Inside Babelsberg Palace, Crown Prince Wilhelm's chamber looked less like a bedroom and more like the aftermath of a bar fight staged by a madman.
A chair lay on its side like a fallen soldier.
A table had been split down the middle, the crack running straight through the polished wood as if someone had tried to argue with it using their forehead.
One wardrobe door hung from a single hinge, swaying gently, its panel punctured by a boot-shaped hole.
Even the double doors themselves were gone—kicked clean off their hinges—now nothing but broken ornamentation scattered across the carpet.
And in the middle of it all lay Wilhelm.
Shirtless on his bed, pale as wax, eyes half-open but empty, hair matted with blood against a torn white pillow. Every few breaths he made a low, wet sound that terrified the men around him more than any shout.
One guard, sweating in panic, was holding the Crown Prince's legs in the air as if gravity itself could be negotiated with.
"Hold them higher!" another barked. "Maybe this is better—"
"No, I don't think that's how you're supposed to do it," a third snapped. "I think."
On the bedside table, astonishingly untouched by the destruction around it, lay a thick, well-worn book bound in dark blue cloth.
Its corners were rounded from use. Its spine cracked. Several pages were dog-eared and stained.
Embossed on the cover in clear, practical lettering were the words:
FIRST AID FOR DUMMIES
A Practical Medical Guide for all, Written by Prince Oskar of Prussia.
In any other room it would have looked reassuring.
Here—surrounded by splintered furniture, blood, and a Crown Prince who might be dying—it felt almost accusatory.
Several guards hovered over it like desperate students before an exam.
They were flipping through it like priests searching for the correct prayer.
"Here!" one said desperately. "It says something about head injuries!"
"That's the section for fainting!" another hissed. "We need the one for… for a Crown Prince smashing his skull into a wall!"
"I can't find 'skull smashed into wall'!" the first guard squeaked, flipping faster. "Is it under 'horse incident'?!"
The legs-holder's arms began to shake.
"…He's heavy," he whimpered. "Your Highness is… very dense."
The door opened.
The palace butler stepped in and froze at the sight.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man in black, with a Pump World physique and the weary patience of someone who had watched too many aristocrats implode. He took one look at the legs-in-the-air situation and closed his eyes like a man praying for strength.
"No. No, no, no," he groaned. "Put his legs down before you send what little sense he has left into the afterlife."
He strode over, snatched the book from a guard's hands, and flipped through it with the ruthless competence of a man who actually read instructions.
"You," he pointed at the legs-holder, "off the bed."
The guard scrambled back as if the butler had threatened him with execution.
The butler leaned over Wilhelm, fingers at the throat.
"Breathing," he muttered. "Good. Pulse… yes."
He rolled Wilhelm gently onto his side, positioning him so his airway stayed clear.
"So he doesn't choke if he vomits," he explained to no one in particular.
The guards stared at him as if he were performing sorcery.
"Handkerchief," the butler snapped.
A guard hesitated, then reluctantly produced a pristine white one—clearly a treasured gift from one of the few maids that still remained at the residence out of the crown Princes sight. The butler took it without mercy and pressed it gently to the bleeding.
"Blankets," he ordered. "Fire. More wood. Warm him up."
Men scrambled like ants.
Within moments:
the Crown Prince was covered,
the fireplace crackled brighter,
and the room smelled faintly of smoke and panic.
The butler folded his arms, grimly satisfied.
"Now," he said, "we wait for the doctor. And we watch for changes. That is all we can do."
As if his words had summoned chaos itself—
A middle-aged female cook appeared in the broken doorway, cheeks red from heat and fear, clutching a covered bowl like a holy relic.
"Sir," she said breathlessly, "I brought His Highness's favourite stew. Maybe the smell might wake him."
The guards stared at the bowl with desperate hope.
The butler stared at it like it was a moral failure.
"…Fine," he said at last. "Put it near the bed. Not on him."
The lid came off.
A heavy, rich scent rolled into the room—fish, chilli, onion, pepper, and something sweet beneath it. A Crown Prince's taste, apparently.
One guard leaned in, voice trembling.
"Your Highness," he whispered, "wake up. Please. It's your favourite… hot chilli fish stew."
The stew made several guards' eyes water.
Wilhelm did not react.
Then the youngest guard—still nursing the bite mark on his hand from earlier—finally cracked.
"Oh God," he blurted, voice climbing toward hysteria, "what if he doesn't wake up?! We're dead! We're all dead! We should've tied him to the bed when he started shouting about demons! When he read that letter—!"
The butler's head snapped around.
"Shut your mouth," he barked. "We sent riders for doctors. We've sent word to His Majesty. We do not make it worse with panic. This is not our fault—this is the fault of his own mind."
The guard swallowed hard, shaking.
"And if you must do something," the butler added coldly, "then pray that we do not lose our jobs for this."
Outside, engines roared in the distance.
Two palace guards had already mounted Muscle Motors military motorcycles, engines snarling as they tore down the frozen road—
one rider racing toward Berlin to fetch the finest surgeons of the Royal Military Hospital,
the other pounding toward Potsdam to deliver the news directly to the Kaiser himself.
In such chaos, there was no hiding what had happened.
No one truly tried.
The butler drove the servants back to their posts with clipped orders, forcing faces into masks of calm.
As if calm could erase blood.
Outside, in the snow-dusted courtyard, a young maid knelt on trembling knees, scrubbing at the dark stains smeared across the stone where the Crown Prince had struck the wall.
Her fingers were numb.
Her breath came in shallow gasps.
She scrubbed anyway.
Because she feared what came next.
By afternoon, the news had already fled Babelsberg Palace and ripped through Germany's upper ranks like a lightning strike:
CROWN PRINCE WILHELM INJURED IN RIDING ACCIDENT AT BABELSBERG — CONDITION UNKNOWN
No one knew the details.
Everyone understood the implications.
If the Crown Prince did not wake.
If he woke… but broken.
If he died.
Whispers bloomed instantly in salons, officers' messes, ministerial corridors, and barracks:
"If he never recovers… will the Emperor name another?" "Will Oskar be elevated?" "Is this… a sign?"
At Grand Admiral von Tirpitz's residence, the old sea wolf did not even attempt discretion.
"If the Crown Prince remains unconscious," he growled, slamming a fist into the arm of his chair,
"that may be the best news the Empire has had all year."
The servants pretended not to hear.
Within the hour, his motorcar was prepared and rolling toward the hospital.
Whatever came next, Tirpitz intended to be close to Oskar—
and to make very certain the boy did not retreat now that the future of the throne itself had begun to shift.
Across the city, in the austere halls of the General Staff, the report reached Helmuth von Moltke the Younger like a shell bursting at his feet.
He went very still.
His bond with Crown Prince Wilhelm had always been known.
Everyone in Berlin understood that Moltke was the Crown Prince's man.
When Wilhelm had been exiled to Babelsberg, Moltke's own footing had already begun to slide.
War Minister von Falkenhayn was basically circling his position like a hungry Wolf.
And now this.
"Damn it…" Moltke muttered, fingers tightening on his cane.
"Was it an accident… or was it arranged?"
He had no idea what madness Wilhelm had truly descended into.
But he knew two things with terrible clarity:
If Wilhelm fell,
Moltke's power would almost certainly fall with him.
And if Oskar were raised—
Germany,
the army,
the Empire itself
would never be the same again.
He stared out the window, knuckles white.
The board was shifting.
The pieces were moving.
When the news reached Oskar, he was on the hospital floor doing push-ups.
Shirtless. Bandages still visible beneath the edge of his trousers. Sweat gleaming on skin that had no right to heal so quickly.
His time in the hospital recovering had gone well, almost too well taking into account how severe his injuries were. Now most all his wounds were closed properly, though the deep ones still punished him whenever he pushed too hard. The doctors insisted he should still be lying down, but Oskar treated convalescence like an insult.
He was halfway through a set when the door burst open.
Karl Bergmann limped into the ward like a man returning from war.
His coat was dusty. His eyes were bloodshot with fatigue. And behind him, three Eternal Guards entered in a quiet, disciplined line—Gunther at the front, face grim, as if he had left a piece of himself in another continent.
"Your Highness I'm back," Karl blurted, breathless, "And I have news from Babelsberg—Crown Prince Wilhelm has fallen from his horse. He's unconscious. The doctors say his life may be in danger."
Oskar froze.
For a heartbeat, he remained in the push-up position, arms locked, muscles trembling—not from the exercise, but from the shock.
"…What?" he rasped.
He rose slowly to his knees.
His mind flickered with a chaos of emotions he did not like:
Relief.
Vindication.
A cold, guilty satisfaction.
And dread.
Then Karl, as if remembering something important far too late, added awkwardly:
"And I have to apologise. You see my trip to America. It didn't go… as planned," he said, voice strained.
Oskar's eyes narrowed.
Karl swallowed as he explained, "The Wright brothers refused to sign. And—" he winced, like the words hurt, "—they tried to copy the batsuit idea themselves. Then they sort of jumped off a cliff… and basically died attempting to fly like eagles."
Oskar stared at him.
The air in the room seemed to vanish.
"…They're dead," Oskar repeated softly, as if testing whether the sentence belonged to reality.
Karl nodded once, miserable.
"I tried, Your Highness. I swear I did."
Oskar's hands curled into fists.
Not anger at Karl—no, Karl had done what he could—but a sudden sick twist of responsibility.
History shifting.
Pieces falling off the board.
Things happening that were never supposed to happen.
He shut his eyes hard.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
"You buried them?"
Karl nodded quickly.
"Yes of course, properly with crosses, prayer and everything. Gunther and the other's made sure. And we also burned all the research as well."
Gunther bowed his head once in confirmation.
Oskar exhaled shakily.
The room was silent for a long moment.
Then Oskar forced himself to focus on the first news again.
"The Crown Prince," he said slowly. "When did this happen?"
"This morning I believe," Karl said. "Only hours ago. The palace is in chaos and doctors are already on their way."
Oskar swung himself onto the edge of his bed, expression tight.
There was a dangerous excitement burning behind Karl's eyes—hope, raw and shining.
This was the moment Karl had been waiting for.
But Oskar did not share it so easily.
"Don't rush to conclusions, my little man," Oskar warned. "This is… too convenient."
Karl blinked. "Convenient?"
"It's Christmas Eve," Oskar said, eyes narrowing. "He's been locked away, humiliated, ignored. He knows the Emperor's heart is softest during the holidays. What if he did this deliberately?"
Karl stared.
"You think… he injured himself on purpose?"
Oskar shrugged, grim.
"I think my brother is unstable. And desperate men do desperate things." His jaw tightened. "If he wakes up and plays the pitiful son, Father may soften. He may release him. He may pretend none of this ever happened."
Karl's expression soured.
Then he nodded once, sharp and disciplined.
"…Understood. I'll gather more information. I'll find the truth."
He turned to go—
—and Oskar suddenly opened his arms wide.
Karl froze.
For half a second he looked like he was deciding whether this was a trap.
Then, as if his body moved before his pride could object, the dwarf marched forward and practically jumped into Oskar's embrace.
Oskar hugged him hard—too hard, maybe—like he was anchoring himself to something real in a world that had begun to slip sideways.
"Welcome back, my little man," Oskar murmured. "I missed you."
Karl's voice cracked, muffled against bandages and warm skin.
"Don't ever make me jump off a cliff again," he whispered. "I don't want to inspire any more people to… to start copying me and dying in the snow."
Oskar let out a tired, broken laugh—half relief, half pain—and before Karl could wriggle away he simply scooped him up and set him onto his lap like a stubborn child who'd run off and finally come home.
Karl blinked, scandalised.
"Your Highness—"
"Shut up," Oskar said affectionately. "Tell me everything."
He leaned forward, eyes suddenly hungry for something that wasn't politics or blood.
"America. New York. The Statue of Liberty. Those ridiculous tall buildings. The trams. The streets. The food. The people. Did you and your three giants at least have fun? Did you learn anything? I want to hear it."
Karl wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffed, and—defeated by the command and the warmth—began to talk.
And just like that, for a few stolen hours, the world shrank.
Gunther and the other Eternal Guards took chairs and joined in, offering grim little details and wide-eyed memories of New York's noise, Ohio's cold, strange music in smoky bars, and the feeling of stepping into a future that Germany was still chasing.
Oskar listened like a starving man.
For a moment he forgot laws.
Forgot war.
Forgot the razor-edge future.
He just sat there with his wounded body and his returned friend and let himself breathe.
But while Oskar sat in a hospital room listening to stories of America…
His father was in the palace doing something far more primal.
Raging.
Wilhelm II paced before the fireplace like a caged lion, the orange light flickering across his moustache and the hard angles of his face.
"What happened?" he roared. "How could this happen under your watch? Was it an accident—or incompetence?"
The head of the royal security detachment from Babelsberg stood rigid, sweat shining at his temples.
"Your Majesty," he said quickly, "His Highness began drinking heavily after receiving the letter confirming his continued confinement—along with the news of Prince Oskar's Solstice-born children, already being celebrated across the Empire. He became enraged… more than usual."
Wilhelm's jaw tightened.
"We did attempt to restrain him," the officer continued, voice faster now, "but he was more fierce than usual, he forced his way to the stables, mounted a horse, and fled into the snow. We pursued. We tried to stop him again—"
"And you failed," Wilhelm hissed.
"Well we did try, but his horse stumbled in deep snow," the officer finished, almost pleading. "It struck something hidden in the snow. The Crown Prince was thrown. He hit the side of a wall. The horse is fine now, but the Crown Prince is not."
The Kaiser's face darkened further.
"Useless," he spat. "You let the Crown Prince of the German Empire gallop drunk through winter fields. Why didn't you tie him down? Why didn't you use force?"
"Your Majesty… we feared using too much force would—"
"FEARED?" Wilhelm snapped, voice cracking like a whip. "You feared bruising him—so you let him break his skull instead?"
The officer went deathly pale.
Wilhelm's eyes burned like blue flame.
"If my son dies," he said slowly, each word weighted like iron, "the Empire will be thrown into chaos. The French are already snarling about our new law. The foreign press will feast on this. They will laugh at us."
He leaned forward, voice dropping colder still.
"And if he dies… every man who failed his duty tonight will answer for it."
The security chief bowed so low his spine creaked.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Wilhelm the second turned back to the fire, jaw clenched, mind racing.
His eldest son had fallen.
His fifth son had nearly been murdered.
Germany itself felt like it was balancing on a blade.
And in the heart of the Emperor, beneath the rage and the fear, another thought began to form—one he did not yet dare speak aloud:
If fate forced his hand…
…which son would he choose to carry the Empire?