskar, with two women openly in his bed. Former Maids, not princesses.
Both just having given birth.
Both living inside the palace like royalty.
Both openly acknowledged, accepted, blessed by the Emperor and Empress themselves now.
The injustice made Wilhelm's teeth grind.
Miss Love was one of the most respected brothel workers in Berlin, who could no longer have children yes, but she was mature and fun, and despite all that she had been spoken of like filth by father and told not to accept Wilhelm's money anymore.
But Oskar's maids, because they were apparently more respectable and younger, because their bodies could bear sons and daughters, were embraced as if they were not much of a scandalous thing at all.
And Wilhelm, staring at his brother with three impossible angel-children in his arms, could not for the life of him understand why that was somehow less scandalous than what he had done.
Then he saw the symbolism.
One boy.
Two girls.
One father.
Two mothers.
The perfect mirror of Oskar's household.
Mythic.
Clean.
Narratively flawless.
Something people would whisper in taverns, churches, alleyways.
Something unforgettable.
And then Oskar's voice rang out over the crowd:
"Imperiel. Juniel. Lailael."
Names sharp as lightning.
Names ending in -el—the mark of angels, prophets, holy beings.
The room cheered.
Cecilie reached out to touch the babies' cheeks with trembling hands, enchanted.
Wilhelm rolled his eyes—
—and then the palace priest barged through the doorway, breathless.
He stumbled to a halt at the sight.
Then he saw the babies.
His lips trembled.
His knees buckled.
And he fell to the floor, crossing himself again and again.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered in a voice thick with emotion,
"truly… he is chosen by the Lord…"
The room fell into reverent silence.
Wilhelm stared at the priest with something like horror.
So this is what Oskar told him yesterday…
Whatever Oskar had whispered in confession—whatever visions or prophecies he claimed—this priest believed them now.
Believed him.
Believed these babies were from Heaven.
The urge to scream surged hot into Wilhelm's throat.
Instead, he clenched his fists, forced his expression neutral, and turned away.
No, he thought bitterly.
Not Heaven.
This is the Devil's work.
And without another word, Crown Prince Wilhelm left the room.
Behind him, the celebration swelled.
Flowers were brought.
Blessings given.
Tears shed.
Laughter rang.
Cecilie held one of the babies and smiled.
And Wilhelm walked away, feeling for the first time in his life that the ground beneath his feet was not his anymore.
That destiny was shifting—
and his little brother was at the center of the shift.