"Oskar, my child… how are you feeling?"
Empress Augusta's voice was softer than usual as she settled into the chair beside his bed. A maid and an attendant hovered near the door, but she waved them back; for once, she wanted a quiet moment with her son.
Once, she had barely liked him at all.
Like Wilhelm II, she had always favoured the eldest. Crown Prince Wilhelm was the polished heir, the one she had raised her hopes on. Oskar had been the strange one — silent after his "accident," awkward, blunt, too direct, too odd. But over the past year he had kept coming to her. Thoughtful gifts. Warm words. Beautiful jewelry. And money — generous sums, always framed as "for charity" or "for the household," but which she could not help enjoying.
It had a way of softening a mother's heart.
"Mother, don't worry," Oskar replied with a small smile. "I feel much better now. But the doctors say my wounds might open again if I move too much, so… I'm afraid I'll be skipping dinner for a while."
He looked better than he had any right to. But his face was still pale, his lips faintly dry. Blood loss had hollowed him out, left him weaker than he wanted to admit. He'd been shot more times than he liked to count.
Still, he refused to look weak in front of his parents.
"At least you look like a man now," Wilhelm II said from the foot of the bed, arms folded, voice half-gruff, half-proud. "You have a beautiful family. You've done great work. And now you've got scars to prove it. A real man should have a few."
It was the second day since Oskar had properly regained consciousness. Only now had Kaiser and Empress come together. The Emperor's status — and the chaos after the attack — meant he could not simply sit at his son's bedside like any ordinary father. He had an Empire to run, culprits to hunt, a shaken capital to steady.
Oskar shook his head, wry amusement in his eyes.
"I understand, Father. But it would have been much cooler if these scars came from charging a battlefield with a banner instead of being ambushed in a park like some idiot. This feels… cheap."
He kept his tone light. The anger underneath was anything but.
He was furious. He was confused. He still didn't understand why someone had tried this hard to kill him.
Yes, he'd built factories, changed laws, made money, written books, designed warships. Yes, he was rich and famous now. But to send a whole multinational team of zealots after him? In Potsdam?
That felt like something from a bad movie, not his careful rewriting of history.
Since waking, one question had gnawed constantly:
Who sent them?
The most obvious suspect sat high in his mind like a dark stone: Crown Prince Wilhelm.
He couldn't deny it. He'd seen the jealousy. The outbursts. The way his brother looked at him like an intruder in his life.
But suspicion wasn't proof.
And accusing the Crown Prince without iron evidence would not just be a family drama — it could shake the entire dynasty. So he buried the thought deep and told himself it could still be something else.
Some foreign group. Some radical circle. Some coalition of those whose profits he had ruined.
His father had told him almost nothing so far. And when Wilhelm II was that quiet, it usually meant he was already working in the dark, with teeth bared.
"Oskar," Empress Augusta pressed, a flash of temper in her eyes, "have you offended someone again? Did you call anyone 'garbage'? Did you tell anyone important 'my man' as if they were a common boy? Otherwise, why would they do this?"
Her hands were tight in her lap.
"If I find out who it was, I will personally make sure they pay. Just tell me, if anything comes to mind. I will speak to your father."
Wilhelm II's eyes went hard at that.
He already had suspects. He already had files, names, maps on his desk. But he wasn't going to lay that burden on his son while the boy was still half-bandaged and stuck in a hospital bed. Not yet.
To Oskar, it was frustrating. But he knew that look: drop it.
And the truth was, this whole event had been a brutal reminder.
He was no longer "Zhan Ge," a streamer and a engineer student, later turned truck driver in Ukraine and a man trying to understand warfare. He was Prince Oskar of Prussia. Owner of an industrial empire. Designer of fleets. Author of best-selling books. Walking embodiment of a new Germany.
Becoming rich and powerful meant stepping into other people's shadows.
And shadows fought back.
If he didn't take security seriously now, after this, maybe he really would deserve what happened.
He exhaled slowly.
"Mother, honestly, I don't know who I've offended," he said. "I've just been trying to help our country. Maybe I made some people feel nervous. Maybe some fools think Germany would be better without me. But I didn't expect this."
Empress Augusta's jaw clenched.
"To kill my son is to spit at the Empire," she muttered.
Wilhelm II's gaze flicked toward her, then back to Oskar.
"Leave it to me," the Kaiser said at last. "You focus on recovering. Let your managers handle your companies. Stay here in the hospital for now. Once the doctors agree, we'll move you back to the palace. Karl will be moved with you, of course."
Oskar nodded.
"Yes, Father. I admit the facilities here are very good. Though… some more privacy would be nice. In case my women come to visit. You understand, Father."
Augusta made a scandalised noise. Wilhelm II snorted, trying not to smile.
"I understand all too well," he said. "You'll have your privacy."
A little later, orderlies came and dragged a heavy curtain between the two beds in the private ward.
Karl, in the other bed, complained loudly.
"Oh, excellent," he grumbled. "Separate the so-called Iron Prince from the actual hero who saved his life with one revolver. Very wise."
But his mood brightened the moment Diesel's daughter rushed in, nearly tackling him with relief. Karl tried to keep a dignified face, but the tips of his ears went red.
After the Emperor and Empress left, the room felt warmer.
Oskar leaned back against his pillows as his three little monsters climbed onto him — Imperiel tugging carefully at his bandages, Juniel trying to bite his biceps, Lailael patting his chest as if checking that he was real.
Tanya and Anna hovered close, half-scolding, half-laughing, all relief.
For a few minutes, nothing outside that room seemed to exist.
No gunshots. No blood. No laws. No jealous brothers.
Just the weight of three small bodies on his chest and two pairs of eyes watching him like he was their whole world.
But even then…
The irritation wouldn't entirely go away.
His father clearly knew more than he'd admitted. There had been steel in Wilhelm II's eyes. Purpose. Rage.
And nothing he had said hinted at sharing those details anytime soon.
Oskar had bled for the Empire. He designed its warships. He funded its navy. He rewrote its textbooks. He employed hundreds of thousands of its people.
And yet, when it came to the darkest decisions, the Emperor still kept him in the outer circle.
It stung more than the wounds.
Worse, the absence of one person was its own kind of answer.
Louis had visited twice. His other brothers had at least appeared once.
Crown Prince Wilhelm?
Not even a note.
No flowers. No message. Nothing.
Oskar told himself not to be surprised.
He failed.
So much for brotherhood, he thought.
Unknown to him, back at the palace, the Emperor did not rest.
As soon as he returned to his study, he had sent for Essen von Jonarett.
The old steward arrived quickly, bowing with the crisp efficiency of decades of service.
"Essen," Wilhelm II said, without preamble, "do we have concrete evidence connecting Großherzog Friedrich Franz to this attack?"
Essen held his gaze.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
He chose his words carefully, but there was no point dressing the facts in lace.
"Before he died, the wounded assassin gave us enough to trace some of the money. Our men have followed the trail through several layers of intermediaries. The radicals were armed and financed through agents in the service of Grand Duke Friedrich Franz of Mecklenburg-Schwerin."
He took a slow breath.
"Not directly, of course. The funds were moved through cut-outs, letters, false accounts. But we have several of those middlemen in custody already. More are being found as we raid their meeting places. The pattern is clear. It was Schwerin's network."
Wilhelm II's expression darkened like a coming storm.
He didn't need Essen to say the rest.
Friedrich Franz was the Crown Prince's father-in-law.
He would not risk such a move unless he believed:
Oskar was a real threat to his son-in-law's future throne.
The Kaiser clenched his fists behind his back until his knuckles ached.
He had privately, very privately, considered the possibility of naming Oskar as his heir one day.
He had not decided.
He had told no one.
He had not moved.
Yet instead of working harder, instead of proving himself, his eldest son had allowed—or at least tolerated—his own father-in-law to sponsor murder.
"They are brothers," Wilhelm II said quietly, anger and hurt mixing in his voice. "How could my eldest son let it come to this?"
"Your Majesty," Essen ventured, "it is still possible the Crown Prince did not know the specifics of the plot. The Grand Duke may have… overreached… on his own, believing he was protecting his daughter's position by removing a rival. A father's desperate act, perhaps."
Even as he said it, he knew how fragile it sounded.
Wilhelm II heard the attempt at comfort, but his eyes remained hard.
"What is already clear is clear," he said at last.
He turned away from the window.
"Essen, I want every scrap of evidence collected. Letters. Accounts. Witnesses. This time, I will not cover it with polite words between cousins. If the Grand Duke thinks he can finance assassins against my son and stay on his throne under my crown, he is mistaken. Prepare the case for his removal."
The words were quiet. The meaning was lethal.
Essen bowed.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
He hesitated, then asked in a low voice:
"And His Highness the Crown Prince…?"
Wilhelm II did not answer at once.
He stared at the map on the wall. The flags on the little pins. The lines of railways his fifth son had recently bought into.
At last he said:
"Have Crown Prince Wilhelm come to see me. Immediately."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Essen withdrew, the door closing softly behind him.
He knew the Emperor was still leaving a path open — still hoping, even now, to be persuaded that his firstborn was not truly beyond saving.
Part of Essen wished Wilhelm II would harden his heart and act.
If the Kaiser could bring himself to disinherit the Crown Prince now and name Oskar instead, Germany might have a far more stable future.
But Wilhelm II was not yet ready to admit that his great hope, his carefully groomed heir, had become his greatest mistake.
And until he was…
The Empire would have to live with the consequences.