"Admiral, please—just give me a chance, my man."
The words tumbled out of Oskar's mouth before Birkenhagen could reach the telegram form.
If the director sent a message to Wilhelm II saying "Your son refuses training", everything Oskar had gambled so far would go straight into the furnace. Not only would he lose Kiel, he might lose his father's last crumb of patience.
Birkenhagen turned back slowly, cold eyes pinning him in place.
If Oskar hadn't been a prince, the admiral would likely have already had him thrown out of the building. As it was, he regarded him with the strained politeness reserved for high-ranking idiots.
"Speak," Birkenhagen said. "Quickly."
Oskar drew in a breath.
"Admiral, I understand—man who studies in Kiel Naval Academy for years is big man. Very smart. High improvement to one's abilities." He nodded hard. "But my man, for me… it is four years of garbage. I will be garbage here for four full years. Then I come out, turn into man of lowly second lieutenant after quest completion. Very bad trade."
His German disintegrated halfway through into gamer language.
Birkenhagen stared at him, face blank for a second.
Then the meaning hit.
The admiral's jaw clenched; his whole body seemed to vibrate with offense.
"Your Royal Highness," he said, voice icy, "if you do not wish to join the navy, I will not force you. But do not—ever—call four years of training at this Academy 'garbage.' It is precisely because of those 'lowly second lieutenants' that the German Navy exists at all. This institution is the pride of the Reich, not your personal wastebasket."
Oskar realized very, very late that he'd just called the entire officer corps trash.
He bowed his head quickly.
"I apologize, Admiral. Wrong words. Bad vocabulary." He tapped his temple. "Brain good. German bad."
Birkenhagen's nostrils flared, but he stayed silent.
Oskar pressed on.
"Look, my man, forgive me if I speak bluntly," he said. "But the German Navy grows and grows, and yet… the gap with the British grows also. They have big number of colonies, yes? Many lands. Those lands give them big bills. They take those bills and build big boats."
He lifted a hand, miming a ship.
"But what about our German boats? Our geographic situation, you see, forces us to spend big bills on army on land. So money for navy is… small next to British. If this continues, if this rolls on, our wish to be big like British Navy is simply in the sewer, my man."
He finished and waited.
Karl, standing to the side, looked like he was silently begging God to invent subtitles.
Birkenhagen, despite himself, paused.
As a man who had spent decades in the navy, he had watched it grow from almost nothing into the world's second-largest fleet. He knew, better than most, just how wide the gap with Britain still was—how stronger Britain's finances were, how deep their colonial resources ran, how easily they could still out-build Germany.
He also knew that no amount of imperial speeches could erase hard numbers.
"Although our enemy is powerful," Birkenhagen said stiffly, "the German Navy will never surrender. We will grow. We will improve. And someday we will meet the British on equal terms—and defeat them through skill and discipline, if not through numbers."
Stubborn. Proud. Admirable, in a way.
Oskar nodded, trying to show respect.
He genuinely did respect these men. Their effort, their discipline, their pride—none of that was fake. Their problem wasn't laziness. It was history.
In his mind, he saw what they didn't:
A war where the German fleet never quite gained decisive advantage.
A blockade that choked the Reich like a rope.
And in the end, German warships scuttled in foreign harbors, proud gray hulls sinking out of spite rather than glory.
"Admiral," Oskar said carefully, "German Navy is already very strong. Second in world, big achievement. Every officer, every man—you all did great things. Respect."
Birkenhagen's stern face eased by a millimeter.
"But," Oskar went on, "strong is not enough. Because British have more money, more friends, and we have… Austria." He spread his hands. "In future big war, they can always build two big ships for every one of ours. Their blockade game is stronger. In age of big guns and steel hulls, lady luck is… very small. Only numbers and logistics count."
In the age of sail, storms, wind, and luck had played a huge role in battle. But in the era of steel battleships, rangefinders, and big guns, chance mattered less, and raw material and industry mattered more.
Birkenhagen did not like the picture Oskar painted. But he could not deny that it rang uncomfortably true.
"Prince," he asked at last, "are you truly so pessimistic about the future of our Navy? You believe we cannot match the British and their allies?"
Oskar scratched his head, searching for words.
"Admiral, man to man… if we keep same pace, same method, then yes—it is 'game over, man.'" He spread his hands helplessly. "Once Navy fails to break British in future war, it is bad news bears. They block our fishermen, our trade routes, all the seas. We become rabbit in hole—no food, no trade. If our land army also fails to crush enemy quickly, we get stuck in trenches, in mud, bleeding slowly. In the end, Germany becomes… leaking bathtub."
Karl and Birkenhagen both stared at him.
The metaphors were terrible.
The picture was terrifying.
They had confidence in Germany—how could they not? But they also knew Britain's power. France's reserves. Russia's size. Reluctantly, they had to admit:
What the prince described was… possible.
Karl's voice came out a little tight.
"Y-Your Highness… is there no hope for Germany, then?"
Oskar shook his head.
"No. Germany still has cards," he said. "If we can build enough big boats, un-float British boats, crush their blockade, then… all good. There is peace, or at least peace on our terms. As long as navy can win in future war, Germany is close to invincible."
Birkenhagen snorted softly.
"So building more capital ships is your grand solution," he said. "But the Empire simply doesn't have the funds to invest endlessly in battleships. Competing with Britain in raw numbers is unrealistic."
"Wise words, Admiral, very wise," Oskar said. "In performance of capital ships, we are not worse than British. In some areas, we are better. But if we compete only in number, we fall behind."
He took a breath.
"That is why I am unwilling to waste four years at the Academy."
Birkenhagen frowned. "And what, exactly, does this have to do with your refusal to study here? It is precisely because the gap is so large that we need talented young men like you to enter the service and work to close it."
Without quite realizing it, the admiral had stopped seeing him as a complete fool. Odd, yes. Bad German, certainly. But behind the broken sentences, there was thought, and some courage.
Oskar shook his head.
"Admiral… the most important thing for the Navy is not me doing push-ups in school courtyard." He tapped his pocket as if it already contained gold. "The most important thing is money. Big bills. If I can get those bills—if I can bring more development funds to the Navy with my own efforts—then that will help the Kaiserliche Marine more than me memorizing textbooks here."
Birkenhagen's eyebrows climbed.
That sounded like pure fantasy.
A seventeen-year-old prince, who could barely speak proper German, claiming he would personally finance naval expansion? It was absurd. Impossible.
"Your Royal Highness," the admiral said slowly, "the cost of a single modern battleship is enormous. This is not a charity bazaar. You are talking about sums that strain the entire budget of the Empire. What you suggest is… unrealistic."
Oskar knew it sounded insane.
He also knew he had no choice but to lean into the insanity.
He straightened his back.
"Admiral von Birkenhagen," he said, meeting the man's eyes, "if I can guarantee to donate one modern battleship to the German Navy within the next four years…"
He held up a finger.
"One battleship. Paid for by me. For Germany. No tricks."
Karl's mouth fell open.
Birkenhagen went absolutely still.
"…then," Oskar continued, "will you agree to my request? Let me skip daily classes, attend only exams, and use my time to make that happen?"
Silence filled the office.
Outside, gulls cried over the harbor. Somewhere, hammers rang against steel in the shipyards, building the future the admiral had devoted his life to.
Inside, Konteradmiral Ludwig von Birkenhagen stared at the strangest prince he had ever met.
A prince with terrible grammar, ridiculous metaphors, and a proposal that sounded like madness—
—and yet, for the first time, the old officer felt a tiny spark of something he had not expected from Wilhelm II's obscure fifth son:
Possibility.