After the balcony, Berlin did not disperse.
It ignited.
The roar that rose from the square did not fade when Oskar stepped away from the stone balustrade. It rolled outward through streets and alleyways, through factories and churches, into taverns and kitchens and railway yards. By evening the entire city thundered with it—nationalism braided with faith, urgency mistaken for righteousness.
It was not the fever of some distant war.
It was personal.
Men were not preparing to fight an abstract enemy. They were preparing to defend an idea of themselves.
Germany.
One organism. One will. One destiny.
And every regular worker, every mother raising the next generation, all within Germany felt suddenly as if their daily labor had become sacred.
But Oskar did not feel sacred.
He felt hunted.
As he left the balcony, he could still hear the crowd behind the palace walls, even through stone and oak and distance. Their cheers did not diminish; they pressed inward like a tide against a dam.
His father's gaze burned between his shoulder blades as they walked.
"Oskar—" Wilhelm had begun.
But Oskar did not turn.
He entered the war chamber as if nothing were wrong.
He took his seat.
And the weight came down.
Four fresh bullet wounds burned in his chest beneath clean linen. Older scars—especially the one in his right palm—itched as if memory itself were trying to claw its way out. Sweat gathered beneath his collar. His ears rang faintly from the crowd's echo.
Even here, behind heavy double doors, down corridors and past marble halls, he could feel Berlin outside.
The pressure of it.
The expectation.
The belief.
It was suffocating.
For a moment he thought he might faint.
Not from blood loss.
From responsibility.
He had not merely delivered a speech.
He had shifted the axis of Europe.
He had, without using the word, declared not war—but something colder. A "special military operation." A justification broad enough that Germany could now strike not just Serbia, but any nation that stepped into its path.
And the people would accept it.
That was what frightened him most.
They would not protest.
They would not hesitate.
They would follow.
And with that speech, he had dragged the world into the fire sooner than history had done on its own.
The generals of all seven field armies were present. They had not yet departed for the western frontier. Von Kluck. Von Bülow. Hausen. Württemberg. His own brother—Prince Eitel Friedrich—now commanding the Fifth Army, tall and broad-shouldered, mustache immaculate, looking less like a prince and more like a man hired to throw drunks out of a modern bar.
They were all here.
All waiting.
All measuring him.
Oskar felt their weight as surely as the crowd's.
He was no longer a businessman.
No longer a reformer.
No longer a truck driver trying to drag one wounded soldier out of the mud.
Now he was the man who had started it.
History would carve him one of two ways:
Madman.
Or savior.
Depending entirely on who won.
But his mind betrayed him yet again. He saw not the men in the room, but their bones—skulls lined in neat rows, flesh gone, uniforms reduced to tatters. He saw Berlin emptied of sons. He saw people across Germany's borders, fathers kissing wives goodbye, boys grinning nervously at railway platforms, convinced they were boarding a grand adventure.
He knew better.
Germany's weapons were not the weapons of 1870. They were his weapons. Faster. Deadlier. Industrial. Relentless.
This would not be slaughter like in the history he remembered.
It would be annihilation.
No quiet trenches to acclimate to horror. From the first day, aircraft would scream overhead. Artillery would churn landscapes into moonscapes. Entire battalions could disappear in minutes under weapons no general of the last century had imagined.
And if he failed to end it swiftly—
tens of millions would be mercy.
The true number would eclipse imagination.
He could already see foolish nations—Portugal, others—stumbling into the blaze, dragged by past alliances and pride. The numbers spiraled in his mind until they became abstract. Until they stopped feeling like lives.
His thoughts blurred.
Voices around the table began—Moltke speaking sharply about mobilization timetables and western thrusts—but Oskar barely heard him.
Something else was happening.
A warmth bloomed behind his sternum.
Strange.
Not pain.
Not exactly.
His right hand moved unconsciously to his chest. He bent forward slightly, as if adjusting his posture.
Inside him—
There was something.
Not his heart.
Something wrapped within it.
Red.
Deep and pulsing.
And threaded through it, faint strands of gold and white light—like tinsel smashed into a sphere, like a ruined Christmas ornament burning from within.
The more he focused, the stronger it became.
It felt as though something other than blood was being pumped through him.
Something ancient.
Something unnatural.
The room shook.
Wilhelm's fist slammed into the oak table with enough force to rattle glasses and maps.
"Oskar!" the Kaiser roared. "Wake up! Have you heard a single word I just said?"
The vision snapped.
The warmth dulled.
The generals were staring at him.
Tirpitz stiff, eyes narrowed.
Moltke irritated.
Eitel alert.
Every man in the room understood what had just happened—even if they did not speak it.
Oskar inhaled slowly.
"Yes, Father," he said evenly. "I know precisely what I have done."
Silence deepened.
"I have gambled the fate of the Empire," he continued. "I have declared our enemies unworthy of being treated as nations. And if we lose this war, there will be no mercy shown to us."
The room froze.
Wilhelm leaned back, one hand rubbing his temple in frustration.
"Then why, Oskar?" the Kaiser snapped, loud enough that even the outer guards stiffened. "You have overstepped your bounds. You have gambled everything we have built into this single war. You have even given our people the option to ignore the draft. Do you realize what you may have done? Do you realize you may have doomed us all?"
The war chamber held its breath.
Moltke did not smile.
No one did.
Oskar sat beneath their scrutiny as if the weight of their gazes were nothing more than summer heat. He did not flinch, because he believed—no, because he knew—that what he had done was necessary.
If the world was to change, then someone had to step beyond what was considered sane. Someone had to do the unthinkable. And that, maybe a bit selfishly, he had felt that he could not do without the consent of those who would bleed for it.
He had that consent now.
They had roared for him.
They had chosen.
They did not understand the full price. How could they? But they had chosen.
And without that choice—without that public, undeniable commitment—he could never have crossed the line he had just crossed.
If they had booed him…
If they had stood in silence…
If they had refused…
He did not know what he would have done.
But the dice were cast now.
The machine had begun to turn.
And if he was to drag humanity somewhere better, then he would have to become something he did not dare name out loud.
He did not let any of that show.
He merely sat as the Iron Prince.
Calm.
Measured.
Unmoved.
"Father," he said evenly, "you underestimate the power of free men."
Wilhelm's grip tightened on the edge of the table.
Oskar crossed his arms as if he was speaking the obvious.
"One man who fights with his whole heart—who believes in what he is doing—is worth ten dragged forward hollow."
"A free man does not break easily, and he does not surrender easily either."
"And when tested, he becomes more dangerous than any mass you can shove toward a line with threats."
Wilhelm held his gaze.
"You believe that so completely," the Kaiser asked quietly, "that you would gamble the fate of the Empire on it?"
Oskar nodded once.
"Yes."
A pause.
"It is all or nothing now. No hesitation. No half measures. If we do this, we do it with our whole hearts."
Wilhelm exhaled through his nose, long and irritated, rubbing his face like a man trying to erase an hour that would not be erased.
"…Fine, I understand," he muttered. "But the next time you intend to wager the nation, please tell me beforehand. I do not appreciate such surprises."
At the edge of the table, Tirpitz's mouth twitched—not quite a smile. He pressed his fist briefly to his chest toward Oskar.
A private acknowledgment.
Wilhelm straightened.
"Very well," he said. "There is little point in me holding another speech to the public after Oskar's display. So let us now push such matter's aside and proceed with our plans."
His eyes swept the gathered commanders.
"So, my generals," he asked, "are we prepared?"
A heartbeat.
Then—
"We are ready you're majesty."
"Ready to strike."
"Ready to give our all for God and Fatherland."
Years of preparation spoke in their voices. They had planned for this war extensively. They had prepared their armies, and now the time had come for them to prove their worth.
Then Tirpitz stood.
"And the fleet," he said, fist to heart, "is prepared to give its all."
For a moment the chamber grew strangely quiet—like the echo of the balcony ritual had followed Oskar inside.
One by one, the army commanders stood as well. Fists to chests. Oaths unspoken but understood.
Even Oskar rose.
For a single breath, the room felt united.
Then Moltke stood.
And the unity cracked.
"This is madness," he said, voice hard as drawn wire. "Are we truly to ignore what the Crown Prince has done?"
His eyes cut toward Oskar.
"You stole Your Majesty's moment. And you have struck at the foundation of our reserve system. Mobilization depends on obligation—on certainty. You have made it… voluntary."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
No one else dared phrase it so bluntly.
Oskar did not react with anger.
He simply raised one hand, dismissive.
"You worry too much."
There was a calm in him that unsettled men who trusted only schedules and compulsion.
"Watch."
"You will see what words can do when they are true."
Moltke opened his mouth again—
Wilhelm's fist struck the table.
Once.
Decisive.
"Enough," the Kaiser said. "What is done is done."
His eyes moved across the room.
"I carry concerns as well. But after what we witnessed outside, I have little doubt we will gather the numbers required. If necessary, we will bind them with contracts as well as oaths."
He inhaled sharply.
"Proceed."
Moltke sat.
So did Oskar.
Then Moltke rose again—not to argue this time, but to explain.
He took up a long wooden pointer.
And began to move the pieces.
One by one.
Seven armies to the West.
First Army sweeping north toward Belgium.
Second close behind.
Third pressing through Luxembourg to support the Belgian thrust.
Fourth through Seventh driving straight into France.
Arrows thick as veins.
Pressure designed to break a nation before it could fully breathe.
In the East, one piece remained alone.
The Eighth Army.
Oskar's army.
A solitary shield against Russia.
Tirpitz stepped forward and shifted the fleet markers—High Seas Fleet concentrated near the German coast like a clenched fist waiting for release. Submarines fanning outward—around Britain, into the Atlantic, into shipping lanes that fed empires.
The board became a living thing with many moving parts.
And Oskar watched.
He did not interrupt.
He did not argue.
Because he knew the first phase of this war—at least the shape of it—and he also knew how quickly every "certain" plan dissolved once blood touched the map.
No plan survived first contact.
And with the changes he had forced into this timeline, even his knowledge was no longer prophecy—only a rough outline drawn in fog.
As Moltke spoke, tapping the wooden pointer against Belgium, against France, against Russia—
Oskar felt it again.
That strange warmth blooming beneath his ribs.
The room settled again.
Chief of the General Staff, Helmuth von Moltke the Younger, stepped forward once more. His voice was composed, but there was tension beneath it now—thin, strained.
"Your Majesty," he began, tapping the eastern border with his pointer, "according to our established plan, the initial engagement against Russia will fall to the 8th Army."
He glanced briefly toward Oskar.
"The Russians are mobilizing rapidly. Faster than expected. Their forward corps are already concentrating near the frontier. We must assume that an offensive into East Prussia will begin shortly."
He moved the wooden marker representing Russian armies closer to the German border.
"In light of this, I propose reinforcing the 8th Army. An additional eight infantry divisions—approximately two hundred thousand men—should be transferred east. Combined with Austro-Hungarian support, we can secure the frontier and prevent Russian penetration."
The pointer rested there, hovering over East Prussia.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then Oskar did.
"No."
The word landed clean.
Heads turned.
"The 8th Army does not require reinforcement," Oskar said evenly. "Its current strength is sufficient."
Moltke stiffened.
Oskar continued, voice calm but unyielding.
"Our strength lies not in numbers alone. We are elite. Trained. Mechanized where possible. Coordinated. The Russians are mobilizing quickly, yes—but they are not yet modern in doctrine."
He moved his own hand to the western side of the map.
"Use those eight divisions here."
He tapped Belgium.
"The Western Front is decisive. If we fail to break France swiftly, we condemn ourselves to attrition."
His gaze swept the table.
"Compared to the West, the East is secondary."
A murmur of unease rippled through the generals.
Moltke's jaw tightened.
"Your Highness, this is not the time for romanticism," he snapped. "If the Eastern Front collapses, we lose East Prussia. Russian forces could advance toward Berlin. All our efforts—everything—would be endangered."
Oskar did not raise his voice.
"This is not romance," he said quietly. "It is mathematics."
He leaned slightly over the map.
"If we divide our strength evenly, we lose everywhere slowly. If we concentrate, we win somewhere decisively."
He pointed again to the West.
"France must fall quickly. If the West stagnates, this becomes a war of industry and blockade. In that case, the Navy becomes our last hope."
He glanced toward Tirpitz.
"And that is a position we must avoid."
Moltke's frustration flared.
"You are gambling East Prussia," he said sharply.
Oskar's eyes hardened.
"I am gambling nothing."
He tapped the marker representing the 8th Army.
"I have ten infantry divisions there. Elite. Mobile. And I have one armored division."
Several eyebrows lifted.
"Will a single Armored division truly be enough?" one general muttered.
"Yes," Oskar said calmly. "And I have prepared our police forces for exactly this scenario. Should Russian units slip past the frontier, they will not find open roads and undefended rail hubs."
He straightened.
"The 8th Army will hold."
There was no boast in it.
Only certainty.
Moltke opened his mouth again, but Wilhelm raised a hand.
"Oskar," the Kaiser said, studying his son carefully, "are you certain?"
Oskar met his father's gaze.
"Yes."
"Can truly you win with so few men?"
"There will be no collapse in the East," Oskar replied. "The 8th Army will break the first Russian thrust. Buying a month for the Western offensive is entirely achievable."
Wilhelm nodded slowly.
"Very well."
He turned to the table.
"We trust the Crown Prince."
The declaration was simple. It carried weight.
"The 8th Army will hold the East."
A few generals exchanged glances. Then, as if permission had been granted to believe, confidence returned.
"Of course," one said.
"The Russians are backward."
"They will crumble under modern fire."
"Long live the 8th Army."
Laughter broke out—brief, sharp, edged with arrogance.
"The Russians are too weak," another said.
Moltke did not laugh.
He sat back down, expression tight.
If he disagreed further, it would now appear as defiance of both Kaiser and Crown Prince.
The decision had been made.
Then Moltke the Younger shifted the pointer west.
The room tightened.
He began outlining the Western deployment with practiced certainty—divisions, armies, marching corridors. The arrows on the map fanned outward through Belgium, sweeping down toward France in thick, confident strokes.
But as he spoke, Oskar's brow darkened.
He could see it.
Moltke had yet again, in this timeline as well altered the original design.
The Schlieffen concept—ruthless, almost mathematical—had rested on one brutal principle: weight the right flank so heavily that it would sweep around the French line like a hammer, bypass fortified borders, crush the north, and wheel south toward Paris. The left would hold. The right would decide the war.
Now the right was thinner.
The left and center stronger.
Safer.
Balanced.
And therefore weaker.
To the men in the room, it looked like the safe choice. A more symmetrical deployment. A hedge against uncertainty.
To Oskar, it looked like hesitation.
In another world—another life—the German right had come within striking distance of Paris. Within days reach.
They had faltered.
They had lacked the final mass to close the trap.
And that hesitation had cost them the war.
He could see it unfolding again in his mind—divisions halted just short of the capital, stretched thin, exhausted, unable to deliver the decisive blow. France surviving. The front freezing. Years of slaughter in trenches. An entire generation ground into mud.
Had Paris fallen—
History might have bent.
France might have broken.
The war might have ended before it truly began.
Perhaps the century would have been different.
Perhaps, or perhaps the French would have continued fighting.
Moltke continued.
Oskar's thoughts shifted to another possibility he had wrestled with.
What if Belgium were spared?
What if Germany bypassed it entirely, thrusting only through France and Luxembourg?
But that path was illusion.
Leave Belgium untouched and the British would use it. A flank left open was not mercy—it was invitation. Belgium and Britain were entangled by geography and treaty. If Germany refrained, London would not. The Royal Navy would not sit idle while Germany maneuvered. And once Britain chose to drag Belgium into war, it would do so with ease.
In this struggle of giants, small nations were not spectators.
They were stepping stones.
Greece would be pulled. Romania pressured. Portugal enticed. Even the Netherlands would be tested. The British Empire was built on persuasion backed by steel.
No.
Leaving Belgium alone was fantasy.
But weakening the right—
That was suicide disguised as caution.
In this timeline, Moltke still revised Schlieffen's design.
And Oskar knew—knew with the sick certainty of memory—that this dilution would bleed Germany into a drawn-out nightmare, no matter how advanced its weapons were.
He leaned forward.
"Your Excellency, Chief of the General Staff," he said calmly, though there was steel beneath it, "this differs from General Schlieffen's directive."
The room shifted.
Oskar did not look away from the map.
"I recall that when General Schlieffen passed last year, he said plainly: war is inevitable—but the right wing must not be weakened."
Silence.
Moltke's face darkened instantly.
It was not merely disagreement.
It was humiliation.
Oskar had interrupted him before. Challenged him before. But now—before the assembled commanders, before princes and generals—he was invoking Schlieffen's authority against him.
Moltke had always believed himself superior to his predecessor.
More modern.
More adaptive.
Now the Crown Prince was implying the opposite.
That he was diluting genius.
That he was afraid.
The air in the war chamber grew heavy.
Moltke's jaw tightened.