Snow fell in thin, indecisive flakes—too light to blanket the firing range, just heavy enough to make everything look colder than it already was. It drifted through the lingering haze of cordite and churned earth, settling on torn barbed wire and the broken rims of shell craters like ash that had forgotten how to be warm.
Below the viewing platform, the Eternal Guard were already cleaning the field with the same discipline they used to clear trenches: methodical, silent, efficient. Straw bodies were dragged by the legs. Steel helmets were collected in neat piles. Spent belts were rolled and boxed. A few men tamped down the worst of the mud where the trucks had chewed through the wire, as if the range itself had to be reset like a machine between tests.
Oskar watched them for a moment and felt that familiar, private tension in his ribs—half pride, half unease.
In his view, the logic was brutally simple.
If every infantry squad carried a light machine gun…
If every platoon had grenadiers who could throw explosives over parapets without standing up to die politely…
If riflemen were no longer limited to slow bolt-action fire, but could sustain real volume with semi-automatic rifles…
If Mortars could be placed in each company or battalion at least, then assaulting actions would surely not be so costly in the future…
If sniper pairs existed not as sporting hunters but as a deliberate tool—
Then German infantry firepower would leap a generation.
It wouldn't merely improve. It would jump—straight into the level of a later century.
And once that happened, Germany would stop fighting like 1870 and start fighting like the future.
A war in 1914—if it still came—would not be the same war history remembered. Even if Europe collapsed into trenches and wire again, the British and French would discover an unpleasant truth: trenches were not "cover" anymore.
They were readymade graves.
And if the enemy saw the German Army equipped like this—equipped like a first-class modern force—who would dare start such a war in the first place?
It would be madness.
That was why Oskar had pushed so hard. Why he'd demanded tolerances the engineers had called impossible, alloys that "shouldn't exist yet," and machining so precise even Krupp's old craftsmen had muttered prayers over it. He had dragged metallurgy and tooling forward by the throat because he remembered what came when you didn't.
He remembered the opening of the Great War as a chain of avoidable sins.
He remembered the plan—Schlieffen's brutal arithmetic, the right flank meant to move like a scythe through Luxembourg and Belgium.
He remembered the name that turned the scythe into a dull shovel.
Moltke.
A man who would shift strength away from the decisive blow, who would panic into "defensive" caution, who would send men forward in the wrong places, at the wrong times, against weapons that didn't forgive courage.
Oskar's hands tightened on the railing, the cold biting through his gloves.
There were still years before the historical fuse date.
Years that could be used.
If re-equipment began now, it was feasible—perfectly feasible—to modernize a huge portion of the army before Europe ever lit itself on fire.
Half the force, at least.
He stepped forward again, snow catching in his light-blond hair and settling on his broad shoulders like the world trying—and failing—to soften him. His icy blue eyes did not warm. They cut downward, hard and unblinking, fixing on the benches of decorated old men below as if they were raw recruits who had just failed a basic drill.
"Gentlemen," he said, and the edge in his voice sliced cleanly through the cold air, "are you blind?"
The benches stiffened.
His words carried effortlessly—over the wind, over the range, over the dull clank of men hauling steel and timber below—leaving no doubt that every syllable had been meant to be heard.
"You have seen the performance of these weapons developed by Imperial Weapons Works in cooperation with Krupp," he said evenly. "If the German Empire is ever attacked—by Britain, France, Russia, or anyone else—then it is not enough to have brave men. We must have superior firepower."
He let his gaze sweep the benches of decorated old soldiers beneath him—men trained to believe that spirit and sacrifice would always prevail, even against weapons that no longer respected bravery.
"I am requesting that the Army begin replacing its current infantry equipment with these weapons. Not for vanity. Not for experimentation. For survival."
For a heartbeat, Oskar genuinely believed agreement would come the way physics came: automatically, inevitably, because the truth was visible.
He was wrong.
Wilhelm II leaned forward, breath faintly visible, eyes glittering with the impatience of a ruler who preferred obedience but understood reality.
"Well?" the Kaiser demanded, turning his gaze on the gathered uniforms. "Speak. What do you think of my son's proposal?"
Even an emperor could not simply force the General Staff to swallow a reform of this magnitude without consequences. Not cleanly. Not quickly. The Army had its own gravity.
A bench scraped.
War Minister von Falkenhayn spoke first—measured, careful, and very skilled at saying "yes" without actually surrendering anything.
"Your Majesty. Your Highness," he began. "These weapons are excellent. There is no question of their effectiveness."
A pause.
"But an overhaul of the entire Army at once would be… sudden. If the military budget allows, we should begin replacement—gradually."
It was the perfect answer.
Praise without surrender.
Promise without commitment.
Action without risk.
Oskar held his expression still, though his jaw wanted to clench.
Falkenhayn wasn't an enemy. If anything, he was trying to be useful—supporting Oskar while keeping his hands clean because Falkenhayn understood the Army's internal politics like a surgeon understood arteries.
One by one, other generals joined in. Some were genuinely impressed. They wanted trials, field exercises, doctrine studies. They wanted to touch the future carefully before letting it bite them.
But a block of men remained stone-faced.
Moltke's men.
The faction that didn't oppose the weapons because they were bad—
—but because adopting them would reshuffle influence.
And influence in the Army was money wearing medals.
Oskar could see it with unpleasant clarity, and the cold did nothing to cool the disgust.
General Josias von Heeringen leaned forward next, wearing the frown of a man who wanted the world to believe his concern was purely professional.
"Your Majesty… Your Highness," he said, "a large-scale re-equipment program would require a substantial sum. While the quality appears excellent, the price must be… considerable."
Oskar nodded once.
"The M1 semi-automatic rifle costs roughly twice what a Mauser 98 costs," Oskar said calmly. "A Mauser is around thirty-two marks. And so the M1 is closer to sixty-five marks per piece."
That admission hit the benches like ice water.
Max von Hausen followed immediately, voice practical, landing a question that was actually intelligent.
"And the ammunition?" he asked. "A ten-man squad now has the firepower of what used to be whole formations. Can our industry sustain that consumption? Can our logistics?"
For the first time, even Wilhelm II's brow furrowed.
Because numbers were the one thing even emperors had to respect.
Germany's standing army sat at roughly six hundred thousand in peacetime, but in war it would swell to millions. Millions of men meant stockpiles: rifles by the million, machine guns by the tens of thousands, barrels, belts, grenades, mortars, crates of spare parts—and ammunition by the railcar, by the warehouse, by the city.
This wasn't courage.
This was marks.
The Reich was improving—Oskar's machine was beginning to pull the economy upward, exports rising, wages turning into consumption, consumption turning into growth. Debt was shrinking. The trend was real.
But "real" and "limitless" were not the same thing.
And time—time was still the one currency even an emperor couldn't print.
Wilhelm's gaze moved across the benches, measuring appetites, imagining budgets like maps.
Refitting the entire army at once wouldn't be a purchase.
It would be an economic campaign.
Then Moltke spoke.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
The Chief of the General Staff carried authority like gravity itself.
"Your Majesty," Moltke said calmly, "these weapons are impressive. No one denies that."
A pause—just long enough to sound fair.
"But they are too expensive for mass adoption at present," he continued. "The Army can make small purchases for further testing. When the budget is more favorable, we can expand."
He leaned back slightly, as if the matter were a ledger entry.
"In any case, the German Army is already the finest in the world. These weapons would not change that fundamental truth. They would merely reinforce it. There is no critical need to rush."
Oskar felt something inside him go cold.
No critical need.
That was the sentence of a man who believed the future would wait politely.
War would not improve budgets. War would eat them. And time was the one thing Oskar could not manufacture, no matter how many factories he built.
He had paid social price, political price, personal price—accepted scandals, taken risks, forced the century forward—
—and now Moltke wanted to slow-walk it until history arrived anyway.
Colmar von der Goltz added his weight, voice heavy with reputation.
"Your Majesty," he said, "the weapons are excellent. But they contain a fatal flaw."
He gestured toward the torn trench lines.
"They will not only vastly increase ammunition consumption, but that in itself will increase the armies logistical burden—exponentially."
A ripple ran through the benches. Heads nodded. Men who had never carried a single ammunition crate in their lives suddenly became experts on supply.
Oskar almost smiled.
Almost.
Falkenhayn spoke again, careful not to sound like Oskar's man even while supporting Oskar's logic.
"Logistical pressure can be addressed," he said. "By increasing logistics personnel. By expanding mechanized transport—more trucks. We have already seen how trucks solve problems wagons cannot."
A general seized another angle.
"If I'm not mistaken, aren't both machine guns air-cooled," he said. "They are lighter, yes. But after sustained fire the barrels glow. At that rate they cannot continue."
Gustav Krupp answered instantly, confident.
"Spare barrels," he said. "A trained gunner replaces a barrel in seconds."
"And those seconds are gaps," the general snapped back. "Gaps the enemy can exploit. Spare barrels add weight. And cost."
And there it was.
Not caution.
A coordinated wall.
Every disadvantage seized, inflated, waved like a flag—until adopting superior firepower sounded like weakness.
Oskar watched it unfold and felt his patience thin, not like a thread, but like ice.
This isn't prudence, he thought, eyes hardening. This is self-preservation—of positions, contracts, and comforts.
The thought came sharp and clean:
When I have the authority, I will remove the rot.
Not for revenge.
For survival.
Because men like this didn't pay the cost of delay. They never did.
German boys did.
Oskar's voice cut through the cold air, calm—but edged.
"Gentlemen," he said, "don't be foolish."
The men on the benches shifted.
"The fact is that you have seen what these weapons do," Oskar continued, gaze sweeping the assembled generals. "You have seen what happens to any enemy going against these weapons. And now you hesitate—as if this is taste, not necessity if Germany is to win in the future."
He gestured toward the shredded ground below—the flattened wire, the torn trench lips, the straw bodies still being hauled away.
"Yes, the cost is high," Oskar said. "I won't insult you by pretending otherwise. That is precisely why I have spent these past years forcing the economy forward—why industry expands, why exports rise, why internal stability improves."
He leaned forward slightly.
"This nation can bear the burden," he said. "And when the alternative is hundreds of thousands of German sons dying because we refused to modernize while we had time—then sacrifice is not only justified."
Silence.
Not agreement.
The kind of silence that comes when men realize the speaker is remembering their faces.
Then Moltke spoke again, voice tight.
"Your Highness," he said, "we are discussing the issue professionally. There is no need to invoke your position to pressure the Army."
Oskar turned slowly.
"Pressure?" he repeated, too calm. "I am stating facts. When did facts become coercion?"
Moltke met his gaze, unblinking.
Oskar felt something settle—certainty, not rage.
He had wanted to believe their relationship had improved. He had tried patience, restraint, compromise.
But this reflexive resistance—this instinctive need to slow, delay, dilute as if this was some sort of a game—proved what Oskar had long suspected.
Nothing had changed and this man needed to go.
Wilhelm II intervened before the collision became a fracture in front of witnesses.
"Enough," the Kaiser snapped. "You are both pillars of the Empire. There is no need to turn this into a personal contest."
Oskar and Moltke fell silent instantly.
But their eyes told the truth.
This wasn't misunderstanding.
It was collision.
Wilhelm exhaled, controlled, then looked away as if physically refusing to let the argument poison the day any further.
"Waldeck," the Kaiser said, choosing the name like a tool. "Speak."
General Waldeck shifted, old discipline holding him upright even as discomfort showed around his eyes.
"Your Majesty," he began, "the weapons are undeniably advanced. Re-equipping the Army would increase combat effectiveness."
A pause—then the careful, bureaucratic knife.
"But full-scale replacement at once would require an enormous sum. And the logistical burden would be unprecedented, along with the doctrine changes we would need to make. For that reason, I do not recommend immediate full replacement."
Oskar's jaw tightened.
Krupp's expression hardened too—less pride, more calculation. Imperial Weapons Works had been built on a promise. Tooling and factories weren't cheap. A full rejection would be a wound.
Wilhelm nodded slowly.
He did not like "no."
But he understood that even an empire could choke if it swallowed too much progress in one bite.
Falkenhayn stepped in again, voice measured—firm enough to be useful, cautious enough not to invite Moltke's knives.
"Your Majesty," he said, "even if full replacement is impossible today, we can begin immediately with phased procurement. Each year, we replace a portion. We train. We expand ammunition production. We adjust doctrine."
His eyes flicked briefly toward Oskar—not submissive, not defiant.
"Step by step… but without losing time."
Wilhelm's eyes sharpened.
Then, finally, he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "That is what we will do."
It wasn't Oskar's victory.
But it wasn't defeat.
Moltke's faction didn't look pleased, but they held their tongues. Continued resistance would not weaken Oskar.
It would offend Wilhelm.
And none of them were suicidal.
Besides—sitting in winter stands, arguing politics with frozen feet, had limits even for proud men.
Wilhelm II rose. That meant the argument was over.
His presence had already been a favor. His schedule would not bend around it longer.
He cast one last warning look across the benches—then departed, surrounded by guards, boots crunching on frozen earth.
Only after the Kaiser was gone did the real negotiation begin.
Krupp and Waldeck withdrew to speak in low voices—numbers, procurement schedules, "test battalions," "training cadres," delivery dates. The kind of conversation that sounded boring until you remembered it decided how many men lived later.
It did not take long.
When Krupp returned, his face was controlled, but the tightness around his mouth revealed the truth: smaller than he wanted, large enough to matter.
"Your Highness," Krupp said, "the Army will purchase: two thousand MG09 general-purpose machine guns, five thousand MG10-E light machine guns, five thousand sniper rifles, and twenty thousand M1 semi-automatic rifles. Additionally: two thousand mortars of various types, and three thousand grenade launchers."
Oskar nodded once.
Far from enough.
But enough to keep the line alive.
Enough to put the weapons in German hands, into German training, into German doctrine—where they could begin to grow roots and become normal.
"This volume is nowhere near what I wanted," Oskar said quietly. "But it keeps the line running."
His eyes lifted, focus returning—cold, relentless.
"We'll find other ways," he added. "We always do."
Krupp nodded. Relief and frustration mixed, because he understood the same truth Oskar did:
A foothold became a cliff if you had time to climb.
Only when the papers were signed and the last officials began to disperse did Oskar finally exhale.
The noise of the platform faded behind him—chairs scraping, boots on wood, the low murmur of old men already arguing about budgets and doctrine as if the dead straw in the trenches had not just been a prophecy.
Oskar stepped down into the cold.
Frozen mud cracked under his boots. Snow drifted in thin, quiet sheets, catching on the edges of helmets and shoulder plates. The range—so loud a moment ago—now felt like a graveyard of shredded straw and broken wire.
He walked toward his men.
The Eternal Guard waited in disciplined ranks, unmoving, armor dull beneath the winter sky, faces hidden behind steel and shadow. No idle shifting. No whispering. No proud grins or exhausted slumps like ordinary troops.
They stood like a unit from a different era—less a formation of soldiers and more a single organism, breathing as one, watching as one, living only for command.
They did not cheer when he approached.
They did not clap.
They simply tightened—subtly, collectively—like a blade being drawn.
Oskar stopped before them.
For a heartbeat, he studied the line.
These were not conscripts. Not boys pulled from farms and factories.
These were men who had been shaped—physically, mentally, spiritually—into something terrifyingly loyal. Men who had trained until pain meant nothing, until obedience became instinct. Men who believed, with the quiet certainty of fanatics, that their purpose on earth was to stand between their prince and the world.
If Oskar said walk into fire, they would walk into fire.
If he said die here, they would die here.
And the frightening part was that they would do it without hatred, without anger—only with acceptance.
Oskar spoke softly, but his voice carried in the hush.
"Well done," he said. "Your performance today was excellent."
Snow landed on the rim of his collar and melted.
He let his gaze move across the line, as if making eye contact through their masks.
"You may not realize it yet," he continued, "but your actions today may have done more than save lives."
A pause.
"They may have won Germany her next war before it has even begun."
No grand speech.
No medals.
Just the words that mattered.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—like a prayer spoken without words—the line responded.
Not with noise, but with devotion.
Helmets dipped a fraction. Shoulders squared. Hands tightened on rifles. A subtle wave of tension and readiness ran through them—like a congregation hearing the name of its god.
One man, a squad leader with frost on his shoulder plates, tapped his fist once to his chest.
A gesture that meant:
We hear. We obey. We are yours.
It was not dramatic.
It was worse than dramatic.
It was absolute.
Oskar turned away from the range.
He did not choose a car.
Not today.
Shadowmane was already waiting—massive, black, stamping impatiently, mane dusted with snow like ash on coal. The horse's breath steamed in thick bursts, and when Oskar approached, the beast went still, as if it recognized not just a rider, but a master.
Oskar mounted in one smooth motion.
For a moment—beneath the pale winter sky—he looked exactly like what the court whispered he was:
Not merely a prince.
A war-king from another age.
He gathered the reins, gaze sharpening toward the road back to Berlin.
Heddy had gone into labor that morning.
Karl would be with her now. The palace would be loud with women and midwives and prayers said too quickly. A child would be arriving into the world.
Oskar clicked his tongue once.
The Eternal Guard cavalry flowed into motion around him—not scrambling, not hurrying, simply forming into a protective ring with the ease of men who had rehearsed the same pattern a thousand times.
A moving fortress.
Steel shadows on snow.
And then he rode—fast—back toward the palace, toward warmth, toward life, toward the only thing in the Empire that mattered more than guns:
Family.