Oskar had been a very good son for quite some time now.
Good enough that the Kaiser, with a mixture of pride and exasperation, had quietly granted him something no other prince possessed:
Access to a sealed section of the palace basements.
It was guarded by palace soldiers loyal only to the Emperor, and not far from there his own Eternal Guard kept a discreet watch. It was safer than any private factory, safer than any rented lab. And just to amuse himself (and baffle anyone who might ever snoop), Oskar kept his notes in a mess of modern Chinese gamer slang — his own strange Morse code, incomprehensible to anyone else in 1906.
The air down there smelled faintly of:
oil,
warm machinery,
and something new — something synthetic, strangely sweet, and faintly intoxicating.
Glassware and metal equipment crowded heavy worktables. Behind one door, crude stills and separators hummed. Along another wall lay rolls of pale, smooth fabric — early prototypes of something the world had not yet seen.
On one table, under bright, harsh electric light, lay:
clean strips of pale rubber,
cloudy jars of laboratory-made "crude,"
and several shimmering sheets of something that glowed softly under the lamps.
Nylon.
After long nights, many failed batches, and more cursing than he would ever admit to a priest, Oskar had finally managed to produce:
synthetic oil,
synthetic rubber,
and — at last — the first usable nylon threads.
In his previous life, he knew exactly what nylon would become:
Strong, durable, flexible.
Perfect for ropes, gears, bushings, belts, insulators, parachutes, weapon parts…
But he also knew something else:
Before nylon helped to wage wars, it had conquered the world in a very different battlefield.
On women's legs.
> Stockings.
Tights.
Lingerie.
Swimwear.
Comfort before conflict.
So, instead of rushing to offer nylon to factories or the military, he started with something smaller and more intimate:
stockings, tights, activewear, undergarments.
At first, all his prototypes had been made with Anna and Tanya in mind. They were his closest women, his first models, the ones whose comfort he cared about deeply.
But both were heavily pregnant again — bodies changing by the week — and as test subjects for fitted garments, they had their… limitations.
"Not ideal for consistency," he muttered once, half amused, half frustrated.
Luckily, fate had presented him with another option.
Ever since their first real meeting at Villa Hügel, Bertha Krupp had been coming to Potsdam more frequently.
At first just to discuss steel contracts and artillery orders.
Then to play tennis.
Then to exercise with him in the palace gym.
Over the past year, he'd put her through a carefully designed regimen:
weights,
riding,
walking circuits,
tailored food advice.
She was not turning into a sculpted hourglass goddess out of some fantasy poster, but she was becoming what Oskar privately categorized as a classic pear:
strong legs,
stronger hips,
a powerful lower body,
and a bit more tone everywhere.
He tried not to stare when she walked away.
He did not always succeed.
The first time he'd given her a playful smack on the backside after a tough set of squats, she had yelped and turned so red he'd thought she might faint.
She hadn't pushed him away.
The second time, she'd laughed — actually laughed — and swatted his backside in retaliation.
The third time, she'd only rolled her eyes and stayed closer instead of further away.
By now, in private, the occasional gentle smack had become… tolerated. Maybe even enjoyed.
They trained regularly.
She had taught him better form on horseback, often sitting in front of him in the saddle, his chest against her back as he learned to trust the horse's rhythm.
Whenever their eyes met now, there was something lingering there:
A quiet intensity,
a blush that came too quickly,
a lower lip caught between teeth for just a moment too long.
When no one else was watching, she began greeting him with cheek kisses that lasted just a little longer than etiquette required.
Oskar — who had never been particularly successful with women in his old life — could no longer deny the impossible:
> Bertha Krupp, heiress of the greatest steel empire in Germany, liked him.
And he… liked her very much in return.
He had no plans of marrying her; Anna and Tanya already filled his private world more than enough.
But as a training partner… a friend… perhaps a little more…
He could not pretend she hadn't taken up residence in his thoughts.
There was, however, a problem.
Her engagement to Gustav von Bohlen und Halbach was drawing near.
If nothing changed, they would marry, have children, and — in Oskar's old history — somewhere down the line the Krupp heir would be frail and sickly, dragging the whole dynasty down.
He did not want to ruin Gustav.
By all accounts, Gustav was a decent man and a competent future head of the company.
But the bloodline… the health issues…
Oskar kept circling the same uncomfortable conclusion:
> If the first child of that marriage were healthy, strong, and carried the right mix of genes…
their future might be different.
He did not need to replace Gustav.
He just needed to make sure the first heir was… different.
That thought bothered him.
But it did not go away.
Which was how Bertha had ended up in his secret basement laboratory, standing behind a curtain, trying on the first set of nylon stockings and a short test skirt he'd had made.
"Are you quite sure this is proper?" she called from behind the curtain, voice shy but amused. "This is… much less than I am used to wearing."
"It's only for research," Oskar said, trying to sound clinical and failing. "They're just prototypes. I need to see how they move on a real person. Whether they're comfortable. Whether they look… right."
He sat in a broad armchair, shirt open at the collar, still faintly damp from their earlier workout. His dark sweatpants clung to his legs; a towel lay forgotten over one arm of the chair.
He leaned back, lost in thought, while the soft rustle of fabric came from behind the curtain.
A small cough.
The click of heels on stone.
The curtain swayed open.
Bertha stepped out.
For a moment, Oskar forgot how to breathe.
She wore sheer nylon stockings that hugged her legs like a second skin, catching the light along the curves of her calves and thighs. A short, fitted skirt hugged her hips, barely covering the rounded line where her back met her legs.
Above that—
There was no blouse.
No corset.
No bra.
Only her hands, a little unsteady, covering her breasts — not quite enough to fully conceal them, just enough to pretend she was still "proper."
Her dark-blonde hair spilled over her shoulders and down her bare back in loose waves, brushed smooth and shining. As she turned in a slow, uncertain spin, it swept over the top of the skirt and stockings like a waterfall of gold.
Her stomach was soft but firm, with the faint suggestion of muscle under the skin. Her face, lightly touched with AngelWorks cosmetics and a careful red on her lips, looked like something out of an advertisement Oskar had not yet drawn.
"Oskar…" she whispered, blush deepening. "Do you… like what you see?"
Like it?
He nearly slid right out of the chair.
His voice came out lower than usual.
"Oh yes," he said, forcing the words through a suddenly dry throat. "Very much."
He cleared his throat.
"Come closer. I need to see how… ah… how the fabric behaves when you move."
Her breath caught — he heard it.
But she obeyed.
Each soft click of her heels echoed far too loud in the quiet room.
Each step made it a little harder to think like an engineer and not like a man.
When she reached him, he gently took her hand — his fingers engulfing hers — and guided her, very carefully, onto his lap.
She gave a small gasp as she settled against his chest, feeling the heat of him, the solidity of him, the way his body wrapped around hers like living armour.
His shirt was half open, skin warm and faintly damp from earlier exercise.
Her bare back pressed against his chest.
Her thighs rested along his, the nylon smooth against the rougher fabric of his sweats.
His hands slid around her waist almost of their own accord.
She shivered, a small, involuntary sound escaping her lips.
From this vantage point — with his height, his arms around her, her entire figure framed beneath his gaze — Oskar felt something hot and dangerous uncurl in his chest.
He didn't entirely know when, or how, or why he had gone from "testing fabric" to "pulling her into his lap."
Only that he had.
And that a part of him that remembered dying in another world thought very clearly:
> If I am going to live this life fully,
I may not be able to keep pretending she is only my training partner.
Bertha shivered, a small, involuntary sound escaping her lips.
Oskar felt her body tense against his own and realised, with a jolt, that she could feel everything — the heat of him, the tremor in his hands, the very obvious way his body was responding to hers.
He didn't bother to hide it.
There was no hiding it now.
Slowly, as if gathering courage from some hidden store, Bertha lifted her hands away from her chest.
For the first time, he saw her fully — the softness, the firmness, the subtle, trembling rise and fall of her breath. Her cheeks were burning, but she didn't look away.
Instead, she reached for him.
Her fingers, smaller and unsteady, slid over his large hands and gently guided them upward, pressing his palms against her bare skin.
Oskar inhaled sharply.
The warmth of her.
The softness.
The way she arched very slightly into his touch, as if saying without words, I trust you.
"Oskar…" she began, voice so quiet it almost wasn't there. "All this time — when you told me to grow stronger, to be healthy, to be ready to bear strong children…"
She swallowed.
"I thought… what if those children weren't Gustav's."
His hands stilled.
"…What if they were yours instead."
The words hung between them like a live wire.
He stared at her, stunned. For all his secret plans, all his unspoken rationalisations, he had not expected her to voice it first.
Her engagement to Gustav drew closer with every passing week.
The Krupp line, in his old history, would falter and weaken.
Unless something changed at the beginning.
Bertha turned her head slightly, looking up at him with eyes that were bright and wet and so open it hurt to see.
"Why don't you help me, Your Highness?" she whispered. "If you truly want the next Krupp children to be strong… then bless me with your strength instead. I want children like yours. Healthy. Powerful. Clever. Like their father."
His breath caught.
She wasn't speaking out of duty.
Not out of manipulation.
She wanted this.
Wanted him.
Not just the prince, not just the industrial genius — him.
The man whose hands now rested on her skin.
The man who had made her sweat and laugh and curse her sore muscles in the gym.
The man who looked at her as if she were not just an heiress, but a woman worth building a world for.
His caution, carefully built over two lives, began to melt under the warmth of her body, the closeness of her breath, the desperate hope in her eyes.
He lowered his lips to her neck and brushed a slow, deliberate kiss along her skin.
She gasped, fingers clenching on his forearm.
"I'll only give it to you," he murmured against her throat, voice half-playful, half-raw, "if you ask nicely."
She trembled.
"Please," she breathed. "Oskar… take me. Make me yours. At least once. Before it's too late. I have wanted you since the day I first saw you."
Her hands slid down his arms, over the hard lines of muscle he'd built with relentless discipline, clinging to him as if she might fall without him.
He could have stopped.
Should have stopped.
He didn't.
"Bertha…" he managed, one last flicker of conscience. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," she said, so firmly it surprised even her. "Yes. Only you."
Her lips found his — tentative at first, then with a growing, hungry certainty that left no room for doubt about the choice she was making.
He kissed her back.
Slowly, then less slowly.
Whatever happened next —
for her family, for his dynasty, for history —
the line had already been crossed.
In the dim light of that hidden basement, surrounded by nylon, engines, and the blueprints of tomorrow, Prince Oskar of Prussia stopped pretending Bertha Krupp was only his training partner.
The rest unfolded the way such things always did:
with whispered pleas, half-choked laughter, gasps of surprise, and the kind of intensity that left no space for thought, only feeling.
When it was finally over, the lamps burned low.
The equipment sat in silent witness.
The nylon prototypes lay forgotten on the table.
Bertha rested against his chest, hair damp with sweat, breathing slowly, eyes closed, a faint, dazed smile on her lips.
Oskar held her quietly, one hand stroking her back, the other resting protectively over her stomach.
If fate could be bent, he had just given it a very firm push.
And somewhere in the depths of his mind, the gamer who once watched history from a screen thought:
> I don't know what this will change…
but whatever comes now, the Krupp heir will carry my blood as well.
In the secret basement of the Potsdam palace, under the weight of stone and empire, nylon was no longer the most world-changing thing Oskar had created.
Not anymore.
And although Oskar felt a flicker of guilt about lying with Bertha, it was the sort of guilt that didn't really bite.
He would never dare claim her publicly—touching the Krupp heiress in that way was already playing with fire. To try and turn her into "his woman" would bring his father's wrath, a court scandal, and possibly half the officer corps fainting in outrage.
But in the privacy of his mind?
He felt almost… virtuous.
Everyone whispered that he was "the people's prince." Well, then—wasn't he simply providing a great service to the Krupp family? His body in this life was absurdly strong, his health ridiculous, his children so far almost unnaturally robust. Compared to the somewhat fragile nobles and industrial dynasties of Europe, his blood seemed like reinforced concrete.
If a child of his and Bertha's could quietly shore up the shaky Krupp bloodline, wasn't that good for Germany?
He told himself yes.
And thus life went on—quite literally.
While the basement laboratory of Villa Hügel became the place where Oskar bent the future of chemistry, nylon, synthetic rubber and oils, the palace study remained the place where he reshaped culture.
Below ground: bubbling beakers, faint chemical smells, experiments on polymer threads and ersatz fuels.
Above ground: ink, paper, ideas.
While Oskar and Bertha continued their "testing sessions" with nylon at least twice a week, and while synthetic fuel and rubber prototypes slowly took shape in glassware, Oskar pushed forward on what he had discovered was the easiest, fastest, most unstoppable money machine in the world:
Books.
So far First Aid for Dummies and German Man, Volume 1 together were throwing off nearly a hundred million marks a year. It was insane. Steel and engines needed coal, factories, shipyards. Books just needed paper, ink, and people who wanted to dream or learn.
So he doubled down.
Books. Comics. Games.
Cheap to print. Cheap to ship. Impossible to stop.
Metal and engines might win wars, he decided.
But books and stories win hearts and minds.
So he unleashed the next wave.
German Man, Volume 2 came first.
Thanks to his writing team and artists, the second issue was completed in a frenzy of late nights and ink-splattered sketches. Where Volume 1 had shocked Germany with its colourful pages, dramatic heroics, and the Molemen's Emergence Day, Volume 2 took the insanity to a new level.
German Man no longer just rescued kittens, lifted wagons, and fought Molemen under Berlin.
This time he crossed the border.
In Volume 2, the caped hero flew into France to defend Paris itself from Ratbag the Mole Warlord and his hordes of burrowing, armour‑wearing, drill‑tunnel shock troops. German Man and French soldiers fighting shoulder to shoulder, shouting the same battle cry:
> "For humanity!"
It was half science fiction, half fantasy, half geopolitical satire—math be damned—and decades ahead of anything in Europe.
Children devoured it.
Adults, especially in France, bought it "for the children" and then read it themselves in secret.
Teachers complained it was "too exciting" and "far too imaginative."
Which, of course, sent sales through the roof.
For Oskar, it wasn't just about profit. It was a deliberate message:
even Germans and French, after all their quarrels, could stand together against something worse.
Karl reported, almost dizzy, that Volume 2 outsold Volume 1 by nearly double in its first week.
Then came the two "serious" books.
If comics were candy, these were meant to be bread and meat.
The first was titled simply:
> Prince Oskar's Guide to Healthy Eating
Inside were explanations of balanced diet, protein, fats, vegetables, vitamins—and, shockingly for 1906, calories. There were simple, tasty recipes using common ingredients, little diagrams, and step‑by‑step instructions written as if for children so that anyone could understand.
Housewives loved it.
Noble ladies loved it.
Anyone who wanted a narrower waist, better skin, or more energy suddenly had a prince-approved excuse to change how their homes cooked.
The second book was:
> Prince Oskar's Guide to Staying Fit and Beautiful
It laid out daily exercise routines, stretches, strength work, simple "heart and lung" training, and gentle explanations of how muscles grew and fat shrank. There were sections for:
men who wanted bulk and power,
women who wanted to stay slim and graceful,
older people who wanted to stay mobile instead of fading quietly into a chair.
It wasn't the same as attending a Pump World gym. But for people who lived far away or could never afford a membership, it was a door opening.
Some schools quietly adopted the book.
Factory owners, wanting to look modern and benevolent, began simple morning exercises with their workers.
Women—both noble and common—secretly did the routines in their rooms.
And scattered through the text were Oskar's favourite little lines:
> "Pain is temporary, but if you quit, the regret lasts forever."
The nation's body was quietly changing, one page and one stretch at a time.
And every cover carried the same name:
> Written by Prince Oskar of Germany.
But even that was not enough for him.
He could have simply stolen a story like Star Wars or Lord of the Rings from his old world memory, or rewritten The Art of War for the West and retired on the profits.
It felt lazy.
So instead, his Chinese gamer brain turned toward something else:
Board games.
When he wasn't handling rubber synthesis, arguing with chemists, or enduring Bertha's enthusiastic "nylon testing," he drew hexes, sketched maps, and designed tiles and tokens.
Soon, with the help of his team, the first great game was ready:
> The Game of Napoleonic Conquest
A grand‑strategy board game with dice, colourful plastic armies, and a map of Europe carved into regions. Players picked nations, manoeuvred troops, formed alliances, betrayed one another, and fought to dominate the continent.
Within weeks of its release, cafés were full of students and officers hunched over the map, arguing over troop movements and supply lines, learning basic strategy without realizing it.
It was essentially Risk—but earlier, sharper, and very European.
A second game followed: a proto‑Monopoly.
Buying streets. Building shops. Charging rent. Risking scandal. Going bankrupt. Clawing your way back. Laughing, swearing, learning how money actually worked.
Merchants adored it.
Their children did too.
Across Germany, people began to joke that the Fifth Prince invented more in a month than some men did in a lifetime.
Oskar mostly tried not to think about it. The more everyone said things like that, the more he felt like an overclocked computer about to melt.
But he had one more quiet layer to all this.
Every book, every comic, every board game he sold in Austria‑Hungary was printed only in German.
If people in Vienna or Budapest or the Balkans wanted to read German Man, cook like Prince Oskar, or play Napoleonic Conquest, they had to learn enough German to manage it.
Just a little.
Enough to read simple sentences.
Enough to shout German phrases during game night.
Enough to feel that German was not some enemy tongue, but a shared language of fun and knowledge.
If, one day, the Balkans and Central Europe were full of people who all knew a bit of German thanks to his silly games and comics… well, that would not be a bad thing for future alliances.
By early June 1906, the river of Marks flowing into the Oskar Industrial Group had become a flood.
AngelWorks profits climbed.
Pump World profits doubled again.
SafetyWorks exports grew.
Every book sold faster than the printers could stack pages. German Man volumes were being traded like treasure on schoolyards.
Board games became a middle‑class status symbol. In the modern world, children went to those friends who had the newest game console. In 1906 Germany, children and adults alike went to that one friend whose family owned the latest Oskar board game.
And unlike steel or engines, which ate raw materials and labour…
Books, comics, and games cost almost nothing to make.
It was pure margin.
Karl hunched behind his mountain of papers, twitching every time a new report landed on his desk. His projections told the same unbelievable story:
just from books, comics, and board games alone, Oskar was on track to earn an extra hundred to two hundred million Marks a year.
Cheap to produce.
Hard to counterfeit well.
Irresistible to anyone with eyes and a bit of spare money.
For 1906, it was revolutionary.
And somewhere between the laboratories, printing presses, and toy shops, Prince Oskar of Germany was becoming something new and faintly frightening:
not just an industrial prince or a naval visionary,
but a cultural force—
a polarising international icon whose ideas were seeping into homes, kitchens, classrooms, and café tables,
one page, one panel, one little plastic army at a time.
By 17 June 1906, Berlin had grown used to surprises from the Fifth Prince.
Even so, people on their way to Pump World, AngelWorks, or the tram stopped and stared when they saw the German Welfare Lottery Company's headquarters wrapped in heavy black tarpaulin from street to roof. The building loomed like a sealed monument on the boulevard, its purpose suddenly obscured.
Curious Berliners asked the clerks at the ticket windows what was happening.
"All will be revealed tomorrow," they were told with mysterious smiles.
The next morning, 18 June, the tarpaulin was gone.
In its place, a single enormous poster covered the façade.
On the left, a tall, absurdly muscular young man in a fitted riding coat straddled a powerful motorcycle, its frame gleaming, its stance predatory. The man, of course, was Oskar himself — helmet under one arm, wind in his hair, every line of his body screaming speed and confidence.
On the right, a second motorcycle: smaller, exquisitely painted in deep red, with curved fenders and a lower seat. Tanya — visibly five months pregnant, but radiant — leaned forward over the handlebars, blonde hair flying behind her, smiling at the viewer. For many women who saw it, the temptation was instant and undeniable.
"Mein Gott, what has the Prince invented now?" a young worker in an Albrecht Safety Works coat blurted, stopping dead in the street. "Is that thing real?"
"Oh heavens, it's beautiful…" a middle‑class woman in Pump World sweats breathed. "Does anyone know where they're selling it? I'd ride that anywhere."
Crowds gathered.
Within hours the same advertisement appeared in Leipzig, Hamburg, Munich, Cologne, and half a dozen other cities. Lottery kiosks across the Empire sprouted smaller versions of the design, along with a new promotion: special tickets whose grand prize was not money but one of two "Muscle Motors" motorcycles.
The name spread in days.
Newspapers were bought out the instant they arrived at stands. On the inside pages, paid adverts explained what the giant posters only hinted at:
Two new machines from a new company — Muscle Motors — created by Daimler, financed and fronted by Prince Oskar.
A heavier "Herrenmaschine" for men. A lighter, elegant "Damenmaschine" for women.
Both promised unheard‑of reliability, a top speed that made cab horses look pathetic, and a level of style that turned heads even standing still.
Germany, the adverts promised, would be the first in the world allowed to buy them.
The only catch:
They would not be available for sale until 27 July 1906.
"My God, a whole month?" a young man groaned, raking his hands through his hair. "How are we supposed to wait that long?"
"I'll bet they're releasing it on His Highness's birthday," a girl in braided pigtails said with conviction. "So the whole Empire can celebrate with him. You'll see — 27 July exactly."
She was right.
While anticipation built, Daimler's men spent that month furiously buying or leasing shopfronts in every major German city. These new premises, marked with the bold MUSCLE MOTORS sign, would not only sell motorcycles but also handle repairs and spare parts — the embryo of a proper dealership network.
When 27 July finally arrived, it felt as if half of Germany had decided to throw a party with Oskar.
In Berlin, Hamburg, Munich, Cologne and beyond, exhibition grounds and public squares were packed. Banners fluttered, street vendors shouted, and noisy crowds surged toward rope barriers and polished display stands where the new machines waited.
The first production run was modest by Oskar's standards:
10,000 men's machines. 10,000 women's machines.
The Herrenmaschine — larger, heavier, aggressive — was priced at 1,500 Marks.
The Damenmaschine — lighter, lower, beautifully finished — cost 1,000 Marks.
For 1906, these prices were brutal.
A good worker might earn 80–120 Marks a month. Even a factory foreman or junior officer thought twice before dropping a year's wages on something that could neither plough a field nor pull a wagon.
But price did not kill desire.
Men in their Sunday coats and caps crowded the lines, eyes devouring every curve of the fuel tanks and frames. Some muttered numbers under their breath, already designing saving plans and bargaining with themselves.
Young engineers and clerks stared at the engines the way priests stared at relics.
Women circled the Damenmaschine, fingertips brushing the paint, whispering about wind in their hair and the shocking idea of going somewhere without a carriage, a husband, or a timetable. The fact that the poster's version had a clearly pregnant Tanya riding it only made the freedom seem more attainable, not less.
"It's too expensive!" a young man in line complained loudly.
A broad‑shouldered miner behind him snorted. "Idiot. Have you ever seen anything like it? Shut up if you're not buying. Some of us will."
The young man bristled. "Who said I'm not buying? I was only complaining. If I don't grab one now, who knows when I'll get another chance?"
His fear was justified.
By the end of that first day, all 20,000 motorcycles were gone.
At the same time, another novelty appeared on German streets.
In Berlin and a few other large cities, small plots of land at busy corners now held strange new structures with bright Muscle Motors signage: simple, low buildings with a few fuel pumps out front and shelves of food, drink, and basic travel supplies inside.
They were christened Muscle Motors Pump Stations.
You could ride in, buy fuel for your machine, and walk away with bread, sausage, milk, sweets, even a newspaper for the journey. In an era with no real convenience stores and no true gas stations, Oskar had quietly invented both at once.
Within weeks, every other industrialist in Europe would be watching them and taking notes.
That afternoon, before returning to the palace for his joint birthday celebration with his triplets, Oskar rode his own motorcycle through central Berlin.
His bike looked like something stolen from the 1970s and smuggled back in time: muscular frame, low aggressive stance, roaring exhaust note. He wore a skull‑face helmet, goggles, leather gloves and pads — half knight, half demon on two wheels.
When he arrived at the main Berlin dealership, the crowd erupted. People shouted his name. Some women latched shamelessly onto his arms; one bold mother plopped her snot‑nosed son onto his shoulders for a moment so the boy could "see what a real prince looks like."
Oskar laughed, posed, and then his gaze snagged on the man Karl had hired to manage this flagship shop.
A slim young fellow from Austria‑Hungary with a carefully combed dark fringe and an already ambitious little moustache, standing on a crate and delivering an impassioned sales pitch to the crowd as if speaking in a parliament.
His German was sharp, his gestures dramatic, his eyes burning with conviction about the greatness of Muscle Motors and the Prince who stood behind it.
When Karl introduced them, Oskar almost dropped his helmet.
The young man bowed quickly, eyes shining.
"It is the greatest honor to work for Your Highness," he said. "I came from Vienna for this chance. To sell your machines. To help build a new Germany."
His name, he said, was Adolf Hitler.
Not the hardened, broken veteran Oskar remembered from history documentaries. Just a skinny, intense, slightly awkward twenty‑something with too much energy and too many opinions, now a fanboying dealership manager in Oskar's expanding empire.
Life, Oskar thought faintly, truly had a sense of humor.
He kept it brief — complimented the moustache, encouraged the man to keep up the "good speeches," and then excused himself. He still had a palace full of guests, three toddlers' birthday cakes, and a sulking Crown Prince to deal with.
That night, the party at the palace went about as well as could be expected.
The Empress cooed over the triplets. The Kaiser beamed at his son. Ministers spoke of "the Prince's extraordinary year." Even Crown Princess Cecilie smiled politely and danced a turn with Oskar.
Crown Prince Wilhelm drank too much and glowered from the edge of the room, pretending he absolutely was not glowering.
The next morning, the numbers came in.
"Your Highness, this is unbelievable!" Paul Daimler almost shouted when he burst into Oskar's office. "All twenty thousand motorcycles sold out in a single day! When did the German people's purchasing power become this strong?"
Oskar lounged back in his chair with a satisfied smile.
"My man Daimler, of course they can afford it," he said. "We've been paying workers and staff well for years so that they can. And this is only the beginning. Those first buyers are now our best advertisements — riding around every town, letting people hear the engine and see the machine. Soon everyone will want one. Orders will fall on your factory like snow. Are you ready?"
Daimler straightened, excitement and a hint of panic in his eyes.
"The company is as ready as it can be. After these twenty thousand, we still have another twenty thousand machines in stock. With the expanded lines, we can reach a production capacity of about forty thousand motorcycles per month, including some for export."
He sounded proud. It was, by any normal measure, enormous.
Oskar only shook his head.
"Forty thousand might not be enough even for Europe," he said. "Demand will grow faster than you think. We'll scale as the markets grow. And more importantly, we must build the infrastructure to support them — real pump stations in every major city and along the main roads, starting with Germany and Austria‑Hungary. Without fuel and service, no machine matters."
Daimler nodded, already calculating.
Outside, somewhere in Berlin, a newborn motorcycle rumbled past a window.
Germany had taken its first step into the motor age.
And as always, at the center of it, stood the Fifth Prince and his impossible ideas.