Oskar didn't bother spelling it out, but everyone on that platform understood the obvious.
Machines had advantages.
They didn't tire. They didn't get spooked by gunfire. They didn't limp if shrapnel grazed a leg. They didn't eat unless you fed them fuel, and if you didn't, they simply stopped—not cried.
A good machine, well‑built, was faster than a horse, needed less care than a horse, and if it broke under fire you abandoned it without guilt. No one wrote poems for dead motorcycles.
Moltke saw all of that as clearly as Oskar did.
And still, he knew he had to refuse.
Not because the idea was bad.
Because the prince behind it was becoming too strong.
If this went on, that eighteen‑year‑old boy would be unstoppable.
The navy had already drifted into Oskar's orbit: Tirpitz, the admirals, the yards, the guns. If the army now openly embraced him as well, what would be left of the Crown Prince's status except ink on a genealogy chart?
Moltke was painfully aware he was walking a tightrope.
If he sounded too enthusiastic, Wilhelm the Crown Prince would hear of it and seethe.
If he was too harsh, Wilhelm II might decide his Chief of the General Staff was letting personal politics override the interests of the Empire.
So he chose the safest shield of all.
Money.
"Your Highness," he began, with a regretful sigh, "this is undoubtedly a promising device. But to adopt it widely, we would have to restructure parts of the army. New doctrine, new units, new training. For machines whose effectiveness has not yet been proven in real battle."
He spread his hands.
"And frankly, the army does not have the funds. The situation grows more tense by the month. Our position in Europe forces us to guard three directions at once – east against Russia, west against France, and always the sea, in case the British attempt a landing. The army must strengthen its artillery, its rifles, its logistics… but our budget is already strained to breaking. What little we have cannot be risked on unproven methods such as these motorcycles. I fear we simply do not have the money to purchase them."
It was a reasonable answer.
Too reasonable.
The other generals nodded, some out of habit, some out of genuine worry. Oskar understood very well that the navy was getting more of the cake—especially because he kept baking it—but hearing the excuse still made his jaw tighten for half a second.
Moltke caught that flicker and felt…satisfied.
A small setback for the prince. A useful reminder that the army was not so easily bent.
If Moltke was honest with himself, he knew Oskar's abilities were undeniable. Given the chance to inherit the throne, the boy might very well outshine the current Crown Prince in every category that mattered.
Good for Germany. Very bad for a man who had already nailed his colors to Wilhelm's mast.
It was far too late, and far beneath his pride, to switch sides now. And there was a part of him that half‑seriously feared what kind of mad, indecent, upside‑down world an unfettered Oskar might build if he ever sat on the throne.
So he dug in.
"Your Highness," Moltke added, voice smooth but eyes sharp, "if I may… perhaps you might consider a donation instead. The Navy, after all, enjoys your generosity. You have promised to fund an entire battleship for them—a monster worth tens of millions of marks."
He let the words hang for a heartbeat.
"With wealth such as yours, surely you would not wish to appear… biased?"
There it was.
The battleship promise, dragged into the open. Not a secret to any of the men present. And the way Moltke said it was designed for one thing only: to prick pride. To stir quiet resentment.
Why does the navy get everything? Why do we get nothing?
In drawing rooms and marriage negotiations, the navy was already the glamorous branch. Admirals' granddaughters were finding themselves very attractive husbands. Army families, by comparison, were starting to feel like second‑tier goods on the marriage market.
Why marry a dog, when you can marry a wolf?
Oskar felt the shift in the air at once.
He didn't entirely understand why Moltke seemed to hate him on sight, but he knew perfectly well he couldn't afford to let the army as a whole sour on him. That was how you lost a run in this particular "dating sim" — offend the girl's entire family, and good luck ever holding her hand.
The army, in this analogy, was the daughter.
These old generals were the fathers and uncles.
Time to pick the right dialogue option.
He forced his irritation down and smiled pleasantly.
"Your Excellency Chief of the General Staff," he said, "believe me, I have no wish to show favoritism. The Imperial Army is the spine of the Empire. Without the victories of our army, there would be no united Germany today."
He paused, letting the compliment sit, and saw shoulders straighten almost imperceptibly.
"Since the army is facing financial difficulties," Oskar continued, "allow me to do what I can. I am willing to donate"—he looked straight at Moltke—"ten thousand two‑wheeled military motorcycles, and ten thousand three‑wheeled machine‑gun carriers."
A low murmur rippled through the assembled officers.
"In total, twenty thousand machines," Oskar said. "Worth over fifty million marks. Fuel, of course, included."
He spread his hands.
"There is only one condition: that this donation remains secret. If word spreads abroad that I am personally equipping the German army, my businesses in other countries will suffer… and our enemies will complain that their own money is arming us."
The field went quiet.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
For the generals, fifty million marks was a number the War Ministry would fight over for months—years—if it had to appear in the official budget.
Oskar had just thrown it out like he was buying snacks.
For Oskar himself, it was annoying, yes—but survivable. Books, lotteries, motorcycles, safety gear… his empire was a fountain that kept refilling. He could afford a spectacular gesture or two.
What he couldn't afford was an army that secretly disliked him.
In his head, he was already doing the math:
Twenty thousand bikes were nothing compared to what the army would need once war actually came.
Motorcycles, trucks, armored cars, tanks—all that was in his future plans. He was not, under any circumstances, donating all of that for free. Even if he could probably invent some ridiculous vampire romance that would print money forever.
But for today, this was the move.
Moltke, for once, was genuinely stunned.
Fifty million marks, given up without even a negotiation. A donation that large, just to close a political rift.
This boy is too rich, he thought, lips twitching. And far too dangerous.
A moment later came the sound:
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
Von Falkenhayn started it. Then von Bülow, Hausen, Kluck, von der Marwitz… one after another, the army's senior officers joined in, until the air was full of applause.
On the platform behind Oskar, Tanya and Anna clapped and laughed as well, not really following the details but understanding one simple thing:
Their man had impressed the old lions.
Even the children seemed amused, clapping their little hands just because everyone else was.
"Your Highness," von Falkenhayn said loudly, stepping forward, "on behalf of the German Army, I thank you for your support!"
Oskar dipped his head slightly.
"As a prince of the German Empire, this is merely my duty," he replied. "I want you all to know: in my eyes, the army and the navy are brothers, not rivals. Both are pillars of the Empire's security."
He turned slightly, letting his gaze sweep across the faces in front of him.
"I have poured money into the fleet," he admitted openly, "because the navy faces the greatest gap. I will not see Germany suffer Napoleon's fate—glorious on land, strangled at sea. As for the army… gentlemen, you are already the finest in the world. There is far less to correct."
That last line landed exactly where it needed to.
The German Army, number one in Europe since 1871, had never needed much outside validation. But hearing it from the Fifth Prince—the same prince who reshaped industry, navy, and public opinion—still sent a little glow of pride through the old men's chests.
Their expressions softened.
More than one pair of eyes turned, instinctively, toward the empty spot where the Crown Prince should have been.
Without quite meaning to, they compared the two brothers:
One heir by blood and law.
One prince by birth… and by ability, and courage, and generosity.
The conclusion, though unspoken, was obvious.
Oskar, watching their faces, felt it too.
He hadn't just donated twenty thousand motorcycles.
He'd unlocked a new affection meter.
For the first time, the German Army did not simply see him as "the Kaiser's odd giant son with factories."
They saw him as their prince as well.
"Thank you for your generosity, Your Highness. If the army budget allows more flexibility in future, we may consider purchasing additional motorcycles."
Moltke forced a smile as he said it. On his long, severe face it looked more like a grimace than gratitude.
Oskar merely nodded. He knew an empty promise when he heard one. As long as Moltke sat in that chair, getting the army to buy anything from his companies would be like trying to pull teeth from a stone lion.
What was meant to be a sales demonstration had quietly turned into a 50‑million‑Mark donation. Part of him wanted to groan.
Still… for that money, he had just turned a whole generation of senior generals from wary skeptics into men who now associated his name with steel, engines, and generosity. You couldn't usually buy that kind of goodwill even with money.
Fine, he thought. Consider it a down payment on the future.
At least his Eternal Guard had put on a good show, and his women and children had enjoyed themselves.
After he and the army reached an agreement, the event ended with one last spectacle: a mock motorcycle assault on a "trench line."
The three‑wheeled machines roared forward first, MG08s chattering blank fire as belts rattled and brass casings spilled into the churned earth. Their riders used rifles to "cover" the advance, while the two‑wheelers swept in behind, engines howling.
At the whistle, the two‑wheeled squads veered in close, braked hard, leapt off, and charged the straw‑stuffed "enemy" dummies with bayonets and pistols. Within seconds the scarecrow "infantry" lay ripped and stabbed, cotton guts spilling out.
For the finale, the riders remounted and carved great looping arcs across the field until, viewed from the grandstand, their tire tracks spelled a single word in the torn grass:
OSKAR.
It was dramatic. It was a little childish. And it made his kids absolutely lose their minds with delight.
Some generals coughed into their fists to hide their smiles. Others looked faintly embarrassed. Tanya and Anna clapped politely, laughing as the triplets bounced in Oskar's lap, chubby hands flapping at the sight of their father's name written in earth.
When it was done, Moltke was the first to take his leave.
The moment he turned away from the stands, the polite expression cracked and fell. His face darkened like a sky before rain.
So. His Highness Prince Oskar truly is ambitious, he thought sourly. He throws millions in steel and engines at the fleet, now more millions at the army, all to win hearts. Does anyone still believe this is just "patriotism"? The boy is buying loyalties. Buying the military. How long before he reaches for the Crown Prince's place as well?
He wasn't entirely wrong. He was also missing about half the truth.
Moltke knew better than most how precarious Crown Prince Wilhelm's position had become. Wilhelm II's patience with his eldest son was fraying. The comparison with Oskar—one a carefully groomed but mediocre heir, the other a freakish genius prince—was like holding a candle next to an arc lamp.
For Germany, Moltke knew in his bones that Oskar on the throne would probably be a blessing.
For him, who had already nailed his colors to the Crown Prince's mast… it was a nightmare he refused to face.
He pulled his coat tighter, expression grim, and walked away without looking back.
"Your Highness, thank you again for your support of the army," said von Falkenhayn, coming up to shake Oskar's hand, his lined face open with genuine relief.
For the Minister of War, every Mark was a battlefield. Guns, shells, training, rail mobilization plans, fortifications—everything demanded money, and there was never enough.
A prince who not only talked about "supporting the army" but actually handed over 20,000 machines and free fuel?
That was a gift from heaven.
"You flatter me, Excellency," Oskar replied, keeping his tone modest. "It's my duty. Without the army there would be no empire, and no princes at all."
Von Falkenhayn patted his shoulder with a faint, rueful smile.
If only this one were the eldest, he thought. If only…
He left with that unspoken regret shadowing his eyes.
One by one, the other generals followed. Each of them came forward, shook Oskar's hand, and voiced their thanks. In their gazes he saw real warmth now, and something else as well—frustration at the injustice of birth order.
More than one pair of eyes weighed him with the speculative look of a father thinking, If only I could marry my daughter to this man…
Oskar, misreading it, panicked for a second and blurted:
"I wish your daughters good fortune in finding good husbands soon."
He even threw in an encouraging wink.
The old generals blinked, momentarily stunned, then laughed it off and thanked him anyway. Tanya and Anna both quietly buried their faces in their hands. Off to the side, Karl massaged his temples.
Oskar really was still a bit hopeless at court subtext.
Soon the stands emptied, officers drifting away in knots of conversation, junior staff collecting maps and papers, Eternal Guards reforming into neat blocks around Tanya and Anna to escort them back to the palace.
Only one senior figure remained on the reviewing platform with Oskar.
"Your Highness," said Tirpitz, stepping up beside him, "ride back with me. There are matters I'd like to discuss while the roads are still clear."
Oskar could guess what that meant: ships, budgets… or perhaps, more awkwardly, daughters. He knew the Grand Admiral had two of them at marriageable ages. The thought made him sweat a little under his collar.
He kissed Tanya and Anna goodbye, scooped each of the children up for a quick hug, and handed them into Karl's care.
"Get them home safely, my little man," he said. "And make sure the Eternal Guard doesn't let them bully the cooks too much."
Karl rolled his eyes, bowed, and shepherded his charges away through the ring of armored guards.
Then Oskar followed Tirpitz down the steps.
Once again Oskar had to fold himself into a royal car that was just a little too small for him. His knees jammed against the front seat, one shoulder pressed to the door, the other almost touching Tirpitz beside him. Outside, Berlin's grey sky drifted past the window; behind them, on the distant parade field, engines were still ticking as they cooled.
Inside the car, however, new plans were already warming in the Grand Admiral's mind.
"Your Highness," Tirpitz began, moustache curling in a faint smile, "you handled things very well today. I am especially grateful for your continued support of the navy. There has been… some grumbling about that, as you know. The gentlemen in the army were beginning to feel slighted. After today, I think their pride has been soothed."
He sounded pleased, not at all resentful. Fifty million marks in motorcycles and fuel donated to the army, and the man didn't even flinch.
Oskar shrugged slightly, as much as the cramped space allowed.
"Your Excellency, in any future war the navy will be crucial, yes. But the army is just as important. After the fleet smashes the enemy and clears the sea, someone still has to march in and actually take their land. Our warships cannot roll up onto the beaches and seize Paris, can they?"
Tirpitz gave a short laugh.
"Sadly, not yet."
"That's why I value the army too," Oskar went on. "It's just that our army is already the best in the world. The enemies they face are strong, but not as strong as the ones waiting for our navy. The British… are a different tier of problem."
Tirpitz nodded, satisfied. That was more or less how he saw things as well: the army powerful and proud, the navy still playing catch‑up with the greatest sea power on earth.
After a moment, he tilted his head.
"Your Highness—did you notice the… chill from little Moltke today?"
Oskar snorted softly.
"I'd have to be blind not to. It felt like he wanted to bayonet my motorcycles personally. I don't remember ever offending him. Unless he hated German Man Volume Two." He paused. "Too much friendship with the French, maybe."
Tirpitz's eyes crinkled.
"Sometimes, being too dazzling is a sin, Your Highness. You have done too much, too quickly. Some men feel threatened. Moltke is one of them. He did not want today to end in your favour, so he tried to rein you in. But clearly, it did not work."
"Are you saying Crown Prince Wilhelm sent him?" Oskar frowned.
The Grand Admiral shook his head.
"Not necessarily. The Crown Prince isn't… that subtle. But everyone knows Moltke is close to him. And from the Crown Prince's point of view, you are a very real threat to his position—whether you intend to be or not. So you should expect more trouble from that direction in future."
Oskar nodded slowly.
His big brother targeting him wasn't a surprise; he'd already seen flashes of that. The brazenness of Moltke's attitude, though, had been a bit of a shock.
Tirpitz leaned back, gaze turning more serious.
"Your Highness, there is something else. His Majesty has complained more than once, in private, that the Crown Prince is too stubborn, too narrow‑minded. He doubts Wilhelm's ability to rule the Empire well."
Oskar blinked.
"Is it really that serious?" he asked.
He knew his father had been dissatisfied with Wilhelm for some time, but to complain openly to ministers was another level entirely. For a man as attached to primogeniture as Wilhelm II, that meant patience was nearly exhausted.
"You deserve much of the credit for that," Tirpitz said bluntly.
Oskar raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean by credit, Your Excellency?"
"Because you are so extraordinarily competent," Tirpitz replied. "You shine so brightly that you cast an unflattering shadow over the Crown Prince. You build factories, shipyards, lotteries, safety laws, books, engines, even bloody cat products. You design battleships and pay for them yourself. Meanwhile, the Crown Prince uses his status to meddle in affairs and interfere, but achieves nothing. It is very hard, in such a comparison, for His Majesty to believe his eldest son will lead the Empire well."
Oskar grimaced.
"My big brother is… too impatient to see results," he said carefully. "That makes it difficult for him to succeed in anything long‑term."
Tirpitz nodded.
He watched Oskar for a second, then dropped the question he'd been circling around.
"Your Highness, if—purely in theory—His Majesty were to name you Crown Prince instead… what would you do?"
Oskar stared at him for a heartbeat, stunned.
Then he let out a breathy laugh.
"I would probably die of overwork," he said. "I'm already drowning in ships, laws, housing, lotteries, babies, and motorcycles. Add a crown on top of that and I'll have to start writing 'Rest in Peace' on my own schedule."
The Grand Admiral actually chuckled at that, but his expression remained solemn.
"Yes, it would require a great deal of work," he agreed. "But even so, I believe you are perfectly suited for it. If—if—His Majesty ever truly decides to replace the Crown Prince, nothing is impossible. And if that day comes, the navy will stand entirely behind you. I am convinced that only you can lead Germany and her fleet to a decisive and glorious victory."
For a brief, unguarded moment, real panic flickered in Oskar's eyes.
He knew exactly what Tirpitz was doing: making his allegiance plain. Putting his weight on the scale. It was flattering, terrifying, and deeply inconvenient all at once.
He lifted both hands slightly.
"Your Excellency, I'm grateful. Truly. But I did not come here to steal a throne. I only want Germany to be strong enough that we never live through a second Olympic games humiliation—or another barbarian invasion like in the early medieval ages, you know," he muttered under his breath, unsure of what the hell were those comparisons anyway. "But anyway, the point is that if I can help us win the next war, change the country for the better, keep our people from starving or freezing in third‑class train cars… that is enough for me. Crowns are just heavy metal hats."
He exhaled.
"So for now, we should each do our work well. Let the rest be decided by God—or fate, or history, or whatever name you prefer."
Tirpitz studied him for a long, thoughtful moment.
Then he gave a small nod and fell silent.
He did not argue. He did not press.
But the weight of his unspoken thoughts filled the cramped car:
The Kaiser might hesitate. The Reichstag might posture. The court might whisper.
But if the day ever came when a choice had to be made between Wilhelm and Oskar…
…the man who commanded the German fleet already knew which name he would quietly support.
Outside, Berlin's rooftops slid past under a dull autumn sky.
Inside the cramped royal car, a Grand Admiral and a young prince sat side by side, saying nothing more—
yet the course of Germany's future had just tilted, almost imperceptibly, in a new direction.
While Oskar and Count Tirpitz rattled back toward the capital, Chief of the General Staff Helmuth von Moltke the Younger went somewhere else entirely.
Not to the War Ministry.
Not to the palace.
To the Crown Prince's private estate.
On the outskirts of Potsdam, past fields and small woods, lay a well-kept farm that had once belonged to the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. After Crown Prince Wilhelm's marriage to Cecilie, the estate had been quietly transferred into her name.
It was, in practice, Wilhelm's secret refuge: half country villa, half private court.
Moltke was shown inside.
"Exzellenz, willkommen," Crown Prince Wilhelm greeted him with a smile that was a little too relaxed for Moltke's taste. "Sit, sit. You must try the wine they make here. It's not Bordeaux, of course, but it has its own charm."
He poured a glass himself and handed it over, clearly proud of his domestic little kingdom.
Moltke took the glass, but his expression barely softened.
Watching the Crown Prince fuss over estate wine while the Empire's political ground shook under their feet made something sour rise in his chest.
Is this really the man I chose to back? he thought.
Ambitious, certainly. Proud, definitely.
But self-indulgent, thin-skinned, unable to match Oskar in any field but birth order.
Aside from being the eldest son, Wilhelm had nothing on the fifth prince.
By contrast, Oskar:
out-earned half the industrialists in Germany,
out-thought most of the generals in the room,
and had just donated fifty million marks' worth of hardware to the army without blinking.
If lineage were not everything, the choice of heir would have been simple.
But Moltke knew he was already too deep.
He had tied himself to the Crown Prince's camp from the beginning. He had openly favored Wilhelm's views, defended him in staff meetings, let his name be linked to the Crown Prince's future.
If Oskar ever became heir—or worse, Kaiser—would he trust a man who'd spent years quietly undermining him?
Unlikely.
And for Helmuth von Moltke the Younger, losing power would be worse than disgrace.
So he sat. He accepted the wine.
And he sharpened his tone.
"Your Highness," he said, ignoring the offered toast, "you still have the mood for drinking?"
Wilhelm's smile faltered.
Moltke leaned forward, voice low and hard.
"The situation is already extremely serious. Today, Prince Oskar pledged to donate motorcycles worth fifty million marks to the army. The generals were delighted. Their attitude toward him has changed completely. If he continues investing in the army, many of your officers will soon look to him for leadership."
He paused for effect.
"And the navy," Moltke added, "already follows him like loyal hounds. If this continues, Your Highness… you will have no chance against him at all."
The Crown Prince's face drained, then flushed dark red.
"What?!" Wilhelm slammed his glass down so hard the wine sloshed over the rim. "He did what? Fifty million marks—for my army?"
His voice turned sharp, almost shrill.
"Damn him! What is Oskar trying to do? He's already stolen the navy from under me, and now he wants the army as well?"
Moltke did not bother to soften it.
"Your Highness, the danger is obvious. The generals are not blind. They see who is strengthening their forces. Who brings new ideas, new weapons, new money. If this continues, it will be his name they cheer, not yours."
Wilhelm's fingers curled around the edge of the table until the knuckles whitened.
Moltke delivered the blow without mercy.
"If you go on as you are now," he said coldly, "you might as well hand over the throne to Prince Oskar yourself."
He rose.
"Think on this, Your Highness."
Without waiting for a response, the Chief of the General Staff turned on his heel and walked out.
The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then—
"DAMN IT!"
Wilhelm roared, hurling the half‑empty bottle to the floor.
Glass shattered. Wine spread like blood across the polished wood.
He stood there trembling, chest heaving, eyes wild.
"Oskar…" he hissed. "You just won't stop, will you?"
Images chased each other through his mind:
Oskar shaking hands with generals,
Oskar laughing with Tirpitz,
Oskar standing by Father's side in councils that should have been his alone,
Oskar's name on every newspaper, every factory wall, every child's mouth.
"He's already wrapped the navy around his finger," Wilhelm muttered. "Now he's buying the army too. Buying my officers. Buying my glory."
His breathing grew ragged.
"He's tightening the noose, step by step," he whispered. "And everyone praises him while he does it."
A dark, ugly thought rose from somewhere deep and bitter.
If I do nothing… he will take everything.
His jaw clenched.
"Oskar," he said quietly, dangerously, "you forced me to this. Don't blame me for what happens next."
He seized his glass again, downed the last of the wine in one gulp, and stared out the window at the peaceful countryside.
In his eyes, there was nothing peaceful about it.
There was only one thing left now for a jealous Crown Prince who felt the ground slipping from under his feet:
To strike first.
To make sure that, when the time came, there would be no rival left for the throne at all.