While men of state stood beneath gantries of steel and spoke of fleets, calibers, and futures written in iron, elsewhere life was very different.
Far from shipyards, ministries, and the thunder of factories, a small Polish farmhouse in East Prussia stood alone on a grassy hill. It was a sturdy two-story building with whitewashed walls and a sloping roof, overlooking a quiet rural town below. From its windows, the boy could see fields stretching outward in orderly lines, the church spire rising above tiled roofs, smoke drifting lazily from chimneys—as if the world itself wished to pretend nothing had changed.
But since the attempted assassination of Prince Oskar in October, everything had changed.
Inside the farmhouse, near the hearth, the boy lay on his stomach on a narrow, sagging sofa. One leg kicked idly in the air as his lips moved soundlessly, following the printed words with careful devotion.
The comic book in his hands was worn thin at the corners, its pages creased and softened by rereading.
German Man — Volume III.
The cover showed the hero standing tall, rifle slung over his shoulder, eyes forward, jaw set. Behind him marched soldiers from many lands, their uniforms different, their flags stitched together into something new and stronger.
The boy read slowly. Deliberately.
German was no longer hard.
At first the letters had tangled in his head, sharp and unfamiliar. But he had practiced. Every night, after supper—after his father left to meet the other men—he copied sentences onto scraps of paper and whispered them under his breath. He hid those scraps beneath loose floorboards, just like the comic itself.
To him, German meant the future.
German meant safety. Order. Belonging.
He did not understand why his father refused it.
They were already Christian. Everyone here was. They prayed to the same God, bowed before the same cross. Learning German was just work. Forgetting Polish words hurt—but pain passed. Land stayed. Homes stayed. Families stayed.
The state had offered choices.
Sell the land and leave.
Sell the land and stay as tenants.
Or become German—fully—and keep everything.
Simple.
And yet his father and several of the other men had chosen none of them.
They whispered at night. Met in barns and cellars. Gathered rifles that had no place in a farmhouse.
The boy hated that.
He hated the way his father spat whenever Germany was mentioned. Hated the way the men spoke of the Kaiser or Prince Oskar as if they were monsters, when everyone else seemed to know better.
In the towns, people spoke Oskar's name with hope. In the cities, his factories paid well and did not cripple their workers. In the papers, he was called the Iron Prince, the People's Prince. The man who had been shot and bombed and still stood.
Like German Man stood.
The boy wanted to be like him. Or at least to wear a uniform. To march, to serve, to be strong for something larger than fear.
In the comic, German Man descended into tunnels beneath the earth, where the Mole People hid—creatures drawn as twisted and furious, clinging to darkness and old hatred, whispering lies and carrying bombs meant for schools and stations.
German Man did not hesitate.
He did not enjoy the fight.
He fought because someone had to.
The boy's jaw tightened.
Sometimes—only sometimes—when his father spoke, the boy felt a flicker of that same darkness. The same anger that refused to move forward. The same fear disguised as pride.
Once, his father had tried to take the comic from him.
"This filth," he had snarled. "German lies."
He had tried to tear it apart, to throw it into the fire.
But the boy had been faster. Cleverer. He had hidden it in the hollow of the chimney, wrapped in cloth, safe from flame and fists alike.
Now he traced a finger over the page.
In the comic, German Man stood between frightened families and the dark, rifle raised, back straight.
Why can't we just be German? the boy thought, anger tightening his chest. Why is it so hard to say?
Most people already had decided. Everyone knew that. In the next village, the school had switched to German. The priest now gave sermons in both Latin and German. Families had signed the papers.
Life went on.
From what the boy had overheard, more than half of those who were not ethnic Germans had chosen to stay and become German.
Only the angriest refused.
Only those who hid from daylight.
At the table behind him, his mother and two sisters clasped their hands in prayer. Their voices were low, urgent. They prayed for peace, for understanding, for God to soften hearts. They prayed for the Polish people—but never for acceptance, never for obedience.
The boy did not pray anymore.
He believed God had already given them an answer. They simply refused to take it.
Even now, beneath the floorboards, in the cellar, his father and several village men were gathered. The boy had seen them earlier—rifles in hand, voices hushed, plans whispered. They spoke of police offices, rail lines, government buildings.
They called it resistance.
The boy did not.
He turned the page.
And then—
A knock sounded at the door.
The boy froze.
The knock came again.
Not polite.
Not hesitant.
It was the sound of men who already knew what they had come for.
His mother's spine went rigid at the kitchen table. His two sisters clutched her sleeves, eyes huge. The hearth crackled. The whole house seemed to hold its breath.
Then the door exploded inward.
Wood splintered. The lock tore free. Winter air rushed in with boots and steel.
Men in field-grey uniforms surged into the farmhouse in a practiced wave—rifles up, bayonets fixed, movements tight and trained. They didn't stumble. They didn't shout in panic. They flowed into corners and angles like they had done this before—because they had.
This was not their first raid.
Not their first "resistance cellar."
Not their first time walking into a house that looked harmless until it wasn't.
"Left clear!"
"Right clear!"
"Stairs covered!"
The soldiers spread out fast, weapons tracking doorways, shadows, the line of the ceiling beams. They were tense, expecting a shot from any corner.
The boy shrank back instinctively.
Then the lead soldier's eyes swept the room—and paused.
A mother at the table. Two small girls. One boy. No men. No rifles. No obvious threat.
The tension didn't vanish, but it shifted slightly—like a drawn bow easing a fraction without being unstrung.
The mother tried to speak, shaking, in Polish.
"Please—there are children—"
The lead soldier held up one gloved hand—not cruel, not mocking. Just firm.
"We know," he said in German. "And that is why you should remain calm."
He spoke as if calming frightened civilians was part of his training—because it was. The gun barrels stayed high, but the fingers were disciplined. No one fired. No one struck.
A second soldier kicked at a floorboard lightly, listening. A third checked behind the stove with the practiced eye of a man who'd found weapons in stranger places.
Then the lead soldier's gaze fell on the sofa.
On the open comic book.
German Man — Volume III.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Well," he said, voice almost conversational, "this is not what we usually find in houses like this."
The boy's face went hot.
The soldier stepped closer and crouched—not to threaten, but to speak in a way the boy could understand. Even lowered, he was still enormous, smelling of leather and cold air.
"You like German Man?" he asked.
The boy swallowed, then nodded once.
The soldier tapped the cover lightly.
"Good," he said. "Then you know what German Man does when he finds evil hiding in the dark."
The mother shook her head violently.
"Nie," she whispered to her son, tears spilling. "Nie—nie mów—"
But the soldier didn't look at her. He looked at the boy.
"We are not here to hurt your family," he said. "We are here because your father and other men in this house are hiding weapons. Planning attacks. Police stations. Rail lines. Government offices."
His tone hardened.
"That is not resistance. That is terrorism."
The boy's stomach tightened.
The soldier continued, steady and certain.
"We've arrested men like them already. We've buried men who tried to fight us already. And we will bury more if we must."
A pause.
"But we would rather they surrender."
He leaned in slightly.
"If you want to be on the side of law… if you want to be on the side of Germany…" he said, and the word Germany carried weight like a flag, "then now is your chance."
His eyes sharpened.
"Where is your father?" he asked quietly. "Where are the weapons?"
The boy didn't hesitate.
He looked at the comic again.
German Man didn't hide. German Man didn't make excuses. German Man pointed at the darkness and named it.
The boy lifted his hand and pointed under the kitchen table.
"There," he said quickly. "Under the rug. There's a hatch. They're underneath."
His mother made a strangled sound, like something in her chest snapping. His sisters began to cry.
But the soldiers moved instantly.
Two men grabbed the mother and girls gently but firmly, pulling them back from the table so fast it felt brutal—even though no one struck them. Another soldier hooked his boot under the table and flipped it sideways with one violent shove.
The rug was yanked away.
Wood scratched. Nails squealed.
A square hatch lay revealed in the floorboards, its edges worn from use. A hidden door disguised beneath ordinary life.
The lead soldier stepped to it, rifle aimed down.
He did not shoot.
Not yet.
He raised his voice, loud enough to echo through the cellar.
"You are surrounded!" he barked. "Come out now! Hands first! No tricks!"
For a heartbeat there was only silence from below.
Then a voice—ragged, furious—shouted back in Polish.
"Never!"
A moment later, gunfire erupted upward.
Wild, desperate shots tore through the hatch opening, splinters flying as bullets chewed wood.
But the soldiers were already out of the line of fire. They had expected this. They stepped aside as cleanly as dancers in a rehearsed routine.
The lead soldier's expression didn't change.
He simply nodded once, cold.
"Very well," he said.
Two men pulled grenades from their belts.
Pins snapped free.
One after another, the grenades dropped through the hatch into the darkness below.
The boy clamped his hands over his ears.
The explosions were dull and crushing, the floor jumping under his feet. Dust rained down from the beams. His sisters screamed. His mother sobbed openly, rocking them as if she could hide them inside her own body.
Then—silence.
Smoke rolled up from the hatch like breath from a wounded animal.
The soldiers waited.
Not ten seconds. Not thirty.
A full minute.
Long enough that if anyone below still lived and had a weapon, they would have fired.
Nothing.
At last the lead soldier gestured.
Two soldiers descended carefully, rifles ready.
Boots on steps. A faint clatter. A pause.
Then a voice called up:
"All clear."
The tension in the room loosened—just slightly.
Not relief.
Just completion.
The lead soldier turned back to the boy.
He studied him for a long moment, then nodded once, almost respectfully.
"You did the right thing," he said.
The boy's throat tightened.
He did not answer. He could not. His father was down there.
But his father had chosen his path.
The soldier spoke again, quieter now.
"You are the man of this house," he said. "You choose what happens next."
The words were not praise.
They were an assignment.
The boy swallowed.
The soldier's voice became measured—official, but not cruel. Like a policeman reciting what the law demanded, because the law demanded it.
"By Imperial decree and by statute," he said, "this household—what remains of it—has been connected to a conspiracy against the state."
The mother flinched hard. Her lips moved in Polish prayer, fast and frantic, as if speed could become protection.
"You sheltered armed men," the soldier continued calmly, eyes now on the mother and daughters. "You concealed the entrance. You did not inform the authorities. And when we entered, you attempted to obstruct a lawful search."
He turned back to the boy.
"And you," he said, "knew."
The boy's throat tightened.
He had known.
He had listened.
He had hated it.
But he had stayed silent.
Until the knock.
The soldier did not soften. But his tone—subtly—changed. There was something human in it now, something that acknowledged the boy was a boy.
"Because of this," he said, "the law does not treat you as neutral bystanders. It treats you as accomplices."
He let that settle—cold, absolute.
"In ordinary cases," he continued, "the strictest sentence is permitted."
The boy's face went pale.
The soldier did not gloat. He didn't enjoy saying it. He simply stated it, like a man who has delivered bad news too many times.
"For the armed men below," he added, "the matter is finished."
He did not need to explain what grenades meant.
"And for those who aided them—by shelter, concealment, and silence—the law allows the same severity."
The mother made a broken noise, half sob, half denial.
Then the soldier did something that made the boy blink.
He offered a way out.
"But," the soldier said, voice shifting again, "you told us the truth before anyone of us got hurt."
He held the boy's gaze.
"And that matters."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly so the boy could hear without the whole room turning it into theatre.
"The Empire can be merciful," he said. "Especially when a family chooses sense at the last moment."
He paused.
"So now, as the man of this house, you answer one question."
His tone sharpened—not with anger, but with urgency.
"Choose your family's fate."
The boy stared at him.
His mother, panicking, hissed in Polish—don't speak, don't answer, don't—
But the boy understood something she didn't.
Her German was too poor. She didn't fully grasp what was being said. She only felt danger and reacted to it like a cornered animal.
The boy heard every word.
And something in him straightened.
Not courage—he was afraid.
Responsibility.
The soldier seemed to see it. His mouth twitched with the faintest approval. He raised one gloved finger.
"Option one," he said. "The strict path."
He did not describe it. The boy didn't need description.
A second finger rose.
"Option two," the soldier continued, "the Imperial Civic Training and Work Program."
The words were bureaucratic, almost dull—yet the meaning behind them was immense.
"Your family is transferred to a state center," he said. "You learn German properly. You learn law, civic duty, basic schooling. You work. You are supervised."
His eyes stayed hard, but his voice was not unkind.
"It is not a prison unless you make it one. It is a chance. A long chance."
He held the boy's gaze.
"Prove loyalty and discipline over time, and your standing can be restored. Not quickly. Not easily. But it can be restored."
A third finger rose.
"Option three," he said. "Exile."
The boy blinked.
"You take what you can carry," the soldier explained. "No livestock. No land. The state provides money enough to travel and survive for some months. You choose where you go."
He paused, then added something almost absurd in its generosity:
"If you truly wish, we can even arrange passage far away. Australia. The New World. Wherever the ships go."
Then the line returned to iron.
"But exile means you do not come back."
He lowered his hand.
"These are your choices," he said. "Now speak clearly."
The boy's heart hammered. Even at his age, he understood the shape of it.
Strict sentence.
Training and work.
Exile.
In his mind, the comic flashed—German Man standing with grey-coated soldiers behind him, building trenches, preparing, doing the hard thing because it was necessary.
The boy wanted to be part of something bigger than cellar whispers and night meetings. He wanted order. A future. A place that did not feel like it was always one knock away from ruin.
He looked at his mother and sisters.
They were shaking. Broken. Helpless.
If they fled—where would they go? With what language? With what protection? His mother alone, with two girls, in a country that did not know them and would not care.
Exile was not freedom to him.
Exile was fog. A slow starving of life.
And the boy's thoughts—young, blunt, strangely cold—went where his father's did not.
Names changed. Borders changed. Flags changed. That was history.
Once, people here were not called "Polish." They were tribes, villages, regions, older names buried beneath newer ones. The blood did not vanish when the name did.
If he called himself German tomorrow, he would still be himself. He would still remember the lullabies. The prayers. The old words whispered in the kitchen. His ancestors did not disappear because the state stamped a new label onto him.
He swallowed hard.
And he did not hesitate.
"I choose to stay," the boy said, voice trembling but stubborn. "I will be trained. I will do what is required."
He lifted his chin like a soldier trying to imitate the men he admired.
"I will learn. I will work. I will prove loyalty."
The soldier held his gaze for a long moment.
Then, finally, he nodded.
"A wise choice," he said quietly.
His voice softened just enough to remind the boy that he was speaking to a child, not an enemy.
"You want a future? This is how you take it."
Behind them, the mother made a choked sound—half grief, half rage.
But the soldier was already turning, issuing orders.
"Escort them," he said. "No roughness. They cooperated. They chose the lawful path."
Then he looked down at the boy again.
"You stopped the plot before anyone of my men died," he said. "That matters. I will remember it."
He extended his hand.
The boy took it.
The soldier's grip was firm and steady—more grounding than any prayer had been.
"Come," he said. "Your new life begins now."
The boy stepped forward.
His mother followed because there was nothing else left to do. The girls clung to her skirt, eyes wide with terror and confusion. She looked back once—toward the kitchen table, toward the hatch, toward the life that had ended in smoke and grenades.
Then soldiers guided them gently but decisively toward the door.
Outside, the winter air cut like a knife.
Near the gate, men were already hammering a wooden marker into the ground. Official ink still wet:
IMPERIAL SEIZURE — PROPERTY FOR REASSIGNMENT / SALE
BY ORDER OF THE STATE
Other soldiers catalogued tools and acreage with practiced efficiency—turning a household into paperwork. It was not chaos.
It was administration.
Orderly. Merciless. Routine.
As the family was led down the hill toward waiting wagons, the farmhouse stood behind them exactly as it had that morning: white walls, sloping roof, peaceful fields beyond.
Only now it belonged to the state.
Weeks later, another family would arrive—approved papers, lawful resettlement. They would sleep in the same rooms, pray at the same table, plant in the same soil.
And the transfer would be complete.
On the road toward the training center, the boy held his sisters' hands and stared forward into the cold, believing—because he needed to believe—that he had chosen the only path that led to survival.
Oskar, as so often, was only dimly aware of how his ideas were being applied beyond his sight.
Without ever meaning to, he had already crossed the threshold into true rulership—into the quiet curse shared by all who governed at scale. There were simply too many moving parts now, too many lives, institutions, and consequences bound to his decisions for any single mind to track them all. Delegation became necessity. Trust became risk. Blind spots became inevitable.
No ruler, however brilliant, could micromanage a nation.
And so much happened without him ever seeing it.
The train eased out of the station with a low, steady thunder, steel wheels biting into rails as the Imperial carriages gathered speed.
Outside the window, the platform was still packed. Hats waved. Arms reached up. Voices chased the train as if they could will it to stop. The cheers didn't fade quickly—they followed along the tracks, growing louder each time Oskar leaned toward the glass and lifted his hand in acknowledgment.
Every wave pulled another roar out of them.
Across from him, Grand Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz watched the scene with narrowed eyes, hands folded over a leather portfolio on his knee. He waited until the platform finally slipped behind them and only winter fields remained.
"Look at them," Tirpitz said at last, voice dry but not unamused. "They don't shout like that for laws. Or councils. Or ministries."
Oskar didn't turn from the window.
"They shout like that only for you," Tirpitz added quietly.
Oskar let out a breath that could've been a laugh if it wasn't so tired.
"Yeah," he said. "And honestly… it scares me."
That earned him a small, sharp smile. Tirpitz opened the portfolio and slid a document onto the table between them.
Oskar glanced down.
A census summary. Not final—mid-year tallies, projections, migration estimates. Dense columns of ink, stamped and initialed.
Tirpitz tapped the top page.
"Sixty-two million," he said. "That's the current estimate."
Oskar's brow creased.
"A year ago," Tirpitz continued, "we were just under sixty million. Before your father's law, we were already climbing. After it, every man on this train expected collapse."
He leaned back slightly.
"Instead, we absorbed the shock."
Oskar's eyes scanned the figures again.
"We lost people," Oskar said.
"Yes," Tirpitz agreed. "Hundreds of thousands. Possibly more, when the full tally settles."
A thin smile.
"And yet—overall growth."
Oskar didn't answer.
"The birth rate is rising fastest," Tirpitz went on, "in districts connected to your enterprises."
He flipped a page.
"Pump World. The Pump Stations. AngelWorks. The Safety Works. Your housing blocks."
Oskar's gaze stayed on the paper, but his posture tightened.
Tirpitz's eyes sharpened.
"Did you know one of the highest concentrations of new births in the Empire now comes from your workers?"
Oskar exhaled.
"I suspected."
"Of course you did," Tirpitz said. "What I did not suspect—what no one suspected—was how thoroughly it would counterbalance the demographic damage."
He turned another page.
"Shorter workdays. Safer conditions. Stable wages. Affordable housing near factories. Child allowances. Maternity leave. Predictable schedules. Less exhaustion." He paused. "Less despair."
Then his gaze slid up, and his voice took on that half-amused, half-disapproving edge he used when addressing politicians who thought they were clever.
"And your hiring model."
Oskar tilted his head slightly.
"Nearly every workplace you control is built on the same pattern," Tirpitz said. "Young men and young women hired in roughly equal numbers. Paired deliberately. Put close together. Kept in steady routines."
Oskar's mouth twitched.
"You make it sound sinister."
"It is effective," Tirpitz replied without blinking. "And yes—quite a few of them continue their teamwork after working hours."
Oskar didn't dignify that with an answer.
Tirpitz tapped the census again.
"And you know what else is remarkable?" he said. "You once feared mechanization. You feared conveyor systems would throw men into the street."
Oskar's eyes narrowed slightly. He remembered those arguments. He remembered Karl's numbers.
"Instead," Tirpitz continued, "when the law reduced labor and shook the market, your efficiencies helped absorb the blow. Less labor did not become collapse—it became productivity. And when land and housing suddenly flooded the market…"
He looked directly at Oskar.
"You bought it. You rebuilt it. You turned panic into construction."
Oskar folded his hands.
"You're making it sound like I planned for my father's law," he said.
"I'm making it sound," Tirpitz replied, "like you build systems that survive shocks."
Oskar stared at the paper a moment longer, then said quietly:
"I didn't build systems to punish anyone. I built conditions where people wanted a future."
Tirpitz studied him, then nodded once.
"Children follow hope," Oskar added.
Tirpitz's gaze didn't soften, but his tone did—slightly.
"So you say."
Then he shifted, almost casually, into the next blade.
"And what about your own example?"
Oskar raised an eyebrow.
"You are nineteen," Tirpitz said. "Two women. Six acknowledged children. One… unacknowledged, if rumors are accurate. And unlike most princes, you continue living under your parents' roof."
Oskar did not deny it.
"If it were anyone else," Tirpitz continued, "it would be scandal. If it were anyone else, it would be a career-ending stain."
He paused.
"But when you do it… it becomes a model."
Oskar's gaze flicked back to the window. Snow-dusted fields slid past, interrupted by new roads, new plantings, clusters of fresh construction. He looked as if he were watching the land move and only now realizing the land was watching him back.
"In some rural districts," Tirpitz went on, "I hear men are beginning to imitate you—living arrangements, early marriages, even… arrangements involving more than one woman."
Oskar finally turned fully toward him, stunned despite himself.
"I didn't intend that," he said.
Tirpitz nodded once.
"Intent is irrelevant," he said quietly. "Effect is everything."
Oskar's jaw tightened. He looked out again, as if the landscape might offer an explanation. It offered only motion.
"I hadn't even thought—" he started.
"That," Tirpitz said, "is the curse of being followed."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"And there is something else."
Oskar stilled.
"I hear there is a movement," Tirpitz said. "A name spreading in certain circles."
Oskar's shoulders stiffened.
"They are calling it the New Dawn."
Oskar's eyes narrowed immediately.
"I had nothing to do with that."
"I know," Tirpitz said at once. "Which is precisely why it matters."
He allowed himself a brief, humorless chuckle.
"At first I laughed. A prince as a symbol of faith? Ridiculous."
Then he tapped the census again.
"But faith doesn't require divinity. Only results. Consistency. Someone to believe in when institutions feel brittle."
Oskar was silent.
"They see you as proof," Tirpitz continued. "Proof that the future has arrived, and that Germany has a path through it."
The train rocked gently as it gathered speed.
Tirpitz closed the portfolio.
"And now we come to the part I truly wish to understand."
Oskar turned back to him.
"You always speak of peace," Tirpitz said at last, voice low enough that only the private compartment could hear it. "Of avoiding war. Of building Germany so strong that conflict becomes irrational."
His eyes stayed on Oskar, unblinking.
"And yet you also insist none of this is intended—as if it is all simply… happening."
Tirpitz's moustache barely moved when he spoke again.
"I do not believe in accidents of this scale."
Oskar's mouth tightened. He looked out the window again—winter fields sliding past in neat, disciplined lines. The rhythm of rails under steel felt too much like a heartbeat he could not slow.
Tirpitz continued, calm and merciless.
"You cannot assume Britain, France, Russia—perhaps even America—will watch you grow indefinitely. They will act. If not today, then tomorrow. If not openly, then through alliances, pressure, and provocation."
A pause.
"So tell me, Your Highness—if war comes despite your restraint… what is your plan? Surely just like with economics, you have some grand plan for war as well?"
Oskar didn't answer immediately.
The truth was ugly.
War felt different now than it ever had in his former life, when it had existed only as headlines, maps, and distant footage on glowing screens. Back then, it had been abstract—numbers, arrows, red lines creeping across borders. Easy to comment on. Easy to judge.
But war seen up close stripped away every illusion.
Whatever brief thrill or pride it promised burned out quickly, replaced by exhaustion, loss, and the quiet understanding that nothing it destroyed could ever truly be rebuilt. And now, in this world, the people who would pay that price were not strangers.
They were his people.
Not figures on a report, not casualties in a statistic, but faces he had seen—workers, mothers, children—people who trusted him to lead them somewhere better. If war came, their deaths would not be distant. They would be personal.
And that weight sat squarely on his shoulders.
He exhaled slowly, letting the breath steady him.
"To be honest," Oskar said, "there is no grand plan."
Tirpitz blinked—just once.
"No grand plan," he repeated, as if testing whether he had misheard.
Oskar turned from the window and met his gaze fully.
"There are principles," Oskar said. "Goals. A direction."
He folded his hands, the motion controlled, deliberate.
"I don't trust rigid scripts. The world snaps them in half the moment reality pushes back. Plans this detailed…" He gave a faint, humorless smile. "They soothe men who are afraid."
Tirpitz watched him with the look of an old commander weighing a young officer.
"That sounds suspiciously like improvisation," the admiral said.
"It is," Oskar admitted. "But disciplined improvisation."
"And the direction?" Tirpitz asked. "You keep circling it."
Oskar didn't look away this time.
"Unity," he said.
The word landed with weight.
Tirpitz's eyes narrowed—not with outrage, but with calculation.
"Unity," he repeated. "You mean dominance."
"No," Oskar said immediately. "I mean coherence."
Tirpitz lifted an eyebrow.
Oskar went on, careful now—because this was the kind of conversation that could turn into history.
"I do not dream of conquering the world under German banners," he said. "That path has been walked before. It always ends the same way—overreach, revolt, collapse."
He paused, letting the train's steady clatter fill the space between them.
"What I want is a world bound by rules that hold," Oskar said. "Rules that make breaking them irrational. Standards strong enough that nations compete without tearing one another to pieces."
Tirpitz's expression hardened slightly.
"A federation," he said.
"Or something like it," Oskar nodded. "Treaties. Institutions. Common expectations. A framework where disputes don't automatically become slaughter."
Tirpitz gave a soft snort.
"And you imagine the world will accept German ideas out of goodwill?"
Oskar's eyes stayed steady.
"No," he said. "I imagine they will accept them because the alternative becomes worse."
That made Tirpitz go still.
Oskar continued, voice quiet but firm.
"They will hate it," he said. "They will call it tyranny. They will call me a fanatic. They will try to stop it. Some already have."
Tirpitz's gaze flicked—briefly—to Oskar's gloved right hand, to the scar hidden beneath the leather.
"And if that is the price," Oskar said, "then I will pay it."
For a moment the compartment held only the sound of the train and the faint creak of leather.
Then Tirpitz spoke, softer than before.
"You are not the first man to dream of unifying the world."
"I know," Oskar said.
"Alexander," Tirpitz murmured.
"I know."
"Rome."
"Yes."
"The Caliphates."
Oskar nodded once.
"The Mongols," Tirpitz added. "Napoleon."
"And they all failed," Oskar said, flatly.
Tirpitz leaned forward a fraction.
"So why do you believe you will succeed where they did not?"
Oskar's gaze drifted back to the window. For a heartbeat his eyes looked older than nineteen.
"Because they tried to unify by force alone," he said. "And because they lived in an age where war still had limits."
Tirpitz's brow creased.
Oskar turned back.
"We are approaching a point," Oskar said, "where war will no longer only redraw borders. It will erase cities. Erase generations. And once mankind learns how to do that efficiently… the cycle will not end with an empire. It will end with humanity."
Tirpitz did not interrupt.
Oskar's voice dropped.
"I don't know if I'll succeed," he admitted. "I'm not arrogant enough to promise that. But I know someone has to try."
He held Tirpitz's gaze.
"And yes—my ideal world is peaceful unity," Oskar said. "But if the world insists on sharpening knives, then Germany will not kneel. If they force war upon us… then we will be strong enough to survive it."
Tirpitz studied him for a long moment, as if listening not only to the words but to the steel beneath them.
Then the admiral exhaled slowly through his nose.
"That," he said quietly, "is the first answer you have given me that sounds like a ruler."
Oskar did not smile.
He only looked back out at the winter fields and the young lines of trees—rows planted for a future that might or might not arrive in peace.
And the train kept rolling forward.
Tirpitz studied him in silence.
At last, the old admiral gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
"It is a beautiful vision," he said. "Terrifying. But beautiful."
A thin smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
"And very dangerous."
"Yes," Oskar said. "I know."
Tirpitz tapped the armrest once, like a gavel.
"But visions do not win wars," he said. "Steel does. Discipline does. And you have poured yourself into the Navy… far more than the Army."
Oskar inclined his head.
"I gave the Army foundations," he said. "First aid. Fitness. Safety gear. Modern drills—small-unit movement, clearing rooms, keeping men alive long enough to become veterans. Mobility in the form of motorcycles."
Tirpitz's expression didn't soften.
"That will not be enough."
"I know," Oskar said again, and this time it came out colder.
The admiral waited, letting the silence force the next truth out of him.
Oskar hesitated—just a fraction.
"Then the next step," he said, "is infantry firepower."
Tirpitz's posture tightened.
Oskar lifted a hand at once, forestalling the obvious misunderstanding.
"No more battleship guns from me for now," he said. "Krupp and the Navy have enough on their plate already. What decides modern war isn't only the flagship. It's the man in the ditch."
His voice sharpened.
"Rifles. Machine guns. Grenades. Ammunition. The logistics that keep a line firing while the other side goes quiet."
Tirpitz stared, and for the first time his approval was not subtle.
"Good," he said quietly. "That is where wars are actually won."
Oskar continued, matter-of-fact now, as if he were discussing rail timetables.
"Karl has already registered a new firm. A simple name—Imperial Weapons Works. Call it a joke if you like. But if war comes, brave men will not be enough. Brave men without cartridges are just corpses waiting to happen."
He paused, then added, almost clinically:
"And with Albrecht Safety Works, we can do more than helmets. Better field gear. Better webbing. Better medical kits. Even crude armor plates for static positions—if the weight can be managed."
Tirpitz exhaled through his nose.
"You have a talent for saying horrifying things in a calm voice," he said. "I like it."
Then his eyes narrowed.
"But you are stepping into territory where men have long teeth. Mauser. Rheinmetall. Krupp. They will not enjoy a prince taking slices of their pie—no matter how beloved the prince is."
Oskar's reply was simple.
"Then I don't take slices," he said. "I buy the bakery."
Tirpitz's moustache twitched.
Oskar's gaze stayed steady.
"When the time is right—when I have the cash flow and the leverage—I'll bring them into the group. Majority stakes where possible. Contracts where not. They keep their names, their pride, their boards… but the direction becomes unified."
Tirpitz studied him—a young man built like a statue, speaking like a finance minister and a general at the same time.
At last he nodded once.
"So you intend," he said carefully, "to place much of German industry under your hand."
Oskar didn't deny it.
Tirpitz continued, voice firm.
"Then you must speak to His Majesty first. If you mean to reorganize the spine of the Empire's economy, you will need the Crown's authority—openly. Permission. Cover. Legitimacy."
Oskar inclined his head.
"I know," he said. "Without Father's backing, every move becomes sabotage bait."
Outside, winter fields rolled past. Towns flickered in the distance. On one stretch of road, tiny figures worked along a new planted verge—shrubs set in lines against the wind, snow catching on branches. Quiet improvements that never made headlines, yet would change lives for decades.
Inside the compartment, two men sat with the uneasy understanding that they were not only building ships and factories.
They were building the shape of the next century.
And once built, it would not be unbuilt without blood.