After his talk with Tirpitz, Oskar crossed the narrow corridor between carriages, the train's motion a steady sway beneath his boots. Brass lamps hummed behind frosted glass; beyond the windows, winter fields blurred into a pale smear.
Essen met him at the door to the Kaiser's carriage, face unreadable as ever, and stepped in ahead of him.
"Your Majesty," Essen announced smoothly, "His Highness the Acting Crown Prince requests an audience."
Inside, Wilhelm II sat beneath a brass lamp, still surrounded by papers. Shipping reports, troop readiness figures, diplomatic telegrams—each pile neatly ordered, each one a different kind of headache. He looked up, set his pen aside, and rubbed at eyes that hadn't truly rested in months.
"Let him in."
Oskar entered.
"Good evening, Father."
Wilhelm gestured to the chair opposite. "Sit, Oskar. What are you doing awake at this hour? The journey to Berlin is long. Is something troubling you?"
In truth, Wilhelm had grown more and more satisfied with his fifth son—less reckless, less theatrical, more controlled. More than once, the thought had risen uninvited: remove the word acting and be done with it.
But then another face always rose in his mind: Wilhelm the Crown Prince—alive, but not right. Blood on parquet. Splintered furniture. Madness in his eyes. As long as that knot remained, the succession line could not be redrawn openly without tearing the dynasty.
"Yes, Father," Oskar said. "I want your counsel on a matter of arms."
That earned the faintest lift of an eyebrow.
"Oh? That is unusual. You are rarely uncertain."
Oskar didn't waste time.
He laid out the idea plainly: a new Imperial enterprise specializing in rifles, machine guns, ammunition, infantry equipment—everything that decided wars not in parades, but in ditches and shell-holes.
As he spoke, Wilhelm's expression darkened.
"Oskar," he said slowly, "your reasoning is sound. But you are stepping into very dangerous ground. For decades, the Army's light weapons have come almost entirely from Mauser and Rheinmetall. Their interests are entrenched."
He leaned back, fingers steepled.
"Even as Emperor, I do not provoke such giants lightly—especially when the Army's supply must remain uninterrupted. Contracts cannot be snapped like twigs because a prince has enthusiasm. And you, as Acting Crown Prince, would pay the price first. They are well connected. They have friends in the Army, in the Reichstag, in the press."
Oskar didn't flinch.
"I know," he said. "But there is no other choice. Our Army is the finest in Europe, yes—but if we fight the Entente in full, the war will be long, and the dead will be counted in generations."
His voice stayed calm, but there was iron in it.
"I want fewer graves in churchyards," Oskar said. "Fewer widows. Fewer boys limping home on sticks—if they come home at all. If we improve infantry firepower, logistics, and survivability, then even if the war drags… the cost becomes something we can endure."
He held his father's gaze.
"Every man saved matters."
For a long moment Wilhelm said nothing. The only sound was the low thunder of the train and the soft crackle of the lamp.
Then the Kaiser nodded—slowly.
"I understand your urgency," he said at last. "And there is a way. But it requires compromise."
Oskar leaned forward slightly.
"You mean partnership."
"Yes," Wilhelm replied. "Alone, you will be resisted until you are exhausted. Allied with the right power… you will prevail."
"Krupp," Oskar said at once.
Wilhelm allowed himself the faintest smile.
"You learn quickly."
He went on, voice measured:
"Krupp is the largest and most influential arms concern in the Empire. Steel, armor plate, artillery—no one rivals them. If Krupp stands behind you, Mauser and Rheinmetall will think twice before they cross you."
He paused, choosing his next words with care.
"Krupp has long wanted to expand into small arms. They have been blocked—not because they lack skill, but because old arrangements kept the gate closed."
Oskar nodded once.
"And I have the key," he said quietly.
"Yes," Wilhelm answered. "You have designs. Concepts. A way to give Krupp what they lack: direction."
Oskar's thoughts flicked briefly to ship blueprints, to delivery schedules met, to armor plates rolled on time because he had threatened late fees and offered bonuses in the same breath.
"I can do that," he said.
"Then do it," Wilhelm replied. "But do it properly. And do it cleanly."
Oskar inclined his head, then added—perhaps a bit too casually:
"And in time, Father… I intend to place Krupp under my Imperial Weapons Works. Majority control. Over fifty percent."
For the first time in the conversation, Wilhelm blinked.
"Krupp," he repeated. "You mean the firm with sixty thousand workers and half the Empire's steel in its hands."
"Yes," Oskar said simply.
The Kaiser rubbed his temple, exhaling sharply through his nose.
"You are ambitious," Wilhelm said.
"I am practical," Oskar replied. "War will not wait for politeness."
A muscle jumped once along Wilhelm's jaw.
"Do this carefully," he said. "And do not make an enemy of Gustav von Bohlen und Halbach. He is not a fool, and he is not a man you want against you."
His gaze sharpened.
"And Oskar…"
"Yes, Father?"
"Be very sure I do not have to hear again that Bertha Krupp has produced a child who resembles you more than her own husband."
The words dropped like lead.
Oskar held his father's gaze. He did not attempt a denial that would convince no one. He did not offer promises he was unwilling to keep.
He bowed his head instead, just slightly.
"I will not disappoint you," he said.
The tension held for a heartbeat longer, then Wilhelm reached for his pen again—dismissal without needing the word.
"Good night, Oskar."
"Good night, Father."
Oskar returned to his own carriage and slept at last, dreams full of rifles, grenades, squads moving like well-oiled machines—twelve men acting as one, wielding the firepower of a hundred.
They reached Berlin in the early morning.
Oskar went straight from the station to Karl's residence.
Even here, security never truly slept. Twelve Eternal Guards held the perimeter—men who did not smile, men who did not need to. They admitted him at once and sent word ahead.
Karl answered the door in a shirt and trousers, hair like a haystack, eyes heavy with that particular exhausted hatred reserved for anyone who disturbed a house with a newborn.
From deeper inside, a small outraged wail went up: Durin, offended by the concept of dawn.
Karl's expression soured—then shifted sharply when he saw who stood there.
"Your High—"
"No time," Oskar said. "I need an appointment with Krupp. Formal. Immediate. Today if possible."
Karl blinked once, then sighed like a man being handed a fresh stack of ledgers.
"Yes, Your Highness."
He turned to fetch ink and paper.
Oskar stepped past him, following the sound of crying into the back room. Heddy was already awake, hair pinned messily back, rocking Durin with the weary skill of someone who considered four hours of sleep "lucky."
Oskar leaned down and, with the natural ease of a man climbed on daily by six small tyrants, made an utterly ridiculous face.
He puffed his cheeks. Crossed his eyes. Made a noise that would have gotten any other prince exiled on grounds of dignity.
Durin paused mid-wail, confused.
Oskar did it again, worse.
Durin let out a high delighted gurgle, tiny hands flailing, crisis immediately forgotten.
Heddy laughed once, the sound half exhaustion, half relief.
"For that alone, Your Highness," she murmured, "you may come by unannounced."
Oskar straightened, already thinking ahead. This meeting would not be like the others in Essen.
This time, it wouldn't just be Bertha and her mother.
This time, Gustav would be there.
And despite all his size, all his factories, all his titles, Oskar could not pretend that thought didn't leave something tight and unpleasant in his chest.
Krupp replied quickly.
By the time the ink was dry on the formal request, an answer had already been routed back through the proper channels: the family would be honored to receive His Highness in Essen that very day.
That afternoon—barely hours later—Oskar was already on the move.
He crossed Berlin first on horseback, Shadowmane's hooves striking sparks from frozen stone. Then by train, the great black horse loaded with practiced efficiency into a reinforced carriage. Then once more by horse, riding the final stretch as Essen's forest of chimneys rose against the winter sky.
Speed mattered. Momentum mattered.
By the time he reached the steps of the Krupp villa, twilight was falling. Cold sharpened every breath.
They were waiting for him.
Bertha stood at the front, wrapped in winter finery, posture straight—yet changed.
Oskar saw it at once.
She had always been striking in motion: a rider's body, built more for endurance than ornament, all clean muscle and sharp energy. A year ago, she had pushed herself alongside him in the palace gym, cheeks flushed, hair pinned back, determined to be strong in a world that wanted her ornamental.
Now, she was something else.
Motherhood had not diminished her. It had finished the shape.
Her figure had softened where once it had been a touch too lean; curves deepened by life, not indulgence. Her hips were fuller, her stance more grounded—as if gravity itself had decided she was to be taken seriously now. Her chest, modest before, had filled in a quiet, unselfconscious way; not flaunted, simply there, as natural as the child in her arms.
She looked older, yes.
But not aged.
Mature.
A woman who no longer needed to prove herself with effort. A woman who existed as fact. There was pride in it—not vanity, but ownership. The calm certainty of someone who had brought life into the world and would not apologize for it.
In her arms, wrapped tight against the cold, was a small bundle.
Beside her stood Gustav.
He had the careful bearing of a man who had grown up surrounded by things larger than himself. Upright, attentive, self-controlled. His hair was neat, his clothes impeccable. There was still something boyish in his face, a trace of youth that responsibility had not fully erased.
History would never describe him as imposing.
That was clearer than ever when Oskar dismounted.
Gustav had learned authority.
Oskar was authority.
Even at a distance, Oskar saw the child's face.
Fair hair. Eyes a cold, clear blue. A stare that was curious, unafraid.
For one heartbeat, everything else receded.
My son.
It hit him with a force that surprised even him.
It had been some time since he had seen this child, and yet the child seemed to recognise him immediately. It was as if the boy knew that his father had arrived.
Now that the boy looked at him again, cradled in his mother's arms, Oskar felt complicated. On one hand he was proud to see that his child had grown, on the other hand he felt guilty as this was legally not his child.
Shadowmane halted at the foot of the steps. Oskar dismounted in a single smooth motion as a groom hurried forward to seize the reins.
Gustav spoke first.
"Your Highness," he said, voice clear and well-practiced, "welcome to Essen. I trust your journey was not too unpleasant."
He smiled with the careful confidence of a man who had married into a steel kingdom and learned quickly how to command its halls. He was of average height, well groomed, controlled. But as Oskar stepped closer—towering over him by more than a head—Gustav, without meaning to, took half a step back.
He stopped himself a moment too late.
Oskar noticed. He always did.
"Good afternoon, Herr Krupp," Oskar said pleasantly, extending his hand.
Gustav straightened at once and clasped it firmly. The handshake was correct: neither limp nor overcompensating. The gesture of a man who knew how much first impressions could cost.
Oskar barely felt it.
"It is an honor, Your Highness," Gustav said. "Krupp stands at the Empire's service."
"Well said," Oskar replied lightly. "Very well said."
He released Gustav's hand and turned to Bertha.
"And you, Frau Krupp—" he paused, then corrected himself with a small, private smile, "—Bertha. We meet again."
For a heartbeat, Bertha simply stared.
Then color rushed into her cheeks.
All the carefully learned composure of a great industrial matron evaporated. For an instant she looked exactly as she had in the old days: flustered, bright-eyed, young.
"Y–Your Highness," she stammered, her voice soft and far too quick. "Welcome. You look… well. Handsome. As always."
Gustav's smile tightened, barely.
Oskar pretended not to see it.
His gaze dropped to the child.
"And this," he said gently, "must be little Alfried. How is the young master today?"
As if on cue, Alfried's face lit up. He reached out with both chubby hands, fingers grasping toward Oskar with delighted urgency, a babbled sound escaping his lips.
Oskar went very still.
So did Gustav.
Only Bertha smiled—wide, unguarded, radiant.
"I think," she said softly, already stepping closer, "that he wants you to hold him, Your Highness."
She offered the child without the slightest hesitation.
Oskar did not refuse.
He took Alfried into his arms with the same instinct he used with his own children—supporting the head, steadying the back, letting the boy find his own balance against his chest.
Alfried reached up and patted Oskar's cheek clumsily, fascinated by the face that looked so much like his own.
Something knotted in Oskar's throat.
Gustav cleared his throat.
"My wife," he said, careful, "perhaps we should not trouble His Highness with—"
Bertha waved him off without even looking.
"Nonsense," she said lightly. "Come. Let's go inside. There's coffee, and something warm to eat. We can discuss business more comfortably."
She turned and led the way into the house, skirts swaying, shoulders straight—as if nothing in the world at all were wrong.
Oskar followed, the heir to Germany's greatest steel empire heavy and warm in his arms, and for once he could not decide which negotiation ahead would be harder:
Buying Krupp.
Or living with the parts of himself that already belonged there.
Oskar followed Bertha down the corridor, still carrying Alfried. The boy had settled against his chest, warm and drowsy, tiny fingers idly catching at the fabric of his tunic with absolute trust.
Gustav came last.
He didn't rush, and he didn't say a word. His face was composed in the way of a man used to masking uncertainty behind manners—but the tension sat in his shoulders and in the way his eyes kept drifting, unwillingly, toward Oskar and the child.
On paper, Gustav was the master of this house.
In practice, power moved differently here.
Bertha set the pace, not him.
Oskar remembered that from the old days: it had been Bertha—and her mother before her—who had driven Krupp's engineers like a whip. Who had signed off on insane deadlines and refused to flinch. Who had grasped, instinctively, what artillery really meant:
A gun was not a single sale.
It was a chain.
Barrels wore out. Rifling eroded. Mountings needed adjustments. Warships refitted. Each contract tied Krupp and the Navy together for years, sometimes decades.
One gun could become a lifetime of profit.
Inside, the house felt changed.
Warmer than he remembered. More light. Central heating improved. Polished wood, fresh carpets, green plants along the corridor in elegant pots—signs of quiet prosperity and a woman's hand. Bertha pointed some of it out in passing, pride in every casual gesture:
"We changed the boilers." "We opened that wall—too dark before." "This wing now houses the engineering staff when they come up from the works."
No detours. No tours of the famous Krupp "museum rooms" this time.
She led them straight to her office.
Coffee waited there, already poured. Plates of pastries and simple food sat ready on a low table. The door closed softly behind them, shutting out the household.
Only four people remained.
Oskar took the sofa, Alfried still in his arms. Bertha sat beside him—closer than etiquette demanded. Close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm when she leaned forward.
Gustav hesitated for a moment in the middle of the room.
He looked at his wife.
He looked at the prince holding his son.
Then he sat opposite them, posture perfectly correct, as if the angle of his spine might make up for everything else.
The coffee steamed between them.
The silence was civilized, polite, and very sharp.
Gustav broke it first.
"Well, Your Highness," he said, the smooth tone just barely hiding impatience, "your message did not give details. I must assume you did not come all this way simply to admire our child."
Oskar stroked a hand absently through Alfried's pale hair. The boy made a soft sound and clung more firmly to his tunic.
"You assume correctly," Oskar said. "So I'll be blunt."
He set his cup down and looked directly at Gustav.
"First: the Navy is extremely satisfied with the 305‑millimeter, fifty‑caliber gun. Penetration, range, barrel life—the results are beyond what even I argued for. In several respects, it outperforms what we believe the British have afloat."
Gustav's expression eased by a fraction.
"Krupp is honored to serve the Imperial Navy," he said. "Though we both know those specifications did not appear from nowhere."
Oskar accepted the compliment with the faintest dip of his head.
"I came to discuss three matters," he said.
Both Bertha and Gustav straightened. Even Alfried, as if sensing the change, frowned with sleepy seriousness.
Oskar reached into his coat and drew out a folded blueprint. He laid it on the table and smoothed it flat.
"A new class of battleships," he said. "A new class of battlecruisers. Eight hulls in total. Each with three triple turrets of the new 343‑millimeter guns."
He tapped the relevant figures.
"That means twenty‑four triple mounts," he continued. "Beyond what is already in progress. The Navy's condition is simple: the fifty‑caliber 343 must be fully ready before the Helgoland hulls complete fitting out. If the gun lags, the ships wait."
Bertha leaned closer over the drawing without asking permission, one hand unconsciously resting against Oskar's forearm for balance as she studied the lines. Her eyes narrowed—that familiar look she wore when turning a huge number into a schedule in her head.
Gustav's gaze flicked to her hand and then away. His jaw tightened, but he didn't correct her. Not in front of Oskar.
"The 343 program is not idle, Your Highness," Gustav said at last. "We have preliminary barrels, test results, and acceptable projections. With reallocation of capacity and sufficient overtime, completion by the end of 1908 is… realistic."
Oskar nodded once.
"Good. Then we move to the second matter."
He didn't soften it.
"In time, 343mm will not be enough. We must begin work toward 380mm."
The reaction was immediate and unhidden.
Gustav inhaled sharply. Bertha's fingers stilled against the table. Even the fire seemed to crackle more loudly in the silence that followed.
"A larger caliber," Gustav repeated slowly. "Three hundred and eighty millimeters. That is not an adjustment, Your Highness. That is a transformation."
"It is not punishment," Oskar said. "It is preparation."
He spoke quietly, but there was nothing gentle in it.
"The British will not stop where they are. If we cling to 343 while they push ahead to 381… 406… then they will decide range, angle, and armor at every engagement. I do not intend to fight wars on terms chosen by London."
He glanced down at Alfried, then back up.
"Large guns are more than penetration tables. They are psychology. A fleet with visibly heavier guns forces the enemy to think twice before closing, twice before breaking off. It changes the opening moves of every battle. And in war, the opening moves decide how many men live long enough to see the end."
Bertha had recovered herself. She shifted Alfried gently into her arms when he fussed and rose to rock him, listening all the while.
Gustav stared at the blueprint for a long moment, seeing not lines but years: new forging presses, heavier cranes, fresh test ranges, new failures, new costs.
And behind it all—the simple fact that if Germany did not do this, Britain would.
He exhaled through his nose.
"To reach 380 millimeters," he said carefully, "we will need expanded research, new tooling, and more skilled men than we currently have. There will be misfires. Burst barrels. Delays."
"I expect all of that," Oskar said. "I am not asking for miracles in a year. I am asking that the path begin now, while we still have time."
He added, more quietly:
"I'd rather test 380‑millimeter guns in peace… than in the first weeks of a war we cannot afford to lose."
That landed.
Bertha met Gustav's eyes over the child's head and gave the smallest nod.
Gustav's shoulders dropped by a fraction—the surrender of a man who sees the only road ahead and steps onto it anyway.
"Very well," he said. "For the Empire, Krupp will begin preparatory work on 380‑millimeter guns at once. But understand this clearly, Your Highness: you are asking us to climb a mountain. This will take years."
"If war waits for us," Oskar said, "it will be worth it."
He sat back.
"Good. Then we come to the third matter."
This time both husband and wife stiffened.
They knew by now that when Oskar said third, it rarely meant minor.
"I have established a new armaments firm within my industrial group," Oskar said. "Imperial Weapons Works. It will focus on light weapons—rifles, machine guns, ammunition, infantry gear."
Gustav's expression smoothed over into something cautious and very controlled.
"Your Highness intends to enter the small-arms market," he said.
"Yes," Oskar replied. "Not to replace Krupp. Not to bulldoze every competitor overnight. But to bring our infantry equipment up to the same standard as our ships."
His voice remained calm, but the undertone was unmistakable.
"The Navy protects our trade and keeps us breathing," he said. "The war—if it ever comes—will still be decided by men in trenches. They need better rifles. Better belts. Better field kits. Better medical packs. Steadier streams of ammunition."
He spread his hands slightly.
"And frankly, the current manufacturers have been… comfortable for too long."
Bertha's gaze sharpened fully now. No softness. No flirtation. Just raw calculation.
"And what," she asked evenly, "does Imperial Weapons Works require from Krupp?"
Oskar didn't circle around it.
"A formal alignment," he said. "A real one. Not salads of minor contracts and handshakes."
He looked straight at Gustav.
"I want Krupp under Imperial Weapons Works—in structure, not only in sentiment. A controlling stake. Fifty‑two percent."
The room went very, very quiet.
Gustav stared at him.
Krupp was not merely a company to him. It was a dynasty. A name welded into German steel, into cannons and rails and bridges and guns. Generation after generation had bent their lives into it—and now a nineteen-year-old prince was calmly asking for control.
"For clarity," Gustav said slowly, "you are asking that the Krupp concern—founded generations before either of us was born—become, effectively… yours."
"There would be no name change," Oskar said. "No shuttered gates. No humiliation. Krupp remains Krupp. You remain in place. Your family continues as face and management."
He held Gustav's gaze.
"But direction joins the Imperial Weapons Works spine. We speak with one voice when it matters—on supply, on design, on strategy."
Before Gustav could answer, Bertha moved.
She shifted Alfried to one arm and, with the other, slid closer to Oskar on the sofa until her shoulder pressed firmly against his.
"Gustav," she said, in the calm tone of a woman long used to deciding in crises, "this is not an insult. This is a blessing."
Gustav's jaw tightened.
"Bertha—"
"No," she cut in, eyes flashing. "Listen."
She gestured lightly toward Oskar with her free hand.
"This is the richest, most capable, most… infuriatingly effective man in the Empire," she said. "When he touches an enterprise, it grows. When he demands something of us, it is never small—but he never abandons it halfway."
Her gaze softened, just a fraction, as she looked at the child in her arms.
"Do you truly want Krupp standing against that?" she asked quietly. "Or beside it?"
Gustav's hands curled on his knees.
He had married an heiress, not a fool.
He knew a power play when he heard one.
But he also knew this was not a simple takeover threat. Oskar could have crushed them more brutally by not including them—by building his weapons concern in parallel until it strangled the older firms with better efficiency and royal favor.
Instead, the prince was pulling them inside the wall.
Bertha bounced Alfried lightly and looked down at him.
"Isn't that right, mein Schatz?" she cooed. "We are going to work with Prince Oskar, aren't we?"
Alfried responded with a delighted noise and a tiny, perfectly timed fart.
Bertha smiled, radiant.
"There." She looked up. "Even he agrees."
Against his will, Gustav's mouth twitched.
The tension cracked—not completely, but enough for air.
He exhaled, long and slow.
"…If we refuse," he said at last, voice low, "you will build these things anyway. With someone else."
"Yes," Oskar said simply.
"And if we accept… Krupp becomes part of a machine that cannot be ignored."
"Yes."
Gustav nodded once, the gesture small but decisive.
"Then refusing would be madness," he said. "On one condition, Your Highness."
Oskar inclined his head.
"I listen."
"You will not treat Krupp as a temporary toy," Gustav said. "You will honor its name. Its workers. Its history. You will not bleed it dry for some short-term gamble."
Oskar's answer was immediate.
"If Krupp fails," he said, "Germany fails. I have no intention of letting either happen."
Gustav held his gaze for another beat, searching it for arrogance, for carelessness.
He found neither.
"…Very well," he said. "Working with you, Your Highness, will be an honor—and, I suspect, very profitable."
He shifted unconsciously into business mode.
"How do you propose to structure the purchase?"
"Imperial Weapons Works will acquire a fifty‑two percent stake," Oskar said. "Five hundred million Marks, paid out over this year and the next. Part in cash. Part in guarantees and shared ventures."
Gustav's brows rose despite himself.
"That sum," he said, "would be… a very large slice of the Empire's annual revenue, Your Highness. With your shipyards, factories, and charities already demanding capital—are you certain you can sustain this?"
Oskar's smile turned faintly amused.
"You're thinking like a banker," he said. "Let me think like an industrialist."
He reached into his coat again and produced another sheet—smaller this time. He unfolded it and laid it beside the battleship plans.
A simple object stared up at them.
A handle. A head. A row of slender, replaceable blades.
"Model One," Oskar said. "The M1 Imperial Razor. Designed by me. Manufactured with Krupp steel. Sold through AngelWorks and every Pump Station I control."
Gustav blinked.
"A… razor?"
"A good razor," Oskar said calmly. "Three Marks per unit. Affordable for the middle class, aspirational for the worker. Cheap to ship. Easy to display. Easy to understand. And every blade they replace is another coin into Krupp's foundry and my logistics."
He shrugged lightly.
"Men shave. Soldiers shave. Women shave. In time, they will want to shave more. Legs. Arms. Faces. Everything. Hair grows. Steel blades dull. Demand is… permanent."
Bertha stared at the drawing.
Slowly, her lips curved.
"So," she said, amusement finally breaking through the tension, "we fund battleships and rifles… with body hair."
"One clean chin at a time," Oskar agreed. "At home and abroad. Especially abroad."
Gustav looked from the razor to the battleship plan and back again.
Then, for the first time since Oskar had entered the house, he laughed—a short, incredulous sound.
"Your Highness," he said, shaking his head, "you are either mad or a genius."
"I prefer useful," Oskar said.
Gustav reached for his coffee and lifted it.
"To usefulness, then," he said.
Bertha raised her cup as well, eyes bright.
"To survival," she added.
Oskar shifted Alfried carefully in one arm and took his own cup with the other.
"To Germany," he said.
Porcelain clicked gently together.
Outside, the winter sky over Essen burned faintly red with furnace glow.
Inside, over coffee and absurdly sharp pieces of steel, one of the most important industrial alliances of the century settled into place—sealed not with formal signatures yet, but with decisions that none of them could easily walk back from now.
Alfried slept on in his mother's lap, content and oblivious.
The guns that would shape his world had already begun to exist—in ink, in plans, in the quiet agreements of that room.
However Oskar wasn't quite done just yet, and everyone could see it.
Gustav set his cup down, fingers no longer quite steady.
"Your Highness," he said, now fully in the role of partner rather than host, "since we are speaking frankly… how do you intend to compete with Mauser and Rheinmetall in small arms? The Army is married to the Mauser 98. Their position is entrenched."
It was a polite way of saying: others have tried, and failed.
Oskar smiled faintly.
"Mr. Krupp, I don't keep secrets from partners."
He once more pulled out paper's from within his clothes and laid the thick bundle of drawings on the table. Not artist's sketches—proper technical sheets: sections, tolerances, barrel lengths, gas systems, all rendered with unnerving clarity.
Gustav glanced at the first page—
—and forgot, briefly, to breathe.
"This," Oskar said, tapping the top sheet, "is a light machine gun. One man can carry it, one squad can feed it. Air‑cooled, belt or drum fed. Something that can go wherever the infantry go."
He spoke evenly, like a teacher in front of a blackboard.
"The current weapon that we use, the MG08 is powerful, but it weighs as much as a small horse with its mount. You drag it into position, you defend a line, and that's it. It doesn't move with the attack. It pins us down as much as the enemy."
Gustav's eyes moved over the blueprint. Barrel group. Quick‑change system. Tripod sketch. Rates of fire estimated in the margins.
"Each squad… with a machine gun?" he murmured.
"That's where war is going," Oskar said. "Concentrated fire in small hands. If a German squad can put out the fire of a French platoon, we lose fewer men and win more ground. After all smaller squads, mean smaller targets for artillery."
He let Gustav turn the next page.
A heavier gun this time. Mean, clean lines. Still portable, but serious.
"This is the 'big brother,'" Oskar said. "What I call a general-purpose machine gun. On a mount, it acts like an old heavy gun. Off the mount, a crew can carry it forward. One family of weapons, different roles. Simple to produce. Simple to train."
Gustav's business instincts were already racing ahead to contracts, doctrine changes, training manuals.
"If the Army accepts this," he said slowly, "they will have to rebuild their entire infantry structure around it. The orders will be… substantial."
Oskar didn't comment. That part was obvious.
The next drawings were rifles.
"The Mauser 98 is excellent," Oskar said before Gustav could object. "You will pry it from the Army only when you offer something clearly better."
He tapped the semi‑automatic rifle sketch.
"This is not to replace it overnight. But in the next decade, a rifle that can fire aimed shots as fast as a man can pull the trigger will matter. Fewer men. More bullets in the right place."
The following sheet was a sniper variant—heavy barrel, refined sights, a simple, solid stock.
"And this," Oskar said, "is for the men who hold the line together: machine‑gun teams, officers, signal posts. We make killing them difficult. We make killing ours harder."
Gustav turned to the last cluster of drawings.
Short tubes, curved plates, simple bipods.
"Mortars?" he asked.
"Mortars," Oskar confirmed. "And a small grenade‑launcher. Think of them as pocket artillery. A light mortar for company use. A heavier one for trench work. A simple launcher so a squad can drop explosives behind cover without begging the artillery for every shell."
He shrugged once.
"Artillery batteries will always be decisive. But if our infantry can throw explosives further, faster, and more accurately than the enemy—without waiting for orders—then attacks don't die in front of a single machine gun."
For a moment, only the fire made noise.
Gustav stared down at the spread of paper—squad automatics, portable machine guns, semi‑autos, precision rifles, mortars, launchers. A complete ecosystem for the man in the trench.
When he finally spoke, his voice held something new: genuine respect.
"Your Highness… if even half of this becomes standard issue, the German infantry will not just be feared. They will be different."
Oskar nodded once.
"That is the goal."
Bertha watched both men over the rim of her cup, Alfried asleep now on her lap, one tiny hand gripping the fabric of her dress. Her earlier playfulness had vanished—this was the side of her that had terrified shipyard managers.
"And Mauser?" she asked quietly. "Rheinmetall? They will not roll over and die for your convenience."
"No," Oskar agreed. "They'll fight. With newspapers, with parliament friends, with army traditionalists. They'll say it's too radical. Too expensive. Unnecessary."
Gustav's mouth twisted.
"And they will whisper that these are the 'toys' of a young prince with too much ambition and dreams," he added.
"That too," Oskar said. "Which is why I needed Krupp first. With Krupp, I'm not just a prince with sketches. I'm the man who brings designs and a factory that everyone already fears."
Gustav sat very still for a long moment.
Then he put the blueprints down with careful reverence and looked up.
"Your Highness," he said, "I will assemble our best engineers. We will start with the light machine gun and the general‑purpose gun. Mortars next. Rifles after we've proven the first two."
He hesitated—then committed.
"We'll aim for prototypes within a year. Not parade pieces. Weapons we can hand to a sergeant without him cursing our name."
Oskar nodded, satisfied.
"Performance first," he said. "Reliability second. Elegance only if it doesn't get in the way."
Gustav actually smiled at that.
"You are kinder to the engineers than most princes," he said. "They usually demand all three."
"They can engrave eagles on the stocks if it makes them happy," Oskar replied dryly. "So long as the damn things don't jam."
Bertha set her cup down.
"And the naval guns?" she asked. "You are not building this whole arsenal on our backs alone?"
"No," Oskar said at once, more serious. "Naval guns remain the priority. I won't forgive anyone who delays them—myself included. You add teams for small arms. You don't cannibalise what keeps the Navy alive."
Gustav nodded immediately.
"We'll keep the lines separate," he said. "Naval guns first line. New artillery and light weapons second. I will not let your ships be shortchanged."
"Good," Oskar said simply.
He reached for his coffee again.
Then paused.
"There's one more artillery matter you should look at," he added.
Gustav blinked. "More?"
Oskar's tone changed—quieter, but somehow heavier.
"The French 75," he said. "M1897. Their standard field gun."
Gustav's brow furrowed.
"I know of it," he said. "A respectable piece. Nothing to concern us unduly. Our 105s are superior."
"In shell weight," Oskar agreed. "Not in rate of fire."
He met Gustav's eyes.
"The French 75 can fire—sustained—ten to fifteen rounds a minute."
Gustav stared.
"That's impossible," he said reflexively. "Not with proper laying. Not with that recoil."
"They solved the recoil," Oskar said. "Hydraulic system with a floating piston and compressed air return. The barrel slides back, the carriage stays put. No need to re‑aim after every shot."
Bertha's eyes narrowed.
"And they hid this?" she asked.
"They downplay it," Oskar said. "But their crews can put shells into a beaten zone like rain. In any future war, that gun will slaughter attacking infantry if we're not ready."
Gustav looked genuinely shaken now—not by the French, but by the implications.
"If they have that kind of fire," he murmured, "then our men advancing under their guns—"
"Will die in rows," Oskar finished. "Unless we answer it. Copy it. Improve it. Put similar recoil systems on our own field pieces and heavy guns."
He spread his hands slightly.
"I don't need something identical. Just something that lets our guns fire faster without walking all over the field."
Gustav recovered enough to straighten his shoulders.
"With what you've told me," he said slowly, "it's… not beyond us. Krupp can replicate the principle. We might even make it more robust."
"I know you can," Oskar said. "That's why I'm telling you now, not when the first shells land."
For a long moment, all three adults sat with that picture in their minds:
A field. A line of Germans advancing. A battery of French 75s firing like machine guns.
Then Gustav let out a sharp breath and nodded once, decisive.
"We will take it seriously," he said. "Very seriously."
"Good," Oskar said again.
He drained the last of his coffee and set the cup down with a soft click.
"Naval guns first," he repeated. "Field guns and light weapons next. Enough to make the next war shorter and less bloody than the last one should have been. And of course the razors as well."
Gustav inclined his head.
"It will be done," he said simply.
Bertha looked between the two men—a prince with a mind full of future wars, a steel baron with the means to arm them—and then down at the sleeping child in her arms.
Alfried shifted, sighed, and went on dreaming.
Outside, Essen's furnaces beat red against the winter sky.
Inside, the meeting soon came to an end, and it came time for Oskar to leave. Gustav, although, left first… as he had now plenty of work to do. Bertha, Oskar and Alfried were left in the room alone. Oskar still needed to sign the papers to make everything official, but as he looked at Bertha, realised that it would not be that simple.