It was already dark when the train rolled back into Potsdam.
Oskar did not go back to his lovely golden cage.
He went in, grabbed a suitcase, stuffed in his favorite pillow and blanket, some important documents, a couple of notebooks—and, most importantly, his passbook with nicely obscene numbers written inside.
Then he walked right back out of the palace.
No farewell dinner, just a few "my man, what a nice day" lines to the confused guards who tried to ask where he was going. No dramatic speech.
Just one sweaty prince still in two-day-old clothes he hadn't taken off once, one dwarf attendant with his own suitcase, and between them the last of their future warship money.
He knew the telegram from Kiel would either already be in Wilhelm II's hand or arrive within hours.
The Emperor would read: "YOUR SON PROMISED ME A BATTLESHIP" and react in one of two ways:
Laugh.
Decide to kill him.
Either way, being within immediate shouting distance of the man did not seem wise.
So he left. Quickly.
Karl von Jonarett followed without hesitation, carrying his small case and wearing an expression that said I regret everything and also I'm very interested in what happens next.
A young blonde-haired, blue-eyed maid watched from the steps, wringing her hands. She tried one last time:
"Your Highness, do you need a bath? A change of clothes? Anything?"
Oskar only said, solemnly:
"Where there is a will, there is a way."
The maid had no idea what that meant, but it did not sound like "yes, I will bathe."
The palace gates closed behind them with a clang that sounded suspiciously like "no refunds."
They did not look back.
They walked to the station, bought tickets, and took the night train to Berlin.
City of smoke.
City of factories.
City of banks.
City of opportunity.
If you wanted to make tens of millions of marks, you didn't do it in Potsdam feeding swans. You went where the money lived.
On the ride, Karl finally said what had been chewing on his spine since Kiel.
"Your Highness," he said quietly, "I hope you understand that building even a single battleship will require at least forty million marks, yes? More, if you want it to actually float."
Oskar nodded confidently.
"Yes. I like money."
Karl closed his eyes for a moment, then continued.
"And you understand you currently have… what?"
Oskar handed him the passbook. Karl flipped it open.
Five million marks.
A huge sum for a private person—boosted by the fact that after Oskar's "fall down the stairs" a year ago, sympathetic royals from other courts had sent "get well" money.
But it wasn't nearly enough for a battleship.
"Five million," Karl said flatly. "You do realize this is our startup capital. So we are missing… thirty-five million or so."
Oskar grinned.
"Big money starts small, my man."
Karl gently banged his head on the table.
"We are so doomed," he muttered.
They checked into one of the finest hotels in Berlin.
The kind with polished marble floors, heavy carpets, enough alcohol to tranquilize Karl's growing stress, and staff trained to treat princes with… issues.
The manager practically folded in half when he realized the disheveled man in a sweaty uniform was indeed a Hohenzollern prince. He offered the best suite with shaking hands and pretended not to notice that Oskar's coat smelled like old sweat, train smoke, and some kind of greasy food he'd spilled on himself.
Karl frowned at the bill. Oskar waved him off.
"Hotel price does not matter," he said. "One must spend big to become big."
Karl looked like he hated that logic but lacked the energy to argue.
Once they were alone in the suite—and once Karl had drunk enough to take the edge off—he turned serious.
"Your Highness, please stop doing pull-ups on the canopy bed frame," he said tiredly. "It is expensive. Also, I must now ask plainly: what exactly do you intend to do? Earning forty million marks in four years is not a dream. It is something even our colonies in Africa do not make in a year."
Oskar dropped down from the bed, wiped the sweat off his handsome, greasy-looking face that hadn't seen a wash in two days, and sat at the table cluttered with bottles. He steepled his fingers and regarded Karl.
"Karl," he said, "have you really, truly decided to work with me? If we fail, you know what happens. Emperor angry. Navy angry. No palace. No salary. No safety. Just streets. No wives."
Karl didn't hesitate.
"Of course, Your Highness," he said. "You are my friend—and frankly the only person willing to accept a dwarf as an attendant. It is not easy to find a respectable position for someone like me in this day and age. And I… believe you will succeed."
Of all the princes, Oskar had been the least arrogant. He treated Karl like a person, not a child or a freak. He shared food, jokes, stray thoughts. For someone like Karl, that mattered more than rank.
"Good," Oskar said, eyes brightening. "Then, my man, I will not fail you. Before long, we will shock the business world and all of high society."
Somewhere, history groaned.
Karl's lips twitched despite himself.
"Very well," he said. "So, for God's sake, man—what is the plan?"
Oskar reached into his suitcase and pulled out his diary, the leather cover worn and covered in little doodles of unicorns and monkeys with guns and helmets and futuristic armor.
"Behold," he said, sliding the diary across the table. "Our weapon."
Karl took it cautiously, opened it—
—and froze.
On the first page he saw a half-naked woman in a very small bathing suit, labeled:
"Modern swimwear – probably big money."
He flipped the page, face turning pink.
Nylon stockings. A sketch of a woman's legs with notes about "future fashion" scribbled next to them.
He swallowed, turned the page again.
Now there were drawings of a "supermarket" labeled big money; rockets and aliens; a red flag of some unknown future China planted on the Moon with Oskar drawn next to it, saluting in a German uniform; penguins with rifles; tanks; planes; maps of some strange future war in Ukraine; notes about "stocks to buy," about "year when internet begins," about "first German gym with supplements and real training program," a martial arts school, game ideas, architectural sketches, countless doodled pandas wearing helmets or eating pickles.
Karl was so confused his brain began to vibrate.
Finally, Oskar leaned over, flipped several pages ahead, and stopped at the one he actually meant to show.
At the top, in big letters, it read:
Deutsche Wohlfahrtslotterie
(German Welfare Lottery)
Beneath it:
Charts.
Rules.
Payout tables.
Examples.
Karl's eyes scanned lines like:
33 red numbers, 16 blue numbers
choose 6 red + 1 blue
match all for "jackpot"
jackpot: 5,000,000 marks
"Wait," Karl said slowly. "Is this really your master plan? A lottery?"
Lotteries were not new. Various German states and European countries already ran them. But the prizes were small, the rules simple, the excitement limited.
Oskar's version was something else. And as someone with a gambling streak in his past life, he knew it all too well.
"Yes, my man," Oskar said. "It is called 'Double Color Ball' in my—" he caught himself, "—in my imagination. Red balls and blue balls. Six red, one blue. You match all, you get life-changing money. Many balls, big money. But with less balls you also win small prizes. One blue only? You still win something. People love small wins. It is little spark of false hope. Keeps them hooked, my man. Also makes many people poor. Their family gets angry, they fight, chaos, drama—very human."
He tapped one of the diagrams.
"Big jackpot. Many small prizes. Many people win often. Many people keep buying. Some happy, some not—but most are hopeful for better life."
The structure was mathematically brutal and morally questionable, like all good gambling systems.
High odds for small rewards, astronomically low odds for the jackpot, but perfectly tuned to keep people coming back.
Oskar had seen this work in his old world. On him. On his friends. On strangers. He'd watched his countrymen throw money at these things week after week. He knew exactly how addictive—and how profitable—it was.
He just wasn't used to being the one on the house side of the table.
Karl read in silence for a long few minutes, occasionally glancing at a panda in the margins wearing a spiked helmet.
The son of the Emperor's steward was no fool. He'd had a good education, and he'd watched fortunes made and lost in court circles. He knew the shape of real money when he saw it.
When he finally closed the diary, his heart was beating faster.
"Your Highness," he said slowly, "I have to admit… this design is far more enticing than any lottery I've ever seen. The way the prizes are arranged, the chance of small winnings… it's… dangerous. In a good way. For us, at least."
"So you think it can succeed?" Oskar asked.
Karl nodded. "If we can secure legal approval, and if we can market it properly as something respectable and patriotic instead of purely immoral… yes. Once it starts, I think it will spread very quickly."
"Germany has over sixty million people," Oskar said. "Millions already buy lottery tickets. Double Color Ball—our version—will make even more people buy. Even if taxes are heavy, even if we share revenue with the state, we still make big profit."
He tapped the rough projections he'd scribbled in the margins.
"If each drawing brings net profit of one million marks, three times a week…" He smiled. "One hundred fifty-six drawings a year. At least 150 million marks. Maybe 200 million. One battleship? Two? Three? No problem, my man."
Karl swallowed.
"Right," he said weakly. "Although you do realize out of those sixty million, not all are adults. But… I understand your meaning."
He could see it now.
Not just one battleship.
A whole fleet, if this insane plan actually worked.
"However," Karl said slowly, thinking aloud, "if it truly works this well… it will attract attention. The wrong kind."
Even as a prince, Oskar was far from being the Emperor's favorite. He had a title, yes—but in the great forest of Hohenzollerns, he was just one small, weird branch.
If the German Welfare Lottery started spitting out millions in profit, other people would notice.
And in high society—and in capitalism—notice often led to coveting.
"Other capitalists will not sit quietly while you rake in millions from the pockets of the masses," Karl said. "They will be jealous. They will try to force their way in. Buy you out. Undercut you. Bribe officials, sabotage you, slander you—anything."
Oskar nodded.
He knew this story.
In his original world, he'd seen players cheat in games, seen a virtual girlfriend break up with him in front of thousands of viewers, watched companies devour competitors, governments twist under money, families shatter over inheritance.
"The blood of capital," he said, "is always sticky. Like bubblegum."
He looked down at the diary.
This lottery wasn't just a business. It was his lifeline.
"Many of my future plans will depend on this," he said. "If Germans keep buying tickets, we get money for ships, for industry, for… everything. If someone takes this from us, we are dead men."
Karl closed the diary carefully, as if it might bite.
"So our problem," he said, "is not whether people will buy. They will. The problem is how to protect this gold mine once we strike it."
Oskar nodded again.
"Yes. We need protection. Legal. Political. Maybe… partnership with the state." He smiled faintly. "Harder to steal from a prince whose pockets are tied to the government's."
He looked up at Karl, eyes bright with equal parts excitement and madness.
"First we build the mine," he said. "Then we build the fortress around it."
Karl sighed, half terrified and half drunk.
"Very well, Your Highness," he said. "Then our next step is simple."
He took a deep breath.
"We must convince the government of the German Empire to let you sell hope to sixty million people."
Oskar grinned.
"Hope," he said, "is very good business, my man."
And somewhere far away, in Kiel, an old admiral stared out at the gray sea and wondered if he had just unleashed the strangest force the German Empire would ever see:
Not a battleship.
Not a general.
But a prince with bad German—
and a lottery.