Thunder shook the glass in the War Council Chamber as if the sky wanted to sit in on the meeting.
Rain hammered the palace roof. Lightning flared white through the tall windows, throwing nervous shadows of eagles and crossed swords over maps pinned to the paneled walls.
Around the long oak table sat the men who decided the fate of the German Empire:
Kaiser Wilhelm II at the head, hand on the carved lion's armrest.
Grand Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz, master of the navy's expansion.
Prince Heinrich, commander of the High Seas Fleet.
General von Moltke the Younger, new Chief of the General Staff.
Chancellor Bernhard von Bülow.
Count von Warren, chairman of the Naval Technical Committee, looking as if he'd swallowed an entire lemon.
They were here for one reason.
HMS Dreadnought had been launched.
And Germany had chosen how to answer.
There was no more arguing tonight. No more old men muttering about "unproven concepts" and "reckless youth."
The age of dreadnoughts had begun, and if Germany hesitated now, she would live under British naval shadow forever.
Wilhelm II rose to his feet, boots planted wide as thunder rolled overhead.
"Meine Herren," he said, voice cutting cleanly through the rumble, "we have made our decision. Now we must make it real."
For a heartbeat no one spoke.
Behind the Kaiser, stormlight flashed again. The tall windows rattled. The great painted map of Europe seemed to tremble on its hooks.
Then the Kaiser turned toward a heavy, iron‑bound cabinet in the corner.
"Before we discuss details," he said more quietly, "I will show you why we are here."
He took a key from his pocket, turned it in the lock, and opened the cabinet door.
Inside, wrapped in cloth as if it were a relic, sat a small wooden crate, no larger than a bread box.
Wilhelm stepped back to the table carrying it with surprising care. He set it down, drew back the cloth, and lifted something out.
Every man at the table leaned forward.
What the Kaiser placed on the polished oak was a battleship.
Not a real one—but a model carved in metal and wood at a 1:200 scale. Even on the table it was big: long, compact, heavy‑looking, all business.
Three triple turrets, each with three thick barrels. A tight armored citadel. Clean lines. No decorative nonsense, no figurehead, no ram. Just steel, guns, funnels and fighting tops.
It was Prince Oskar's battleship.
Rendered with obsessive precision by a master model‑maker in Potsdam, under secret imperial commission.
A hush fell over the room.
Tirpitz sucked in a breath through his teeth.
Prince Heinrich murmured, almost involuntarily, "…Wunderschön."
Even Count von Warren—who had once waved away this design as the fantasy of a boy—couldn't hide the flicker of awe in his eyes.
"Majestät," he said quietly, "to see it like this… not as ink on paper, but as a ship… it is magnificent."
The Kaiser allowed himself a small, tired smile.
"He sent me the blueprints months ago," Wilhelm said. "I had this made in secret, to better imagine what such a ship would be."
He ran a finger along the tiny belt armor.
"Function over elegance. Strength over vanity," he said. "He understands steel."
The room watched as he demonstrated the craftsmanship: each little gun barrel could elevate and depress, the turrets turned smoothly through a full circle, the propellers spun under his fingertips. The model, he mentioned almost proudly, actually floated if placed in water.
Several men had to fight down the childish urge to ask if they could try it in a bathtub.
The storm cracked again above them.
Then Tirpitz cleared his throat, dragging the room back from the spell.
"Your Majesty, it is impressive," he said. "More importantly, now that we have committed to the boy's—" he corrected himself, "—to His Highness's design, we must discuss practicalities. Blueprints must be duplicated and standardized. We must determine which yards will receive them, and how quickly they can begin."
Von Warren sat a little straighter, eager to prove he was no longer the fool in this story.
"Yes, yes, of course," he said. "The Naval Technical Committee will draw up a new Konstruktionsordnung based entirely on the Fifth Prince's plans. A unified construction protocol—no improvisations from yard to yard. We will need full sets of working drawings, weight estimates, stability calculations—"
Moltke lifted a hand.
"And new doctrine," he added. "Triple turrets change everything. Gunnery training, ammunition supply, powder magazines, fire control… We must adapt from the very beginning, not improvise later."
The words tumbled faster now—men suddenly aware they were trying to rebuild an entire battlefleet on the fly.
Until a practical question finally cut through the storm of technicalities.
"Majestät…" Prince Heinrich said slowly, glancing around. "Where is Oskar himself? Should he not be here?"
The table stirred.
It was a fair point.
They were talking about redesigning the German fleet around a 17‑year‑old's drawings, and the 17‑year‑old was nowhere in sight.
Wilhelm's gaze slid to the far end of the room, to where a quiet, neat man sat with a leather ledger open, ink pen ready.
Franz Bergmann—Karl's father. The Kaiser's ever‑present secretary and note‑keeper.
"Bergmann," Wilhelm called. "Where is that boy tonight?"
Bergmann looked up, adjusted his spectacles, and replied in the weary tone of a man who had spent months watching Prince Oskar turn Germany upside down.
"Your Majesty," he said, "to the best of my knowledge His Highness is currently with young Priest Arnold… attempting to persuade the Archbishop that the Church should permit him to marry both Fräulein Tanya and Fräulein Anna."
Silence dropped over the table like a hammer.
Von Bülow blinked.
Von Warren's pencil clattered from his fingers and rolled onto the map of the North Sea.
Moltke made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh and a cough at the same time.
Prince Heinrich closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his temples.
Tirpitz whispered under his breath, just loud enough for those nearest to hear: "Gott steh uns bei…"
The Kaiser, however, slowly began to smile.
"Aha," he muttered. "So that is what occupies him while we plan his warships."
He stroked his moustache, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in a sort of amused calculation.
"Well then," he said at last, straightening up, "the boy need not worry."
He looked around the table, one hand resting lightly atop the little metal battleship.
"If his ships float as he claims," Wilhelm said, voice growing firmer, "if they surpass what the British have built, and make Whitehall nervous…"
Another roll of thunder punctuated his words.
"…then I shall personally see to it that he marries both Tanya and Anna."
Several jaws dropped at once.
"The Church," Wilhelm added, moustache bristling with imperial stubbornness, "will agree. One way or another."
A flash of lightning lit the chamber white.
No one dared to comment.
Part of them was horrified. Part of them was impressed.
And not a single man at the table doubted that the Kaiser meant it.
If dreadnoughts bought Germany safety and glory,
then forcing the Church into approving a double wedding for one troublesome prince
was a small price to pay.
Wilhelm II sat back down, the chair creaking under the sudden shift of weight.
"Now," he said briskly, as if he had not just promised to bully half the Protestant clergy,
"back to the matter at hand."
The storm thundered overhead.
The ministers leaned forward.
And the council resumed its grim work.
The Very Next Morning.
Prince Oskar woke up in his bed with a soft groan, Tanya curled against one side, Anna against the other, and at least one infant wailing somewhere in the room for attention.
It took him a moment to realize—
…his coat still smelled faintly of incense.
Right.
Yesterday.
The Archbishop.
He rubbed his eyes, sat up, and winced as a toddler tugged at his hair.
He gently pried the tiny fingers loose and leaned back against the pillows.
Yesterday had not been an ordinary day.
He had spent nearly two hours in the presence of the Archbishop of Berlin.
Not confessing.
Not repenting.
Arguing scripture.
Which, even for a reincarnated Chinese man turned prince, had not been easy.
Luckily young Priest Arnold had stood beside him the entire time —
like a trembling herald convinced he was guarding the next Moses.
The meeting had not gone the way Oskar wished…
…but it also had not gone the way anyone expected.
Word had reached the Archbishop that the Fifth Prince sought not absolution, but permission to marry two women at once.
It was madness.
Scandal.
Impossible.
And yet…
the Archbishop had agreed to hear him.
Not because it should be allowed,
but because something about this boy had rattled the clergy more than they cared to admit.
Oskar was ushered into a high, echoing chamber with stained‑glass windows and heavy oak chairs carved by dead kings. Arnold followed close behind, clutching his Bible like a shield.
The Archbishop began, voice stiff:
"Your Highness, the Church cannot bless sin."
Oskar bowed respectfully.
"Then let us begin with Scripture," he replied calmly. "Surely Scripture cannot condemn what God Himself allowed."
He spoke like no prince the Archbishop had ever met.
He cited Abraham with Sarah and Hagar.
Jacob with Leah and Rachel.
David and the wives God Himself claimed to have given him.
"Second Book of Samuel, chapter twelve, verse eight," he said without hesitation.
The Archbishop actually blinked.
Oskar went on, gently but relentlessly:
Exodus 21:10. Deuteronomy 21:15. Laws that regulated men with two wives rather than banning the practice outright.
He did not shout.
He did not boast.
He simply quoted, explained, and connected verses like an educated theologian rather than a nearly two‑meter‑tall seventeen‑year‑old prince with two pregnant maids at home and three children already in the nursery.
Even the Archbishop had to murmur at one point:
"Your knowledge of Scripture… is unusually thorough, Your Highness."
Arnold beamed like a man watching a prophecy unfold.
The Archbishop countered as expected:
Christ's words: "The two shall become one flesh."
Paul's admonition: "The husband of one wife."
Lutheran tradition: monogamy as Christian order.
He insisted that princes must model virtue for the people.
Oskar listened respectfully, then answered just as quietly:
"Virtue also means responsibility, Your Grace.
Shall I cast out one mother of my children and call that holy?"
The Archbishop faltered.
Because that wound was not so easily justified.
Then Oskar brought out the blow Arnold had been silently praying for:
Philip of Hesse.
Luther's reluctant toleration of a second wife to avoid greater sin.
The Archbishop froze.
Every German theologian knew that story. It was the great, embarrassing ghost rattling around the Lutheran closet.
Oskar did not gloat. He only said:
"If Luther could consider it in special cases,
then surely my wish to protect two mothers and three children is no worse."
Silence settled over the room.
Arnold whispered a prayer—not of condemnation, but awe.
At last the Archbishop leaned forward and asked, very quietly:
"Tell me plainly, Your Highness…
Do you seek this for love?
Or for lust?"
Oskar answered without a heartbeat's hesitation:
"For duty.
For the well‑being of two women I cherish.
For children I refuse to abandon.
And for the strength of Germany, which must grow in number, health, and hope."
Watching him speak with conviction, humility, and that strange fire that unsettled half the clergy in the city…
…the Archbishop felt something unexpected:
Doubt.
Not doubt in Scripture.
Doubt in whether this boy should be judged like ordinary sinners.
He did not grant approval.
Not even close.
But he did not condemn him.
In the end he said only:
"Your case… is most unusual.
I cannot bless what you ask.
Yet neither can I call you wicked.
Continue in prayer, Your Highness.
God will make plain His will in time."
Arnold nearly fainted with relief.
Oskar left the chamber not victorious, but undefeated.
He had impressed the Archbishop.
He had stirred the man's conscience.
He had created hesitation where certainty once stood.
Most importantly, he had given the Church a face‑saving way to eventually accept what it could not yet approve.
Arnold caught up to him in the corridor, eyes shining.
"Your Highness," he whispered, "I believe… I truly believe… that God may have chosen you."
Oskar sighed.
Then smiled, tiredly.
"Let's hope He chose me for peace, not trouble."
Trouble, of course, had its own plans.
Because now Oskar was no longer in a vaulted church chamber, but in the Kaiser's study, facing Wilhelm II and Admiral von Tirpitz across a heavy desk.
On one side: the sovereign and his naval minister.
On the other: a stack of documents.
The transfer agreements.
This was the moment the four Nassau‑class battleships being built at Oskar's German Works shipyard formally became the next capital ships of the Imperial Navy.
Once completed and tested, they would be commissioned into the fleet—
—and the yard that had nearly ruined him would become the foundation of a new naval era.
"Your Highness, thank you for everything you have done for the Navy. The entire Navy will remember you," said Tirpitz, his usual iron expression softened by genuine respect.
To most men, Oskar's gamble would have seemed insane.
Acquiring and expanding the shipyard had swallowed a fortune.
Laying down four battleships at once was a monstrous undertaking.
If the Navy had refused the design, his losses would have exceeded 300 million Marks—perhaps more. In a country with barely a billion Marks in annual revenue, that was national‑budget territory.
But Oskar was no ordinary investor.
In the last year alone, First Aid for Dummies had exploded across Europe and even into Russia and the Americas, earning him close to 20 million Marks. Now his new German Man comic and the Oskar Industrial Group's growing annual income of roughly 125 million Marks meant that even a 300 million Mark hit, while painful, could be survived—and turned into leverage.
Tirpitz understood that. He had seen the numbers.
"Your Excellency," Oskar replied with a small smile, "it is what I should do. As a prince of the German Empire, it is my duty to strengthen the Empire. Personally going to the front in uniform is… not my ideal. I would prefer not to get blown up driving a truck again. Ah—no, what I mean is—" he coughed, flustered, "I wish to use my own methods to make Germany stronger."
He really had to stop letting Ukraine slip out of his mouth.
The Navy's formal adoption of the Nassau design lifted a great stone from his chest. Four battleships—accepted. The total cost of acquiring and expanding the yard and building the ships had been estimated by Brutus and Karl at roughly 350 million Marks. Now, under the agreement with Wilhelm II, the hulls themselves would offset the money the Kaiser had lent for the shipyard. Oskar would bear only the construction costs.
Spending a little over a hundred million Marks to acquire a modern battleship yard?
A bargain.
And soon, for him, a hundred million would no longer be terrifying.
Already, Karl had begun quietly expanding the German Welfare Lottery overseas to Britain and France. While he himself at the Crown Prince's wedding, had slipped away long enough to speak with Archdukes and envoys from Austria‑Hungary and Italy. With their cooperation, the "People's Welfare Lottery" had been introduced there under local branding.
Every draw now produced around eight million Marks in profit. If the public kept buying tickets, his share alone could reach fifty million Marks per month.
Per month.
Across a full year, the numbers became… astronomical.
And foreign governments were pleased as well. Their treasuries skimmed taxes; charities took a public slice; on paper it all looked like enlightened social welfare.
No one needed to know that the lion's share flowed to a German prince who planned to turn lottery money into steel and guns.
Wilhelm II and Tirpitz both laughed when they saw how lightly Oskar treated sums that would have made ordinary ministers faint.
He was only seventeen, a few months shy of eighteen. The "deal" he had made with Dean Birkenhagen at the Kiel Naval Academy—escaping years of study in exchange for financing ships—had seemed like a joke at the time.
Now it looked like prophecy.
"Oskar," Tirpitz said with a broad smile, "the Navy has taken over all four Nassau‑class battleships. But when will you fulfil your promise to Dean Birkenhagen?"
"Your Excellency," Oskar answered easily, "you can hold me to it whenever you wish. I've already made preparations. I will fund the construction of the first ship of the next generation of capital ships entirely from my own pocket. Once completed, I'll donate her directly to the Navy. That will fulfil my promise."
In his first months in this world, such a promise would have been madness.
Now it was simply a line in his budget.
"The next class?" Wilhelm II asked, eyes narrowing with interest. "The Nassau‑class is under construction. Do you already have plans for what comes after it?"
Tirpitz leaned forward as well. The Nassau design had already proved Oskar's eye for future naval warfare. If he had a follow‑up idea ready, the Navy would be mad not to at least listen.
"Yes, Father," Oskar said. "I've been thinking hard about it. As long as the military is willing to support me and take my drawings seriously, I'll give them weapons so powerful that no one will dare fight Germany."
In his head, the "weapons" were already far beyond 1906—armored infantry with lasers, orbital bombardment, spaceships firing on targets far below. He pushed those images away for now.
"This is how I see it," he continued. "The concept of the Nassau‑class is more advanced than HMS Dreadnought—that I know for a fact. But the Dreadnought entered service first. That's indisputable. So now everyone calls her the ship that began the new era. All older ships with mixed main guns are 'pre‑dreadnoughts.' The Dreadnought, her British sisters, and our Nassau‑class can all be called 'dreadnoughts'."
Wilhelm and Tirpitz both nodded. It was a logical classification, even if it still stung that Whitehall had gotten the first hull into the water.
"Then," Oskar said, eyes glinting, "our next level of capital ship should be 'super‑dreadnoughts'."
"Super… dreadnought?" Wilhelm and Tirpitz repeated together.
"That's right," he said, smiling. "A dreadnought that outclasses other dreadnoughts. More firepower. Stronger armour. If possible, higher speed. Something that gives our next generation of battleships an overwhelming advantage when facing the Royal Navy."
He paused.
"As far as I know, the next several British classes are just refinements of Dreadnought: five twin 12‑inch turrets, slightly rearranged. Nothing truly radical."
He was thinking of the Bellerophon, St. Vincent, Neptune and Colossus classes—incremental steps.
"The British won't adopt larger main guns until later. If we move to heavier calibres now," Oskar went on, "we can leap ahead. Out‑gun them on day one."
"Oskar," Tirpitz said, frowning thoughtfully, "are you telling us you want even larger main guns on the next class? Is that even possible? Won't such monsters simply capsize the ship when they fire?"
Oskar's smile took on a hint of mad scientist.
"Where there is a will, there is a way. Calibre is the ultimate truth of the big gun era. Larger guns mean greater range, better armour‑piercing, more devastating shells. And they turn the ship into a moving artillery battery for coastal bombardment as well. If technology allows, we should use the largest main guns we safely can. Yes, that makes ships bigger and more expensive."
At that, Wilhelm's brows pulled together. Everyone in the room felt the same knot tighten: cost.
The Navy was already straining the budget. The arms race had barely begun, and yet the bills were climbing every year.
"Father," Oskar said, seeing their faces, "battleships will grow. Our battleships especially—we value toughness and survivability, so we armour them more heavily than the British. That means more displacement, more cost. But in war, that pays off. If we can smash their ships and keep ours afloat, then all the money spent will be worth it. If we lose, everything we've poured into the fleet is wasted anyway."
War was an all‑or‑nothing game. There were no half‑refunds for "good effort."
Wilhelm and Tirpitz both nodded slowly.
"That is true," Wilhelm said. "But the government has been running a deficit for years. Increasing naval spending again will be… difficult. There will be opposition in the Reichstag."
Oskar raised his head.
"Then I'll help," he said simply. "I've already promised to cover one of the next generation's capital ships myself. Beyond that… I can lend money to the Navy."
"Lend?" Tirpitz repeated.
"Yes. A loan to the Navy at normal bank interest. The funds will come from my companies—from the Industrial Group and the Welfare Lottery. And this must be kept secret. The lottery is already expanding into countries like Austria‑Hungary, Italy, but also more significantly France and Britain. In those nations it's just the 'People's Welfare Lottery', partnered with local charities and taxed by their governments. Everyone is happy. However if our enemies discover that their citizens' gambling money is paying for entire German battleships, the reaction will be… unpleasant."
No country would willingly let its own money finance the enemy's guns.
"Indeed Oskar, keeping such things hidden would be the best thing to do," Wilhelm said, eyes lighting.
"Your Highness, we will certainly keep it secret," Tirpitz added, positively gleeful. "If your lottery can truly suck money out of Britain and France, then we will use their coins to build the fleet that breaks them."
In their eyes, Oskar's wealth was now more than personal. It was a strategic asset of the Empire.
"Once the war ends—and we win—the government can use reparations to repay the loan," Oskar said. "That is my condition."
He was not a saint, he was a realist. Money was his power. Giving it away for nothing would cripple his ability to keep shaping Germany.
"Of course," Wilhelm said at once. "If the Empire wins, your loan will be repaid first. That is only just."
"How much can you lend the Navy?" Tirpitz asked, leaning forward eagerly.
Oskar thought for a moment.
"One hundred million Marks," he said at last.
"Only one hundred million?" both Wilhelm and Tirpitz blurted, startled.
For ordinary men, it was a colossal figure.
For the Navy, it was two capital ships.
For Oskar, given everything they had seen, it sounded almost… modest.
And that, he knew, was exactly the reaction he wanted them to have.