Oskar was nineteen now.
A father of six children by two former maids—children who had turned the Neues Palais into a cheerful battlefield of crying, crawling, and tiny hands grabbing at medals and paperwork. And then, as if that weren't already insane enough, there was the seventh: a secret son whose mother was Bertha Krupp.
Sometimes Oskar would catch himself thinking about it in the quiet moments and feel his brain slide off the rails.
I'm a Prussian prince with a Chinese soul, running half the German economy, breeding heirs like an overpowered Crusader Kings character, and trying to stop World War I with spreadsheets.
But compared to that?
The formation of the Entente didn't even feel "insane." It felt… inevitable.
He had always known it was coming. He had simply hoped—foolishly—that his work might delay it longer, soften it, maybe change its shape.
Instead, history did what history always did when men became afraid:
It clustered into camps.
Britain, France, and Russia had drawn together into what the newspapers now called the Entente Powers. On paper, the only binding military treaty remained the Franco-Russian Alliance. Britain still pretended it was only "understanding," only "cordial," only "concerned about stability."
But Oskar knew better.
Britain's entire imperial religion was balance. The moment Germany became too strong—too industrial, too unified, too efficient—the British instinct was not to admire it, but to contain it. If war ever broke out and France and Russia looked like they might fall, Britain would not sit politely on the sidelines and watch Europe tip into a German-dominated century.
They would intervene. If not out of love for France or Russia, then out of self-preservation.
Therefore once a major war began, it wouldn't stay "local." It would spread until it became a continent-wide furnace: Allied powers versus Central powers. That was the ugly logic of Europe's alliance system.
The Entente's existence alone made the world more volatile. Two blocs. Two sets of plans. Two sets of generals dreaming about decisive victories that had never existed outside textbooks.
As the pillar of the Central Powers, Germany felt the weight first. Even a child could see that the margin for error was shrinking. War hadn't arrived—but the distance to it felt shorter.
Oddly, Oskar wasn't panicking.
To him, the Entente was not a shocking betrayal of peace; it was a predictable immune response to Germany's rapid growth—especially now that his own industrial machine was pumping money, goods, and power into the Reich at a pace no one abroad understood.
Fear made nations hysterical. Hysteria made alliances.
All he cared about was that no one did something catastrophically stupid.
No Serbia incident.
No Balkan matchstick.
No war.
If the Central Powers could simply avoid lighting the fuse, then time would remain his greatest weapon. Not guns. Not speeches. Time. Factories. Wealth. Health. Infrastructure. Those were the things that actually changed history.
Wilhelm II, however, did not share his calm.
The Kaiser—predictably—took the news like an incoming shell.
An emergency meeting was convened at the palace. Generals and ministers arrived with stiff backs and stiff faces, as if they'd smelled blood in the air and couldn't decide whether it belonged to Germany or her enemies.
And Oskar was summoned too.
He very nearly didn't go.
He could already picture the meeting: old men arguing in circles, patriotic slogans replacing numbers, everyone speaking as if shouting could intimidate reality. In Oskar's mind, the only real answer to the Entente was not speeches or tantrums, but deeper industrial power—and his Oskar Industrial Group was already doing that work every day.
Besides, he had more interesting problems.
He'd recently discovered something so absurd it made alliance politics feel small:
He'd found Tolkien.
The legendary writer—fifteen years old.
Oskar had stared at the report, read the name again, and felt a strange, childish excitement rise up in his chest. It was official now: the timeline was already mutating into something unrecognizable. Between his inventions, his businesses, his wars against hygiene and weakness, he was tearing history apart by accident.
So why not commit fully?
Why not invite Tolkien to Germany, fund him, and dump the core ideas of The Lord of the Rings into his lap?
Oskar could write it himself, of course. He had the whole mythos trapped in his head like a parasite.
But he didn't want to write it.
He wanted to read it—in this world, in this timeline, finished.
He wanted to see what a genius could do with a head start and a patron prince who paid for the ink.
That, frankly, felt more urgent than listening to generals talk about cavalry maneuvers like it was 1870.
Still… he went.
Because when the Kaiser called, you didn't ignore it—not even if you thought the meeting was useless.
When Oskar entered Wilhelm II's office, he immediately felt the atmosphere: heavy, sour, compressed. The kind of air you only got when powerful men were afraid but refused to admit it.
Ministers wore tight expressions. Generals leaned over maps with furrowed brows. Everyone looked like they'd spent the whole morning reading newspapers and imagining the future with dread.
Oskar took his place quietly, arm's crossed like he didn't care, face neutral.
For a moment he almost said it—the old Oskar line that always wanted to escape:
My men, stop worrying. You have me.
But he had learned restraint over the years. Learned that speaking like a meme-prince in front of anxious statesmen only made them hate him more.
So he kept his mouth shut.
He let the old men do their thing.
And he waited for the meeting to begin.
Once everyone had arrived, the Imperial Council formally began.
The long table was crowded with uniforms and stiff collars, maps and dispatch folders, the smell of cigar smoke and ink hanging in the air like a second ceiling. On the wall behind Wilhelm II, Europe stared back in colored borders and pinned markers—an elegant painting of danger.
The Kaiser scanned the room, then spoke without preface.
"Gentlemen… Britain and Russia have joined hands." His voice was calm, but the tension beneath it was unmistakable. "Britain already has an understanding with France. France has a treaty with Russia. Taken together, this creates what is, in effect, a united front—Britain, France, and Russia—against the Empire."
He let the words settle.
"The international situation grows more dangerous by the month. What is to be done? How does the Empire answer this pressure?"
Even Wilhelm II, stubborn as granite, felt the squeeze now. For years he had nursed a small, irrational hope—much like the one he still carried about his eldest son—that Britain might remain neutral when the crisis came. That even if war broke out on the continent, London might hesitate.
Now that hope was dying.
Britain was not hesitating. Britain was moving.
To keep clinging to illusions at this point would be foolish.
Moltke the Younger spoke first, as he always did—steady, dry, unshaken.
"Your Majesty, the alignment of Britain, France, and Russia is not a surprise. It is what we anticipated long ago." He nodded toward the map. "It worsens our strategic environment, yes. But we have prepared for a two-front war since before Your Majesty's reign began. Our task remains the same: strengthen our position until our enemies fear to test it."
Wilhelm II nodded slowly.
Moltke's confidence, whatever else could be said about the man, had the virtue of being simple.
The Kaiser's gaze moved to the other ministers.
Chancellor von Bülow cleared his throat with the polite caution of a man who had spent his life balancing emperors and parliaments.
"Your Majesty," he said, "the Entente threatens not only Germany, but also Austria-Hungary and Italy. Under pressure, alliances often harden. There is one potential benefit in this: the Triple Alliance may finally begin acting like a true alliance."
He spread his hands.
"For twenty years we have had treaties, but cohesion has been… imperfect. Austria-Hungary and Italy bicker like rival cats. Their territorial disputes poison trust. In truth, without Germany holding the center, the alliance can feel like paper."
A few men murmured agreement.
"If," von Bülow continued carefully, "the Entente becomes a visible threat, Italy may decide that staying with us is safer than gambling on foreign promises."
He finished and sat back, satisfied.
Oskar listened without expression.
He had heard this kind of argument before, in a hundred forms. It always relied on one dangerous assumption:
That Italy would behave like a loyal ally.
Oskar leaned forward.
"Father," he said, voice calm, "we should not count on Italy."
Several heads turned. Even now, after everything, Oskar still enjoyed the strange power of being listened to with reluctance and curiosity at once.
"The conflict between Italy and Austria-Hungary is not a minor irritation," Oskar continued. "It is structural. In their minds, Austria occupies land they believe is theirs. They do not view Vienna as a partner. They view Vienna as a thief who happens to be standing next to Germany."
A few officers frowned. A few nodded.
"And I would add this," Oskar said, tone hardening slightly. "Italy's loyalty is not rooted in shared identity or shared fear. It is rooted in calculation."
Foreign Minister von Kiderlen-Wächter tilted his head.
"Your Highness," he said cautiously, "we do have a treaty. Treaties have weight. And with Germany's accelerated rise—economically and militarily—would the Italians truly dare betray us? They would be fools."
Oskar's eyes didn't flicker.
"Treaties matter," he said. "But treaties are not chains. Nations do not have friends. Nations have interests."
The room stilled.
"If Italy believes the Entente will give them more than we will—territory, prestige, colonial support—they will not hesitate." Oskar paused, then added, "They will delay. They will bargain. They will play both sides until a victor seems likely. And then they will choose the side that pays."
He let that sink in.
"I am not saying we should break the alliance. I am saying we should treat Italy as a risk, not a pillar."
Count Tirpitz's moustache twitched. He looked almost pleased.
"His Highness is correct," Tirpitz said bluntly. "The sea teaches this lesson quickly: paper promises do not stop storms. Only interest does."
Wilhelm II nodded more than once, jaw tight. He did not enjoy hearing it, but he could not deny the logic.
Oskar continued, pressing his advantage.
"The Empire and Austria-Hungary share long-standing interests," he said. "Fear of isolation. Shared enemies. Shared history. Shared elites. Even language, to a degree. Vienna may be fragile, but it is tied to us by necessity."
Silence followed Oskar's last words. Not hostile. Not approving. Just sober—the kind of silence that meant men were mentally updating maps.
Wilhelm II tapped the table once.
"Then we proceed," he said slowly, "with open eyes."
Oskar sat back, the point made.
He had not stopped the Entente. He could not undo the great blocs hardening across Europe.
But at least—at least—he could force the men in this room to plan like realists instead of dreamers.
And in the coming years, realism might be the difference between victory and ruin.
A voice cut into the quiet, crisp as a snapped twig.
"Your Highness," Moltke the Younger said, "is it not rather arbitrary to suspect an ally based on conjecture alone?"
His tone was polite on the surface, but the intent was familiar: challenge the prince, remind the room who the army obeys.
"At present," Moltke continued, "Italy remains a treaty ally of the Empire. They have not violated the alliance. To speak as though betrayal is inevitable is… reckless. If word spreads that the Acting Crown Prince publicly distrusts his allies, who in the future would dare to ally with Germany at all?"
Oskar almost laughed.
Not because Moltke's argument was clever, but because it was theatre. Everyone in this room knew Italy's loyalty was not something to bet the Empire on. Moltke knew it too.
But Moltke enjoyed the fight. And ever since the succession crisis and Oskar's elevation, their tension had become public in court circles: restrained, controlled—yet obvious at every meeting.
Sometimes Oskar wondered if Wilhelm II kept Moltke exactly for this reason.
A counterweight.
A controlled antagonist.
A man who could oppose Oskar openly so that Oskar did not become too dominant too quickly—especially not with the Navy already behind him.
Oskar answered calmly, as if Moltke had asked about weather.
"No one can say with certainty whether Italy will betray us," he said. "But we can assess probability. And I believe the probability is high."
He folded his hands.
"If we prepare and Italy remains loyal, then our preparations harm nothing. If we do not prepare and Italy turns, then we are wounded at the worst possible moment."
His voice stayed even.
"Preventive planning is not paranoia. It is insurance."
A few ministers nodded. Tirpitz looked faintly amused. Even von Bülow's eyes held approval.
Moltke's lips tightened. He wanted to argue again.
Wilhelm II cut him off with a raised hand.
"Enough," the Kaiser said. "Oskar's caution is sensible."
Moltke stiffened, but stayed silent.
"We will continue to win Italy's goodwill," Wilhelm II continued. "Italy is a first-rate power. If they fulfill their alliance, it strengthens us greatly. But we will also prepare for the possibility of betrayal. We will not be caught asleep."
The Emperor's gaze swept the room.
"That is settled."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the ministers replied.
Chancellor von Bülow cleared his throat, expression sober now.
"Your Majesty," he said, "if the worst-case occurs—if Britain, France, Russia, and Italy stand together—then the Empire's situation becomes… extremely precarious."
He did not dramatize. He did not need to.
"Austria-Hungary is large," von Bülow continued, "but its strength is… inconsistent. Its national cohesion is fragile. Its military power is weaker than its borders suggest. In such a war, the burden on Germany would be immense."
Wilhelm II's jaw tightened.
Even he, for all his pride, could feel the scale of what was being described.
Germany alone—facing the combined weight of the great powers.
The Kaiser's voice lowered.
"Then what do you suggest?" he asked.
Foreign Minister von Kiderlen-Wächter spoke carefully, like a man handling a blade by its dull side.
"Your Majesty," he said, "given the unfavourable environment… might we find a way to prevent war altogether?"
It was not cowardice. It was arithmetic.
If you cannot be sure of victory, you avoid the battle.
Wilhelm II shook his head slowly.
"The situation is no longer in our hands," he said. "Even if Germany wished for peace, the others will not grant it—unless we accept humiliation, surrender our interests, and give up the position we have earned."
His moustache twitched.
"That is unacceptable."
His voice hardened.
"The Germans would rather die in battle than live in ignominy."
The room cooled.
Everyone could feel it: the narrowing of the corridor ahead.
If war came, there would be no gentle way out.
Either Germany fought—against terrible odds—or Germany surrendered everything it had built.
And surrender, in this Empire, was not spoken of as an option.
The council room became very quiet.
Not because anyone lacked words.
But because each man in that room could already see the shape of the future looming behind the maps like a shadow.
Wilhelm II's gaze settled on Oskar.
"Oskar," he said, voice controlled, "you've heard every man in this room. You've warned us about Italy. You've warned us about alliances. Now tell me plainly—what is your opinion?"
For a heartbeat, Oskar said nothing. He studied the faces around the table: the old soldiers, the ministers, the men who could turn ink into corpses with one signature.
Then he spoke.
"Father… the situation is unfavorable," he said. "If war comes with Britain, France, and Russia aligned, it will not be a clean war. It will be a long war. A grinding war."
Several men stiffened at the bluntness.
"But," Oskar continued, "unfavorable does not mean hopeless. We are not weak. The Empire is strong enough that no one can face us alone. They must unite—because that is the only way they can even imagine winning."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And that is our advantage. Because it means they are afraid."
A small silence followed.
Oskar kept his voice steady, not theatrical.
"In the past years, our enemies have tolerated my industrial group for one reason: even their own elites use our products. They buy German quality while cursing German ambition. They complain, but they still pay." He lifted one hand slightly. "That tells us something important: they do not want chaos. They do not want a rupture. They do not want to cut themselves off from what they need."
He met Wilhelm II's eyes.
"So, Father, if we continue to grow—economically, industrially, militarily—we push them into a corner where war becomes too expensive to risk."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"Not because they love us. But because they fear the cost of fighting us."
He tapped the table once.
"We must cross the threshold from dangerous to unacceptably costly. When that happens, they will hesitate. They will argue among themselves. They will delay. And every year they delay, we grow stronger."
Oskar exhaled.
"That is how we avoid war. Not by begging for peace. By making war a bad investment."
A few ministers murmured approval. Others simply stared, thinking.
Wilhelm II's expression softened into something almost proud.
He nodded once.
"That's right," he said. "His Highness speaks correctly."
But there was steel beneath the praise.
"I am not as optimistic as you are about avoiding war forever," Wilhelm II added, his voice hardening. "Your intentions are pure, yes—but intentions do not rule nations. Pride rules. Fear rules. Rivalry rules."
His moustache twitched.
"War may come no matter how well we behave."
Oskar didn't argue. He had learned that to argue with his father in front of ministers was to lose the room.
Count Tirpitz seized the opening like a man who smelled blood.
"The Imperial Navy has prepared with all its might," he said, voice full of contained aggression. "Our Nassau-class ships near completion. Blücher-class battlecruisers are being fitted out. Heligoland-class construction is underway."
He pointed at the map of the North Sea.
"These ships—these new ships—are stronger than anything the British have afloat now. We may not match them ship-for-ship yet, but quality matters. Range matters. Armor matters. Fire control matters."
Tirpitz's eyes gleamed.
"And in the decisive battle to come—if we defeat the Royal Navy—then the Empire cannot be strangled by blockade. We breathe. We import. We fight on our terms."
That line—break the blockade—hung in the air like a prophecy.
War Minister von Falkenhayn spoke next, brisk and proud.
"The Army remains the finest fighting instrument on Earth," he said. "France and Russia together cannot break us if we move first and move decisively. Britain's army is small. Their strength is at sea."
He glanced toward Tirpitz.
"If the Navy holds the sea, the Army will decide the continent."
A relieved smile pulled at Wilhelm II's mouth. It wasn't joy—it was the relief of a ruler hearing men tell him his empire still has teeth.
"It would be best," the Kaiser said, voice growing more confident, "if every man in this room remembered that Germany is not a weak nation begging to survive."
He straightened.
"I believe God blesses the German people. If war comes, we will endure it. And if we endure it—then we can win it."
The ministers nodded, some with conviction, some with desperation, some because in an empire a nod was safer than doubt.
Oskar listened, and in his chest a familiar frustration tightened.
They spoke of war as if it were weather.
As if it were something unavoidable, like winter.
To Oskar, war was not a concept. It was meat and screaming and bodies that didn't get back up.
But he also knew this:
At this table, "peace" without power sounded like surrender.
And surrender was not a word any of these men could tolerate.
So he kept his peace, and instead adjusted the only lever he could:
preparation.
He watched Tirpitz. Watched Falkenhayn. Watched the Kaiser.
And he thought privately, with the cold clarity of someone who remembered the future:
If we must fight… then we must fight fast.
Cripple France early.
Break Britain's blockade early.
Then the whole machine of the Entente collapses before it has time to grind us down.
He didn't say it aloud.
Not yet.
Wilhelm II rose slightly in his chair, voice taking on that imperial cadence that turned fear into marching rhythm.
"Gentlemen," he said, "we cannot stop Britain, France, and Russia from aligning. That is beyond our power."
His eyes swept the room.
"But we can decide what kind of Germany stands before them when the crisis comes."
He drove his fist lightly into the table.
"We will prepare. We will strengthen. We will unify. We will build ships, guns, railways, stores of material, and men with discipline."
His gaze lingered on Oskar for a heartbeat.
"And when they look at Germany and consider war… they will hesitate."
The ministers sat straighter.
"Because victory," Wilhelm II said, voice heavy with certainty, "will belong to the German Empire."
A murmur rose.
Then louder.
"Victory will belong to Germany."
"The Empire will prevail."
"Deutschland wird siegen."
Oskar nodded with them, because he had to.
But inside, he thought something far quieter:
Please. Let this strength be enough to scare them away.
Please. Let it end without trenches.
And outside the palace walls, Europe continued to tighten like a noose—one alliance, one ship, one speech at a time.
_____
In September 1907, in the city of London.
The folder landed on Sir John Fisher's desk with a dull, heavy sound.
He did not open it immediately.
Fisher had learned, over decades at sea and in Admiralty offices, that truly bad news had weight. It pressed down on paper, on wood, on the air itself. When a report felt heavy before it was read, it was usually because it carried something that could not be undone.
At last, he opened it.
Photographs slid out onto the desk—blurred, grainy, taken from a distance and clearly at risk of being discovered. The angles were poor. The lighting worse. Whoever had taken them had done so hurriedly, from concealment, probably with their heart in their throat.
But even through the blur, Fisher froze.
There were ships in those photographs.
Not cruisers.
Not pre-dreadnoughts.
Capital ships.
Massive hulls sat low in the water, surrounded by scaffolding and cranes. Their superstructures were unfinished, but the silhouettes were unmistakable. Even under canvas sheaths, the outlines of the main guns were visible—long, thick barrels that made Fisher's stomach tighten.
He leaned closer.
"…Damn it all," he muttered.
One photograph in particular held his attention. Three turrets—three—arranged cleanly along the centerline.
Triple-mounted.
His hand trembled slightly as he adjusted his spectacles.
"That's not possible," he said quietly.
An aide cleared his throat. "Sir?"
Fisher ignored him.
"Triple turrets," he murmured. "Centerline. Forward, amidships, aft. If those proportions are correct—"
He flipped to the next photograph.
The displacement looked enormous. Larger than Dreadnought. Larger even than what the Admiralty was sketching in secret.
"Those hulls are bigger than ours," Fisher said, incredulous. "Bigger than anything afloat."
He slapped the photographs down on the desk.
"Is this the best you can give me?" he snapped, suddenly furious. "Blurry nonsense, half-angles, shadows! Am I expected to wager the Empire on guesswork?"
The intelligence officers stiffened.
"Sir, German security around the yards has tightened significantly. We've lost three assets already. This was taken at extreme risk."
Fisher ran a hand through his hair.
"Risk or not, this—" he jabbed at the photos "—is not a cruiser. And it's not a refit."
He leaned back, mind racing.
"If those guns are what I think they are… three triple turrets… that suggests they've solved recoil interference. Fire control alignment. Structural stress."
He stared at the photographs again, slower now, colder.
"That layout would outshoot us," he said. "At range."
The room went very still.
"And if the caliber is what it appears to be…" Fisher continued, voice dropping, "…three hundred and five millimeters at least. Possibly more."
An aide swallowed.
"Sir… would the Germans really—"
"Don't insult me," Fisher snapped. "They've been racing us ship for ship for years. But this—this isn't racing."
He looked up sharply.
"This is leaping ahead."
The aide hesitated, then asked the question no one wanted to say aloud.
"Do we know who designed them?"
Fisher let out a humorless laugh.
"Officially? German naval architects. Committees. Design bureaus." He tapped the desk. "Unofficially?"
He exhaled slowly.
"That damned Prussian prince."
The name did not need to be spoken.
Prince Oskar.
Nineteen years old.
Industrial magnate.
Public darling.
And—if these photographs were real—someone who had just rewritten naval design theory.
Fisher felt something rare and unpleasant twist in his chest.
Admiration.
And fear.
"These ships are nearly complete," he said. "Outfitting has begun. Guns are already mounted." He shook his head. "Which means they'll be commissioned soon."
Very soon.
He stood abruptly, chair scraping back.
"Bloody hell," he growled. "If even half of this is accurate, then we are already behind."
He turned on the aides.
"Prepare the carriage. Immediately."
One of them blinked. "Sir… where are you going?"
Fisher snatched up the folder.
"To the Prime Minister," he said grimly. "And if I have to drag him out of bed myself, I will."
He paused at the door, casting one last glance at the photographs.
"If Germany launches these ships before we respond," he added, "then the North Sea will never belong to us again. Thus it seems that we need more ships ourselves yet again."
And with that, the architect of the Dreadnought era strode out into the London night—already planning the next escalation in a race that had just become far more dangerous.