When Prince Oskar stepped out of the Kaiser's study, he knew he was fucked.
Not just personally fucked.
No—if he didn't figure something out fast, Germany was one hundred percent fucked too.
By the time the door of his room closed behind him, the weight of Wilhelm II's glare had lifted from his shoulders—but it still lingered like a phantom hand around his throat.
If the Emperor ever woke up on a really bad day and decided to strip him of his title and toss him out of the House of Hohenzollern… that would be it.
No more palace.
No more stipend.
No more "Prince Oskar."
Just some weird, tall, unemployed guy with good looks, bad German, and zero marketable skills in the glorious year of 1904.
If that happens, he thought, I can't even become a streamer this time. There's no internet. Just poverty waiting for me.
He shuddered. His knees gave out, and he dropped to the floor, staring at the ceiling.
"Fuuuck," he groaned, then suddenly started punching the floor in frustration—
which naturally turned into him doing push-ups.
Because what else do you do when history is collapsing on your head?
A soft cough sounded near the door.
Karl von Jonarett was leaning against the wall, small arms folded, eyebrows raised. He'd slipped in earlier, and with his size he was easy to miss in a big room.
"Well," Karl said calmly, "are you planning to do push-ups all week, or is there a second phase to this plan?"
Oskar exhaled and let himself collapse onto his stomach.
"Papa is mad," he rumbled, then corrected himself. "No—I mean, the Emperor is… mm… 'pressing dislike' on me."
He'd tried to say displeased but forgot the word halfway through.
Karl snorted. "Pressing… dislike. Yes. That's one way to put it. His Majesty sounded very displeased through the door. I could feel his frustration in my bones. Maybe you should apologize?"
Oskar sat back on his knees, thinking.
A man who chases two rabbits catches neither, he thought suddenly, and said it out loud—in Chinese.
Karl blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Oskar coughed. "Ahem. The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials. Go I must."
Karl stared at him. "…Yes. Okay. Definitely nothing strange happening in your head."
A few minutes later Oskar was back in the Kaiser's study, on his knees.
"Please, Father—no, I mean, Your Majesty!" he babbled. "Let me out of house arrest. I cannot take it anymore. Please, I'm sorry, I'll go to the Academy, okay? I'll be good boy."
Wilhelm II, who was very aware that court gossip moved faster than trains, took one look at his son groveling on the carpet and imagined the headlines.
The German Emperor's son begging like a peasant?
Absolutely not.
He waved his hand sharply, more to shut the scene down than out of mercy.
"Enough. Get up," he snapped. "Your confinement is lifted. But you are still reporting to Kiel in one week. Do not test my patience again."
Oskar bowed so low his forehead almost hit the floor.
"Yes, Father. Thank you. I will go. I will be… model student."
One disaster averted.
But he still had no money.
He still had no freedom.
And he was still going to school in a language he barely spoke.
Which, in Oskar's mind, was worse than war.
As he and Karl walked back toward his room, two guards followed discreetly behind.
"Fleeting freedom," Oskar muttered. "One week. Then four years in Kiel."
Karl's expression softened a fraction. "Well, don't despair too much, Your Highness. With your imperial education, I'm sure you'll do fine. I hear the food is decent, and the sea is beautiful this time of year."
Oskar grimaced.
"Yes. Very educated. School is… easy work. Yes."
"That," Karl said, "was… technically a sentence. But you might want to expand your vocabulary a bit. The Academy will demand more than 'easy work' from you."
Oskar felt the dread claw at his stomach again.
He could already see it: four years of humiliation, confusion, being the weird prince who barely understood assignments and got bullied by fifteen-year-old naval nerds.
Back in his room, the guards took up position outside. The door closed with the soft, decisive click of polite imprisonment.
The room was large and beautifully decorated. Every piece of furniture existed purely to show how rich his family was.
It was also, in every meaningful sense, a golden cage.
Oskar paced.
"Four years," he muttered in Chinese. "Four years of hell and humiliation. I'm definitely getting bullied. And I'll have no time to build anything."
He needed those years:
– to lay the foundations of an industrial network
– to plant seeds in finance, shipbuilding, logistics
– to make money
– to gain leverage and power to actually change something
At the Academy, he'd just be marching, saluting, and failing vocabulary tests.
I can't just accept the doomed scripted route, he thought. I need a glitch. A cheat code.
He stopped in front of the window, staring out at the palace grounds where darkness was already settling. He was still in his sweaty clothes. He should take a bath, but he felt too wired, too angry, too desperate.
So he kept walking in circles, talking to himself.
In his first life, he'd gamed and streamed. He'd played The Sims, managed households, built empires in strategy games. It wasn't real, but at least there he could change things.
In this life, he thought, I have to do the same—but on hard mode.
"Think," he muttered. "Think like a war gamer. How do you beat a scripted event?"
You don't stop the event.
You bend it.
He couldn't refuse Kiel now. The Emperor's word was law. Refusal would bring punishment he did not want to test.
But… maybe he didn't have to attend the normal way.
A ridiculous idea surfaced—the kind of idea that, in his old life, he would've yelled into his mic while chat spammed laughing emojis.
What if I go to Kiel… but I don't really go to Kiel?
Not in the day-to-day grind sense. Not slogging through every class. More like:
– show up for exams, somehow pass
– vanish the rest of the time to do big things and make money
Use the Academy as a paper shield.
"Yes, Your Majesty, I am a diligent cadet," on paper.
In reality: traveling, meeting industrialists, networking, designing, investing.
A ghost student.
A "finals-only" cadet.
It was insane and probably impossible.
But it was the only way he saw to keep both his status and his freedom.
To pull it off, he needed one thing:
The director of the Kiel Naval Academy to bend the rules.
Which, realistically, meant bribery and miracles.
"Karl," he called.
The door opened. Karl's small frame slipped in, closing it behind him.
"Yes, Your Highness?"
Oskar turned, eyes harder now.
"We go to Kiel," he said.
Karl frowned. "Yes? That was already the plan, unless you intend to tunnel out of the country."
"We go now," Oskar said. "Before orders. Before official summons. We go first."
"Voluntarily?" Karl asked. "Your Highness, are you feeling well?"
Oskar nodded.
"I must talk to the director," he said.
"The director," Karl repeated slowly. "Of the Naval Academy. The man famous for being as flexible as a steel beam."
"Yes."
"And your plan is to… convince him… of something?"
"Yes."
Karl dragged a hand down his face. "Wonderful. This can only end in one of two ways: you succeed, or I end up working in some provincial post office after we're both disgraced."
Oskar clapped his shoulder.
"Trust in the process," he said solemnly.
"I would," Karl replied dryly, "if I had any idea what the process was."
The next morning, with the Kaiser believing his strange son was quietly "reflecting on his actions," Oskar and Karl prepared to leave.
Technically, Oskar wasn't supposed to go anywhere.
Practically, no one stopped a prince who walked through the front gate in a coat and said nothing to anyone.
A worried maid did try.
"Your Highness, are you… alright?" she asked softly. "You haven't bathed or changed clothes since yesterday."
"It is what it is," Oskar replied gravely.
She stared at him, utterly lost.
But rank still had its privileges. If a prince wanted to smell like sweat and stress, no one could say otherwise.
"Karl," Oskar said as they walked, "buy train. Two tickets to Kiel."
"Of course," Karl said. "Talking and paying is what I'm for, since Your Highness prefers mysterious pronouncements."
Oskar flicked his blond hair back and said, in English:
"My man."
Karl sighed deeply. "I truly do not understand you."
On the way, Karl asked whether he wanted a carriage or the car. Oskar, failing to catch half the words in German, just kept repeating:
"My man, let's go to train."
So they walked. Under the morning sun. For far too long.
By the time they reached the station, Oskar was sweating again, but also genuinely impressed.
Germany's railways were a network of iron veins stretching across the empire. Trains linked city to city with iron reliability. No planes. Few cars. Rails and horses ruled everything.
And horses, he noted, meant a lot of shit in the streets.
Karl, without needing instructions, bought first-class tickets. Meanwhile Oskar smiled at random people and said, "Hallo, schöner Tag, my man," to anyone who looked at him.
A journalist recognized him and rushed over.
"Your Royal Highness! Where are you traveling? Are you excited for your studies at—"
"Hallo, nice day indeed, my man," Oskar said warmly.
The journalist stared.
More questions. More unrelated answers.
Eventually Karl grabbed the prince by the sleeve and dragged him away before an article titled "Fifth Prince Officially Insane?" could be published.
They boarded the best carriage available. First class.
By 1904 standards, the compartment was clean and comfortable. By modern standards, it was slow, loud, and smelled like coal smoke, leather, boiled meat, and cigarette ghosts.
Oskar loved it.
He spent most of the ride staring out the window, muttering in Chinese and German as fields, towns, and factory chimneys slid past.
He'd seen Europe on a screen, in maps and satellite images and strategy games. Now he saw it raw:
Smokestacks and brick.
Horses and carts.
People in heavy clothes.
No phones.
No neon.
No engine roar—only whistles, wheels, and hooves.
And yes: a lot of very white people with unfiltered faces and natural hair.
Karl sat opposite him, legs not quite reaching the floor, reading a newspaper—the only way for him to ignore the outside world, since he was too short to see much out the window.
"So," Karl said eventually, not looking up, "are you going to tell me why we're visiting the Academy early?"
Oskar considered.
He couldn't tell Karl everything. He barely understood his own plan. But he trusted this strange dwarf-man more than anyone else in this timeline.
"I need freedom," he said at last.
Karl glanced up.
"If I'm chained to daily classes, I can't build anything," Oskar continued. "I need time."
"Time to do what? More push-ups?" Karl asked.
Oskar stared out the window, voice lowering.
"To make sure," he said, "Germany doesn't start putting… very stupid symbols on flags."
Karl was silent for a moment.
Then he folded the paper carefully.
"I do not know what that means," he said. "And I think I'm happier that way. But I will say this—if you want anyone in this country to let a prince skip classes while everyone else sweats and drills…"
He sighed.
"You will need a miracle."
Oskar nodded.
"Where there is a will," he said solemnly, "there is a way."
Karl rubbed his eyes. "Please stop talking like a fortune cookie. It makes my head hurt."
By the time the train rolled into Kiel, the sky was a deep orange.
Kiel wasn't a grand city. It was a working one.
The air was sharp with salt and coal. Masts, cranes, and smokestacks cut up the horizon. Everything smelled like ships, steel, and seaweed.
"This," Oskar said quietly, "is the heart of the fleet."
Not far away lay the Imperial Naval Dockyard and Germaniawerft—shipyards capable of birthing battleships that would one day stare down the Royal Navy.
Karl adjusted his coat. "First we find an inn," he said. "Then you can pose dramatically in front of harbors to your heart's content."
They found a solid hotel. The innkeeper, seeing the prince's papers and posture, nearly prostrated himself.
Oskar beamed at him. "My man. Nice sunny day."
It was night.
The innkeeper made a confused noise of loyalty and fled.
Karl went to bed the moment they were in their room.
Oskar didn't.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
How do you bribe a man like that? he wondered. How much money does a naval director need? Or is there something else?
He thought back to all the officers, admirals, and generals he'd read about.
Old-school military men respected three things:
Competence.
Results.
Excellence.
Money could tempt them, maybe—but honor, ego, and reputation mattered more.
If I tell him I want to skip everything, he'll think I'm lazy, Oskar thought. Unless…
Unless he framed it as a challenge.
A harder test. Judge me only by exams. No shortcuts. If I fail, expel me. If I pass, I prove I'm so far ahead that you have to let me operate differently.
Hardcore mode.
He smiled in the dark.
"Yes," he whispered. "Ironman Naval Academy."
For once, the thought calmed him.
He finally fell asleep.
Morning in Kiel came with gulls and the distant thump of shipyard hammers.
After breakfast, Oskar and Karl headed through the streets toward the Naval Academy.
The Academy loomed over the harbor: brick and stone, perfectly symmetrical, parade grounds laid out with military precision, rows of windows staring down like inspectors.
At the gate, Oskar presented his documents.
Guards snapped to attention. Within minutes, they were being escorted through polished corridors to the director's office.
A brass plaque read:
Konteradmiral Ludwig von Birkenhagen
Direktor der Kaiserlichen Marineakademie Kiel
The name alone sounded like a rigid spine.
The door opened.
Inside, behind a heavy desk, stood a tall, spare man in a dark navy uniform. Not one button was out of line. His face looked carved with a ruler.
Konteradmiral Ludwig von Birkenhagen did not smile.
"Your Royal Highness," he said, bowing just enough to be polite, not quite enough to be friendly. "Welcome to the Kiel Naval Academy. Have you come to report early for your studies?"
His tone implied: You better say yes.
He already knew the Berlin gossip. A prince refusing the Emperor's will? Disgraceful. Spoiled. Dangerous.
In his mind, Prince Oskar was a problem.
Oskar saluted cleanly.
"Admiral von Birkenhagen," he said. "Yes. I have come regarding my enrollment."
"Very good," the admiral replied. "The nation expects much from its princes. I assume you are ready to commit yourself fully to naval training."
Behind Oskar, Karl silently prayed.
Oskar inhaled.
Here we go.
"Admiral," he said, voice steady, "I have a request."
An eyebrow twitched. "A… request."
"Yes."
"From most cadets," Birkenhagen said, "that would mean housing or elective subjects. From a prince, it usually means even less work. What is it in your case?"
Oskar met his eyes.
"During my enrollment," he said carefully, "I request exemption from daily classes and drills. I will attend only examinations. Without time restrictions."
Silence.
Karl's jaw literally dropped.
Birkenhagen stared as if Oskar had just asked permission to sleep on a battleship's main gun.
The admiral's face darkened slowly, like metal heating in a forge.
"The Kiel Naval Academy," he said, each word sharp, "is the cradle of the officers of His Majesty's Navy. Here, we forge the minds and characters of those who will command ships and men. Our cadets study, drill, sweat, and bleed for the privilege of serving the Reich at sea."
His eyes narrowed.
"And you, Your Royal Highness, wish to… skip class."
Karl closed his eyes.
Oskar did not look away.
"I wish to be judged only by results," he said. "Not by attendance. I will take every examination. If I fail, expel me. If I pass, I ask for the freedom to use my time as I see fit, while remaining a cadet in good standing."
Birkenhagen stared at him.
In Oskar's head, a small voice screamed: I sound insane. This is insane. Why am I like this.
The admiral's lips thinned into a razor.
"Your Royal Highness," he said coldly, "if you do not wish to attend the Kiel Naval Academy, I will not force you."
He stepped around the desk, boots loud on the floor.
"To be clear: it was His Majesty the Emperor who personally requested that you enroll here. I obeyed. As I always do."
He clasped his hands behind his back.
"If you stand here and tell me you refuse the same training endured by every other cadet, then I will send a telegram to Berlin this very hour informing His Majesty you will not be joining us at all."
He held Oskar's gaze.
"And I will respectfully ask the Emperor to withdraw his order."
Karl's heart stopped.
If the Kaiser heard that Oskar had not only argued with him in person, but then gone behind his back to weasel out of the Academy entirely…
That wouldn't be simple disappointment.
That could be ruin.
The room suddenly felt small. The air felt thick.
For a brief second, Oskar saw three possible paths:
– retreat, apologize, accept four years of chains
– double down on his insanity
– or somehow turn the admiral's anger into respect
He drew a slow breath.
"Admiral," he said, voice lower now, "I do not refuse training."
He took a step forward.
"I refuse wasting potential. Give me a harder test."
Birkenhagen's eyes narrowed another fraction.
Karl whispered, "Oh no."
The director of the Kiel Naval Academy stood very still as the most unwanted prince of Prussia gambled his future on the most dangerous thing in the world:
A crazy idea that just might work.