Oskar did not know whether he was dreaming, dying, or stranded somewhere in between.
He floated on a sunlit ocean—warm gold above, freezing black below. A breeze stroked his face. The sky was impossibly, cruelly blue.
And yet he felt only cold.
Then the waves became memories.
The park. The shadows. The gunfire. Karl's shout. The explosions.
The bodies.
God, the bodies.
Broken, torn, smashed, ripped apart.
A skull bursting under his fist like rotten fruit.
A neck snapping in his grip with a sound he could still hear.
An eye exploding as the musket ball he'd fired tore through it.
A mouth forced open as he rammed the hissing dynamite inside—
He gagged.
In his own mind, in this strange inner sea, the Iron Prince retched like a scared teenager.
How… how did I do that…?
He wasn't a killer. He had never wanted to be a killer.
Everything he'd done—every law, every invention, every factory—was to avoid war, not drag it closer.
So why had those people come for him?
Why so many?
Why so varied—Poles, Danes, Jews, a Frenchman?
Why so much raw, unfiltered hatred?
What did I do…?
Where did I go wrong…?
What mistake did I make…?
He tried to recall their faces.
Most of them hadn't moved like assassins. They moved like frightened townsfolk playing at being avengers. Only the man in the wheelchair and his pusher had shown real discipline.
The rest were desperate. Burning themselves alive on their own rage.
…Why?
The ocean darkened.
He could almost hear their last cries—the curses, the fear when they realized he wouldn't fall, the panic when they saw that bullets and knives were not enough to drop him fast enough.
And the worst part—
It had been too easy.
Crushing a ribcage felt like crushing twigs.
Smashing a skull felt like breaking a melon.
He had simply… applied force.
A little more.
Then a little more.
Until things broke.
He felt sick.
I never wanted this. I never wanted to kill anyone…
Guilt washed over him—
—and then something colder rose under it.
Fear.
History had broken.
He was not supposed to face assassins. No prince of this era was murdered. No Hohenzollern son died young in the years before 1914.
He had told himself he had time.
Time to build.
Time to prepare.
Time to fix what was coming.
Now the timeline had thrown that promise in his face.
If they can try to kill me now, then anything can happen. There are no "safe years" anymore. History had truly and utterly changed now.
The thought knocked the breath out of him. The sea dragged at his legs, pulling him downward, toward a depth that felt final.
Maybe this was it.
Maybe death was close.
Maybe there would be no third chance. No respawn, no reload, no second reincarnation.
Then faces rose out of the dark.
Tanya.
Anna.
Their unborn children.
Imperiel, Juniel, Lailael his precious little ones, tiny hands clinging to him like little monkeys.
His family.
Then the Kaiser.
His brothers.
The workers in his Industrial Group.
The people living good lives with wages and benefits he had decided to give them.
The people of the world reading his books, laughing with joy and learning as well.
The children clutching German Man comics on trams.
The whole, messy, stubborn Empire and world at large. So many lives had changed due to him, and they still counted on him.
And above all he then remembered him, a small, limping figure with glasses and a revolver too big for his hand.
Karl.
Karl screaming his name.
Karl doing the hard decisions and firing his weapon.
Karl bleeding because of him.
Karl, who might now be gone.....
"Karl…?"
The ocean cracked.
A shock of pure panic tore through him.
"KARL!"
The sea shattered like glass.
A voice punched through the darkness:
"Your Highness? Your Highness, can you hear me?!"
Sound rushed in. Hands grabbed him. Metal clinked. Fabric tore.
"…lost too much blood—" "…if we can't clamp that artery—" "…how is he even still—"
Cold instruments touched hot wounds.
Then a metal pincer dug into his chest, trying to pull out a bullet.
Pain exploded through him like a shell burst.
Oskar's eyes flew open as he roared—
a hoarse, inhuman bellow that shook the tiled walls.
The surgeons flinched. One stumbled back. A nurse screamed.
The giant on the table surged upright, muscles knotting under blood-slick skin.
He slapped the pincer from the doctor's hand with a movement that was more reflex than thought.
Then, acting on pure brute instinct, he drove his fingers into his own chest muscle.
There was a horrible, wet POP.
A deformed bullet spat out, skittering across the floor with a metallic tink-tink-tink.
"Heilige Scheiße—!" someone choked.
Oskar grabbed the nearest doctor's collar with his other hand and hauled the man close, partially lifting him off of his feet.
More screams and gasps followed. Through blurred vision, through pounding pain, he snarled:
"Where… is he…?
Where is my little man…?
Where is Karl?!"
The room froze.
The doctor's mouth opened and closed uselessly, struggling to speak due to Oskar's hard grip.
Then, from a nearby bed, an annoyed, raspy voice cut through the chaos:
"I'm right here, Your Highness!
Now lie down and stop terrifying the staff, you overgrown gorilla!"
Karl was alive.
Propped up on pillows, leg wrapped thick with bandages, face pale but eyes bright and furious.
Relief hit Oskar harder than any shell, harder than any bullet, harder than any punch life had thrown at him.
His grip loosened and let the good doctor go. Then his shoulders sagged with relief and as the tension left him, the world tilted.
He slumped backward onto the table, unconscious before his head touched the pillow.
The room exploded back into motion.
"Don't just stand there, move!" the senior surgeon barked. "You heard him—get Lotte, get the transfusion kit! Someone grab a copy of First Aid for Dummies, page—hell, all the blood loss chapters! If the Prince wants to play miracle, we'll need his own cursed book to keep up!"
Nurses rushed.
Scissors flashed.
Gauze turned red.
Under the harsh white lights of the hospital theatre, Germany's people's Prince, now in their eyes turned Iron Prince lay unconscious, his blood soaking the sheets—
—and the techniques he had written for other people's emergencies were now ironically coming to stand between him and death.
By morning, Berlin was already roaring with rumors spread by the people who had seen the Prince that night. While many more had merely heard the battle from a far.
"Shots in the park." "An explosion." "The Fifth Prince carried away covered in blood." "Karl the dwarf, too—shot saving him." "Assassins. Foreigners. Radicals."
By eight o'clock, every café, tram, and factory floor buzzed with the same questions:
Is His Highness alive?
Who dared attack him?
And what will the Kaiser do now?
Inside the Imperial Palace, those answers were being decided.
The council chamber was thick with tobacco smoke and tension. High windows let in a gray October light that made every tired face look older.
Wilhelm II stood at the head of the long table, boots planted wide, eyes red from a night without sleep. His uniform was thrown on in haste; his collar sat slightly off, hair flattened on one side where he had pressed it against Oskar's shoulder as they rode to the hospital.
He looked like a man who had been dragged through hell and had come back with vengeance in his pockets.
Around the table sat:
Chancellor von Bülow
Interior Minister von Posadowsky
War Minister von Falkenhayn
Grand Admiral von Tirpitz
Moltke the Younger, Chief of the General Staff
Police President of Berlin
Several senior Prussian ministers
Crown Prince Wilhelm arrived last.
He took his seat with an expression that was carefully neutral, but his eyes flickered just a little too brightly when someone mentioned that the doctors had "not yet issued a final statement" on Oskar and that his condition was unstable.
Wilhelm II did not sit.
He slapped a folded report down on the table so hard that an inkwell jumped.
"You have all seen the preliminary report from the police," he said, voice hoarse but sharp. "My fifth son. Shot. Bombed. Hunted in our own capital like an animal. If not for God's grace and that little Karl's courage, we would be preparing a funeral today."
No one spoke.
Von Bülow cleared his throat carefully. "Your Majesty, the people are… profoundly shaken. Crowds already gather outside the hospital. They demand news. They demand justice."
Wilhelm II's moustache twitched.
"They will have both," he said. "Justice first. News when we can give it."
The Police President rose halfway from his chair, papers in hand. "Sire, we have identified at least four of the attackers. All foreign-born or from foreign minorities. A Pole from Posen, a man from the Danish border region, a French-speaker from Alsace, and a woman of Jewish origin. We also captured one man alive. He is—"
"Enough," Wilhelm II cut in, lifting the recovered necklace between two fingers.
The Star of David gleamed dully in the chamber's light.
"Foreigners," he said quietly. "Foreign tongues. Foreign loyalties. And they walk freely through my streets, armed with dynamite and muskets, shooting at my son."
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
"For years we have tolerated this. Poles who refuse to speak German. Frenchmen who still dream of Strasbourg. Danes who sing songs about Copenhagen. Jews who live among us but keep themselves apart in every way that matters. They take German wages, walk on German roads, enjoy the order and safety our army and taxes provide—and their answer is this. An ambush in the dark aimed at the one man who has given his life to raising this country up."
He slammed the necklace back onto the table.
"No more."
There was a long silence.
Von Posadowsky shifted in his seat. "Your Majesty… tensions are always high after such a… monstrous event. But if we move too rashly—"
"Rashly?" Wilhelm II snapped. "Rashly was last night, when my son bled into the dirt because we were too careful. Too patient. Too… tolerant."
Tirpitz leaned forward slightly, voice low but steady. "Your Majesty, nobody here doubts that we must do something. But whatever we do must be clear, legal, and defensible. At home and abroad alike. Otherwise we risk turning sympathy into condemnation."
Wilhelm II nodded curtly.
"Then let it be clear. Let it be legal. Let it be written in black and white who belongs to the German Empire… and who only lives here on sufferance."
He looked around the table, gaze hard.
"I will propose a law. A simple one. A necessary one. Call it the Reichsbürger- und Sicherheitgesetz—the Imperial Citizenship and Security Act."
Von Bülow blinked. "Your Majesty—"
"Write this down," the Kaiser said.
A secretary's pen began to scratch.
"From the first day of the year 1907," Wilhelm II dictated, "the full rights of Reichsbürger—imperial citizens—shall be reserved for those who are:"
He lifted a finger for each point:
"—of German blood"
"—who speak German fluently"
"—and who are professed Christians of the Lutheran or Catholic confession."
A faint intake of breath circled the table.
"Everyone else," the Kaiser continued, "shall be considered Gäste des Reiches—guests of the Empire. Guests may work here. They may rent property. They may conduct trade. But they may not own land. They may not hold public office. They may not sit in any chamber where the fate of Germany is decided."
Von Posadowsky swallowed. "Your Majesty… that would affect tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands or millions of people. Poles in the east. The French of Alsace-Lorraine. Danish speakers in the north. Jewish families in every major city. Many of them have lived here for generations."
"And many of them knew something of last night," Wilhelm II shot back. "You heard the police report. Not one neighbor warned us. Not one rabbi, not one priest, not one local council wrote so much as a note to the police. They lived beside these people and said nothing. That is complicity."
The Police President raised his hands faintly. "Sire, we cannot yet prove such—"
"Then prove it," Wilhelm II cut in. "Interrogate the surviving assassin. Trace his contacts. Knock on every door in his quarter if you must. If someone sheltered him, they share his guilt."
Moltke cleared his throat. "Your Majesty… if we redraw the definition of citizenship so drastically, we may drive many of these groups into the arms of our enemies. France would take Alsatians. Russia would claim Poles. Britain would welcome Jews and others into its colonies. We would be… exporting manpower."
"Let them go," Wilhelm II said coldly. "I would rather have fewer people who are truly German than a mass of half-loyal subjects who might point a gun at my sons at any moment."
He jabbed a finger at the tabletop.
"And they have a choice. I do not intend to expel anyone by force—unless they raise a hand against us. From now until the end of the year, let there be a window. Any man who speaks German, renounces foreign allegiance, and joins one of our churches may apply to be counted as German. If he proves himself loyal—no crime, no agitation—for ten years, he may become a Reichsbürger with full rights."
Von Bülow rubbed his temple. "And those who refuse?"
"Remain guests. Forever. Or leave."
Silence.
No one dared say aloud what all of them knew: that this would put a slow, steady pressure on every minority family in the Empire. Own nothing, decide nothing, and accept your place—or become German in tongue and faith.
Crown Prince Wilhelm, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat.
"It seems a… firm response, Father," he said carefully. "After what happened to Oskar, nobody can claim you are acting without cause. The people will understand."
For just a moment, his eyes gleamed—in a way that made von Bülow's stomach twist.
Tirpitz watched the Crown Prince from under heavy lids, saying nothing.
Von Falkenhayn folded his hands. "Your Majesty, the army will execute whatever law the Reichstag passes. But I must warn you: such a measure, once taken, cannot be easily undone. It will mark your reign. It will shape how the world views Germany."
Wilhelm II exhaled slowly.
"Then let the world see," he said. "Let them see that we are done apologizing for existing. Let them see that hurting a German prince has consequences."
He looked at each man in turn.
"You all know what my son has done for this Empire. For our soldiers. For our workers. For our children. His first aid book alone has saved lives in every corner of Europe. This is not some cruel, decadent prince. This is the man people already call the People's Prince."
His hand tightened on the back of his chair.
"If they can attack him in the dark, in my capital, and we do nothing… then what is a German life worth? What is a Hohenzollern life worth?"
Nobody answered.
At last von Bülow spoke, voice low.
"Your Majesty, if you insist on this law, I will draft the formal text today and prepare it for presentation in the Reichstag. Under the current mood, after this attack… I suspect the deputies will not dare to openly oppose it."
Wilhelm II nodded once.
"Good. I will attend in person. I will look them in the eye when I demand they choose. Germany, or chaos. Loyalty, or the door."
He straightened.
"Let it be written: on the first day of the year 1907, the Reichsbürger- und Sicherheitgesetz shall come into force."
The pen scratched it down.
The decision was made.
In the heavy silence that followed, Tirpitz leaned back, fingers steepled.
He thought of Oskar in a hospital bed, blood still drying on that impossible frame.
He thought of the way the crowd had looked at the Prince in the park — not as a god, perhaps, but certainly as something more than ordinary flesh.
And he knew:
Whatever else happened now, the assassination had done one thing clearly.
It had given Wilhelm II the excuse to redraw the map of who truly belonged in Germany.
Whether that would save the Empire in the long run…
…or doom it to a harsher future…
That, only time would tell.
Meanwhile, at the Royal Military Hospital in Potsdam, the lamps burned through the night.
Surgeons worked in a haze of bright light and carbolic acid.
Oskar's operation was long and brutal: bullets and shrapnel dug from muscle and bone, torn flesh stitched, blood loss fought inch by inch. Infection lurked over every cut like a waiting vulture.
Karl's procedure had been shorter, but no less serious — cleaning the leg wound, stopping the bleeding, stabilising the stubborn dwarf who refused to die out of sheer spite.
For two days, Oskar did not wake or not fully at least.
Karl had come back to himself fully first: groggy, head pounding, leg heavy with bandages. The moment he could speak in full sentences again, he bullied, charmed, and insulted the staff until they finally did what he wanted.
"If he dies alone," Karl told the nurses, jabbing a finger at them, "I will haunt this hospital forever. Move my bed."
They moved it.
So now, in one large recovery suite, the two of them lay side by side:
Oskar — a mountain swaddled in white, chest and shoulder strapped, half his body wrapped in bandages that looked too small for him.
Karl — small, leg elevated, ribs taped, a revolver sitting proudly on the bedside table like a medal.
By the third morning, the hospital had settled into a tense rhythm. Doctors and nurses walked the corridors as if on holy ground. Their patients were no longer just patients; they were symbols, hanging between life and death with an empire watching.
At last, after another careful examination, the chief physician stepped out of Oskar's room. Deep lines carved his face, but his voice was steady.
"His Highness the Fifth Prince," he announced, "is out of immediate danger. For now."
A wave of relief passed down the ward.
Inside, Karl puffed out his chest from his narrow bed and muttered toward Oskar's unconscious bulk:
"See? I take one little walk with you, nearly get my leg shot off, and suddenly I'm the responsible one. You big idiot. Next time, try not to collect bullets like stamps."
He huffed, but his gaze was soft.
A nurse passing by whispered to her colleague:
"Are they always like this?"
"Apparently," the other sighed. "And the strangest thing? His Highness actually listens to him."
Karl didn't hear them. He was too busy glaring at Oskar's still face, as if willing him awake through sheer irritation.
Outside their quiet room, the world was anything but calm.
News of the assassination attempt had roared through Berlin like a firestorm.
Crowds pressed against the hospital gates, kept back by lines of police and soldiers.
Church bells rang.
Priests prayed.
People lit candles in church naves and on street corners.
Newspapers ran extra editions with black-framed headlines:
> THE IRON PRINCE LIVES
ASSASSINS SLAIN IN NIGHT ATTACK
KAISER VOWS JUSTICE AND SECURITY FOR THE EMPIRE
In cafés, factories, barracks, and parlours, people told and retold the story of the Prince who refused to fall. Every retelling made the park darker, the enemies more numerous, the Prince taller and more unbreakable.
And in the palace, Wilhelm II — shaken to the core, furious, and utterly resolved — had already placed a draft law before his ministers and was moving to present it to the Reichstag.
A law to redefine citizenship.
A law to tighten who belonged and who did not.
A law that would force millions to choose:
Become fully German in language, faith, and loyalty…
or live in Germany only as guests, without land, without voice, without roots.
The date was already set.
> 1 January 1907.
A new year.
A new law.
A harder, narrower Germany.
And Oskar — who had spent years trying to soften the world, to feed it, heal it, train it, entertain it into something better — slept on, completely unaware of what his survival had set in motion.
Nor did Karl know.
For now, they simply lay there under white sheets: two figures in one room, side by side, one enormous and silent, one small and grumbling.
Outside their window:
Deputies argued in smoky chambers.
Foreign embassies sent urgent telegrams.
Editors cursed and rewrote editorials.
Families in border towns whispered about leaving or staying.
Trains and ships began quietly to fill.
All because, in a dark park, one prince had refused to step aside and one stubborn little man had refused to run.
In the quiet of the recovery room, Karl shifted, winced, and muttered toward Oskar:
"Hmph. Next time you drag us into an ambush, Your Highness, I'm bringing a bigger revolver. I'm not saving that thick skull of yours with just six shots again."
Oskar did not wake to hear it.
But Karl said it anyway.
Because both of them were alive.
And in Germany, after that night, that fact alone felt like a miracle — and the whole Empire was already rearranging itself around it.