"Donate a battleship?"
Konteradmiral Ludwig von Birkenhagen actually blinked.
For a man who usually reacted to surprises with the emotional range of a stone wall, that was the equivalent of falling out of his chair.
A battleship.
Not a launch.
Not a torpedo boat.
A capital ship—tens of millions of marks of steel, guns, armor, and coal.
Even a prince of the royal house, living off dividends from Hohenzollern properties, couldn't casually finance something like that. Not alone.
"Your Royal Highness," Birkenhagen said slowly, "are you joking?"
His tone left no doubt what he thought the answer should be.
He was a rigid, old-fashioned man. In his world, a prince making empty promises to escape his studies was not just childish—it was an insult to the honor of the service. Germans did not joke about pledging ships they couldn't afford.
Oskar straightened his shoulders and put on his best "I am very serious adult" face.
"Admiral, I am not joking with you, my man," he said solemnly. "I know that with my current… abilities, I will fail."
He caught himself.
"Not school. I mean… money. Financial resources. Right now, building a battleship is absolutely impossible."
He tapped his chest.
"But, you see, my man—I will use money to make money. In these four years, I will earn enough bills for big ship. I swear in the name of Chi—" he coughed, "no, in name of… personal honor, that I am very clear-headed, very serious person, not crazy."
His face said I am determined.
His grammar said I fell down several flights of stairs as a child.
Birkenhagen studied him in silence.
He had no idea where this boy's confidence came from. To him, Oskar looked like someone who belonged anywhere but on a bridge, near a radio, or in command of anything sharper than a spoon.
Maybe, he thought, it would be best for everyone if this strange prince never joined the Navy at all.
And yet—the audacity, the sheer shamelessness of the proposal, stirred something in the old man. Amusement, maybe. Curiosity. Or the faint, foolish part of him that still believed in miracles.
Oskar pressed on.
"Admiral, compared to one big battleship, whether I sit here and learn to shout 'aye aye' is not important, yes? If I can fulfill my promise and extra battleship is built, that is great thing for the Navy. Big benefit. If I fail, the Academy loses nothing. You lose nothing. Only I lose face."
He smiled, wide and stupid and earnest.
Birkenhagen's lips twitched.
Logically, the chances this boy could pull off such a feat were microscopic. But if—by some insane twist of fate—he did manage it, the Kaiserliche Marine would gain a ship it otherwise never would have had.
If he failed, well… the worst consequence was a humiliated prince and some annoyed officers. Germany wouldn't sink.
He exhaled slowly.
"Very well," he said at last. "Your Highness, I will agree to your… proposal. But there will be conditions."
Oskar's eyes lit up.
"Hit me," he said, then quickly corrected, "I mean—please speak, Admiral."
Birkenhagen folded his arms behind his back.
"You have four years until you reach the age at which most officers complete their initial training," he said. "Within two years—two, not four—you must show me clear proof that you are making progress toward this… battleship. Real progress. Not words. Not dreams. Money. Contracts. Partners. Something tangible."
He narrowed his eyes.
"If you cannot show that within two years, you will return to the Naval Academy and complete the remaining two years in full—classes, drills, duties, everything. Do you understand?"
He paused.
"And if you struggle, I will find ways to… soften the academic embarrassment. For the sake of your family. But you will be here. In uniform. As a proper cadet."
This way, even if the prince was just blowing smoke, there would still be time to repair the damage. Two years of freedom to chase his fantasy, two years of mandatory training after he crashed back into reality.
Oskar's grin nearly split his face.
"Admiral," he said, "you have chosen the path of light, my man."
It was honestly a miracle he didn't add a thumbs up.
Getting Birkenhagen to agree, to open a side door in the iron wall of the Academy, had been harder than any boss fight he'd ever played.
But now?
Now he had time.
Time to make money.
Time to dodge structured education and schoolyard bullies.
(Probably no girls in this naval academy, but you never knew with nobles and their weird hobbies.)
He stepped forward, seized the admiral's hand, and shook it with embarrassing enthusiasm.
Birkenhagen allowed it, though his face suggested he had never been less comfortable in his life.
Then Oskar and Karl bowed and left the office.
Birkenhagen stood by the window, watching them cross the courtyard below.
The tall prince with the strange walk and stranger vocabulary.
The short attendant striding beside him like a resigned shadow.
"This Royal Highness…" Birkenhagen muttered, shaking his head. "Is he mad, or simply a fool?"
He sighed.
"But if he truly donates a battleship within four years…"
He looked out toward the distant masts and shipyard cranes.
"…then I will be glad of today's decision."
Duty demanded more than hope, however. He turned back to his desk, pulled out a telegram form, and began to write.
He reported everything:
– the prince's visit,
– his bizarre request,
– his promise to fund a battleship,
– and the conditions Birkenhagen had imposed.
He did not embellish. He did not hide his doubts. He simply laid out the facts and respectfully requested the Emperor's forgiveness for taking such an unconventional decision with a royal son.
In his heart, the admiral still hoped.
If the prince succeeded, Germany's navy—and the Reich itself—would be stronger.
If he failed… well. Then the Kaiser would deal with him.
"You Promised WHAT?"
Outside the Academy, once they were safely away from naval ears, Karl finally exploded.
"Your Highness," he hissed, eyes wide as saucers, "are you really going to donate a battleship to the Navy within four years?"
As someone who managed Oskar's finances, Karl knew exactly how much money the prince had. It was a sizable personal fortune—for a private individual.
For a battleship, it was pocket change.
Even if Oskar poured in everything he had and never bought another coat again, it wouldn't cover more than a fraction of the cost. It was madness.
Oskar waved a hand casually.
"Don't worry, Karl, my man. I know the future."
Karl's face went completely blank.
"I mean," Oskar corrected, "I know… markets. Trends. Opportunities. My current bills are far from enough, yes. But soon, they will not be. From now on, we work hard. We make big money. I do not want to break my word to the Admiral. And I definitely do not want to go to school."
Karl stared at him like a man watching someone juggle lit dynamite.
"If you fail," he said slowly, "the Admiral will hate you, the Navy will hate you, the Emperor will explode, and we will be selling newspapers under a bridge. You realize this, yes?"
Oskar shrugged.
"Then I simply don't fail."
Karl closed his eyes. "Wonderful. That is exactly what every madman says before history proves them wrong."
Still, he followed.
It was his job, and, for better or worse, Oskar was his prince.
While Oskar and Karl were still rattling back toward Potsdam on the train, Wilhelm II received Birkenhagen's telegram.
He read it once.
Then again.
By the end, his mustache was bristling.
Oskar refusing normal study, running off to Kiel early, making wild promises about funding battleships, negotiating with the Academy director behind his back—
"Hmph!" Wilhelm II slapped the telegram onto his desk. "Oskar grows more out of line every month. Does he think he is some kind of business genius now? That studying is for fools, and money falls from trees?"
He clenched his jaw.
"If money were truly so easy to make, the whole of Germany would be rich merchants by now."
Near the desk, Essen von Jonarett—the Emperor's long-serving steward and Karl's father—bowed slightly.
"Your Majesty," Essen said carefully, "it may simply be that His Royal Highness wishes to test himself. Dean Birkenhagen's solution is… not unreasonable. Even if His Highness fails, he will still be forced back into the Naval Academy in two years. And if he succeeds…"
He hesitated.
"…then he will have given a great gift to the Navy and the Empire."
Wilhelm II did not despise businessmen. He understood the value of capital. But he wanted his sons in uniform—leading troops, commanding ships, showing the people that the Hohenzollerns shared their burdens.
And Oskar, of all sons, had been the strangest of late.
"Perhaps I hoped for too much," Wilhelm II muttered. "It is natural, I suppose, for one son to turn out… differently."
His gaze hardened again.
"Very well," he said at last. "Let the boy play merchant. I want to see what tricks he thinks he can pull in a few years."
He picked up the telegram again.
"If, when the time comes, he cannot fulfill this promise—if he brings shame instead of ships—then he will no longer hold the title of Prince. He will be struck from the rolls of the House of Hohenzollern and stripped of all claims and income."
Essen bowed his head, outwardly calm. Inwardly, his heart clenched for his own son, tied by fate to this reckless prince.
"After that," Wilhelm II said coldly, "we shall see how good a businessman he and that dwarf of his are on the streets. Without our name."
Disappointment sat heavy on the Emperor's shoulders.
In his eyes, Oskar had gone through all this trouble simply to avoid study, to avoid duty, to avoid becoming a proper officer like his brothers.
Such a person, he thought bitterly, was not worthy of being a prince of the German Empire.
And more and more—like half the palace staff—he suspected that whatever had happened when the boy fell down the stairs a year ago had done more than bruise his skull.
It had changed him.
Wilhelm II stared out the window toward Berlin, toward Potsdam, toward the palace where his strange fifth son would soon return.
"Very well, Oskar," he murmured. "Impress me… or disappear."