Time moved strangely for Oskar after the attack.
Days crawled past in the Royal Military Hospital, measured not by clocks, but by bandage changes and the quiet footsteps of nurses.
Outside, the building had turned into a small fortress. Eternal Guards in dark uniforms and steel cuirasses stood at every entrance, flanked by Royal Guards in bright ceremonial helmets. No one entered or left without explicit permission. The windows of Oskar's private ward looked out over calm trees and autumn sky, but the corridors beyond were steel‑tight.
At least, Oskar thought, they weren't posted inside the room.
He still had some privacy.
The assassination attempt itself seemed to have vanished into a public silence. No one asked him for details. No one mentioned motives. Even the newspapers, which shouted about "justice" and "foreign radicals," said nothing about who had truly sent the killers.
The only thing everyone agreed on was that the Iron Prince had survived.
His own survival, however, had a price.
Wounds like his did not heal in a week. The surgeons were clear: months, not days. Slow progress, careful checks. A single infection could undo all their work.
So he stayed in the hospital.
Karl, stubborn as always, had checked himself out as soon as he could stand without falling over.
He'd limped to the door of the ward, pointed a finger, and declared:
"You recover. I'll handle the chaos. It's my job to hold the wall while our giant is stuck in bed."
Then he'd left, cane in hand, leg bandaged, muttering about "riots," "idiot policemen," and "people who forget how much they owe us."
That part bothered Oskar.
He'd heard whispers from nurses about fights in certain neighbourhoods, street clashes, stones thrown at shop windows, words like "traitors" and "outsiders" tossed around. He'd caught a glimpse of a headline when a newspaper was left folded on a chair:
UNREST IN BERLIN – POLICE RESTORE ORDER.
Karl had tried to wave it all away.
"It's nothing you need to worry about yet," he'd said. "Just focus on closing those holes in your chest. One man with so many bullet wounds in him doesn't get to fix every problem in the Empire at once."
Oskar had wanted to argue.
He'd wanted to drag Karl back into a "cool recovery arc" of joint hospital training, rehab, and planning like two half‑broken RPG characters grinding their stats up again.
But the reality was simple:
Karl had one clean bullet wound in the leg.
Oskar had… more.
So he let it go.
And when he couldn't move, he did the one thing he always did when stuck:
He planned.
He had the staff bring ink, pens, and stacks of paper. Soon his bedside table was buried in sketches, notes, technical diagrams—small, shaky at first thanks to weakness, but gradually more precise.
Behind the curtains of white linen and medical smell, the future of Germany quietly moved forward.
One afternoon, as the light slanted gold through the windows, Karl returned — walking with a stiff limp, but looking overall much stronger. His own bed in the ward had been removed. In its place, a proper desk and chair had been brought in and squeezed up against the wall.
Karl climbed into the chair with practiced dignity, sorted his documents, and cleared his throat.
"Your Highness," he began, adopting his "serious secretary" tone, "I have arranged a meeting with Mister Gustav Lilienthal. He'll come to the hospital tomorrow afternoon. He agreed quite gladly, actually. Apparently he has… sketches he wants to show you."
Oskar perked up a little.
"Good. And the Americans?"
Karl glanced at his notes.
"Our people in the United States have made contact with the Wright brothers. They are very interested in us funding their flying projects. However…" Karl's nose wrinkled, "they are hesitant about leaving America. Especially now, with… everything that has happened here."
He hesitated, then added:
"They do have some German blood. On their mother's side, at least. But convincing them to move might be… difficult."
Oskar leaned back against his pillows, ignoring the dull ache across his ribs.
He studied Karl with tired but satisfied eyes.
The little man wasn't just his secretary anymore.
He was his right hand, his shield, his partner—and thanks to his share of Oskar Industrial Group, he was now rich enough to own a mansion most aristocrats would kill for. Even the Kaiser treated him with wary respect now.
"That's fine," Oskar said at last. "Don't rush them. Just keep the door open. Send them our best terms. And when you meet them next time, bring the glider plans and the wing‑suit designs I drew."
Karl's brows rose. "The… bat costume?"
"The very same," Oskar said, lips curling. "If they see that, they'll know we're not just throwing money around. We understand the sky. More than they think."
Karl looked unconvinced, but he didn't argue.
He knew the pattern by now.
Every time he'd doubted one of Oskar's "crazy modern ideas," it had turned into a golden river of Marks.
"Yes, Your Highness," he said instead. "But is their research really that important? Couldn't you just… do it yourself? You draw some wings, add some engines, and that's that, no?"
Oskar chuckled, then winced as the movement tugged at his stitches.
"If only it were that simple, my man. Their invention is incredibly important," he said seriously. "If they succeed—and they will—it will change the entire world. Trade, travel, war, everything."
He paused, eyes narrowing.
"And if we don't bring them here, someone else will. France, Britain, maybe even Russia. I don't want to fight a Great War someday with enemy aircraft overhead while we're stuck staring up from the ground like fools."
Karl sobered at that.
"Understood," he said quietly.
"For now," Oskar went on, "focus on Gustav Lilienthal. He's German. Easier to trust. Easier to protect. We give him full support. Workshops, test fields, steel, Nylon—whatever he needs. If the Wrights do come, they can work under the same umbrella. And if not…"
He shrugged, then grimaced as his shoulder protested.
"…then at least the first true wings of the future will belong to Germany."
Karl nodded slowly, the weight of it sinking in.
He had heard of Otto Lilienthal in school—the "Glider King," "Batman," the mad engineer who had leaped again and again from hillsides in his strange winged machines.
He also knew how it had ended.
"Someone has to sacrifice…" the man had said before dying of his injuries.
Karl had always thought it a tragic story.
Now he realised this was exactly the kind of story that Oskar wanted to grab by the throat and rewrite.
"Fine," Karl said at last. "Tomorrow I will charm this Mister Gustav for all he's worth. If he can fly even half as well as his brother did, we'll make him the richest, most respected bat in Europe."
He scribbled a note, then hesitated when he saw Oskar's expression change—hardening slightly at the edges.
"And, Your Highness," Karl ventured carefully, "what if the Wrights still refuse? What if they insist on staying in America?"
Oskar was quiet for a moment.
His eyes, normally warm even when he was serious, now had a shade of steel in them that hadn't been there before the park.
"Then," Oskar said calmly, "you try again. Offer more. Offer everything short of giving them the Kaiser's moustache. Families, houses, factories, anything."
He paused.
"And if they still refuse…"
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't even frown.
"…then I authorise you to be less gentle."
Karl blinked. "Less… gentle?"
"In America," Oskar said slowly, "accidents happen. Barns burn. Workshops collapse. Plans disappear. We need their knowledge, Karl. Or at least, we need to make sure that no other country gets it first. I don't care if we have to buy it, borrow it, or… push a little."
A cold tingle ran down Karl's spine.
He had felt it since the assassination—that shift.
Before, Oskar had been recklessly kind. Almost irritatingly soft at times. Willing to shoulder any burden himself rather than let others suffer.
Now, something had hardened in him.
The kindness was still there. So was the humour.
But beneath it, there was a steel willingness to use whatever means were necessary to protect what he was building.
Karl swallowed.
He covered the unease with a crooked smile.
"Well," he said, "I always wanted to visit America. Might as well bring matches, then."
Oskar snorted.
"Just don't get caught," he said. "And don't do anything too stupid without checking with me first. We're not villains. We're… practical."
Karl wasn't entirely sure about that line.
But he nodded anyway.
He also knew Oskar trusted Gustav Lilienthal more than any foreign inventor—trusted that a German, whose brother had literally died for flight, would be less likely to betray Germany once planes became something that could carry bombs instead of just pilots.
"And remember," Oskar added, "if we want proper planes, not just gliders, we'll need aluminium. Lots of it. Start by getting me reports on where we can buy it cheaply and where we can… acquire mines in the future."
Karl sighed.
"Planes, aluminium, bat-suits, foreign brothers who like crashing… You do realise you're planning a completely new branch of industry while still stitched together in a hospital bed, yes?"
Oskar just smiled faintly.
"History won't wait for me to finish healing," he said. "So I can't wait for it either."
Karl watched him for a long second, then shook his head.
"You really are insane," he muttered. "Alright. I'll get Lilienthal. I'll keep flirting with the Wrights. And I'll look into aluminium. But you…" he jabbed a tiny finger at Oskar, "…will rest. Or I swear I'll tell your women everything and let them tie you to the bed."
Oskar wisely decided not to test whether Karl was bluffing.
Outside the hospital walls, Berlin was angry and restless. Laws were being sharpened. Borders, tightened. Families, torn between staying and leaving.
But inside the quiet white room, a wounded prince and a limping dwarf spoke calmly of wings, engines, and aluminium—
—laying the foundations for a sky no one else on earth had truly imagined yet.