It was the first of January, 1909.
For most of Germany, the year began with headaches, regret, and slow laughter over yesterday's champagne.
For Oskar, it began with work.
Last year had been—almost strangely—calm compared to the years before it. Not peaceful, not truly, but quieter in the sense that he had managed to breathe. To recover his strength. To be a father instead of a storm.
And now the storm was returning.
Because he was no longer only a prince with factories.
He was the future commander of the formation that would become Germany's Eighth Army.
The East.
The place where glory went to die and responsibility went to become legend.
Oskar had spent the New Year's night with laughter and fireworks around him… and a war map in his skull. And like the history-nerd he was, he had made a decision before the final toast even cooled in his glass.
If he was going to hold the East, he needed the men who had once held it in the other timeline.
So he chose them.
Paul von Hindenburg.
Erich von Ludendorff.
On the first day of 1909, Paul von Hindenburg was sixty-one years old—and already fading into obscurity.
He was a General of Infantry, tall, broad-shouldered, mustached in the old Prussian style, with the posture of a man who had spent his entire life standing straight even when no one was watching. He had served well enough. No scandals. No disasters. No great flashes of brilliance either.
The Army considered him reliable.
And in peacetime, "reliable" was often a polite way of saying:
forgettable.
He was a family man. Married. Orderly. Conservative. A man who believed regulations were the spine of the world and that duty mattered more than feeling. He did not chase innovation. He did not hunger for fame.
By 1909, his career was considered complete.
Within two years, he would likely retire.
No one in Berlin expected to hear his name again.
Not in councils.
Not in newspapers.
Not in history.
And yet…
Oskar had decided to pull him back onto the stage.
Because Oskar remembered the other timeline, and he knew the cruel truth: the world did not always reward the loudest genius. Sometimes it rewarded the men who could remain calm while everyone else panicked.
And Hindenburg—paired with Ludendorff—had proven in history that he could do exactly that.
The problem, of course, was that the same qualities that made them effective in crisis could later become dangerous—proud, political, too willing to believe in destiny and their own necessity.
So Oskar's plan was simple:
Use their competence.
Guide their ambition.
Give them the tools to win.
Do not let them grow into monsters.
That morning, when Oskar stepped off the train, they were already waiting at the station.
Two figures in winter coats and uniforms, boots planted firmly on the platform as if it belonged to them.
They stepped forward together.
"Your Highness," General Paul von Hindenburg said, voice deep and controlled. "Greetings."
Beside him, Brigadier General Erich von Ludendorff inclined his head with sharper precision—thinner, more intense, eyes bright with contained energy. Where Hindenburg looked like a pillar, Ludendorff looked like a blade.
Their expressions were in good spirits.
For most generals, the Eastern assignment was not glamorous. The West offered the great hammer, the prestige, the newspapers, the romance of marching toward Paris.
The East offered mud, cold, and the first hit of Russia's fist.
But for these two men, being chosen by Oskar was not punishment.
It was resurrection.
Hindenburg, in particular, had once believed his chances of promotion were dead after offending Wilhelm II in a war-game exercise—humiliating the Kaiser on paper and paying for it politically. He had felt the door closing on him.
Now he was not merely returning.
He was returning as the Crown Prince's deputy.
A man who had been drifting toward retirement had suddenly been given a second life.
And Ludendorff's promotion—fast, sharp—was rare enough to make even old officers whisper. The path ahead of him had opened like a road that did not usually exist.
They were his men now.
Left hand and right.
Oskar met them with a nod, his expression calm.
"Generals," he said simply.
Then he gestured toward the waiting car.
A black Muscle Motors A-Class, engine idling softly, its crowned badge catching pale winter light.
"Let's sit," Oskar said. "We can talk on the way."
He did not put on airs. No theatrical "Crown Prince voice." No needless stiffness.
If anything, he had to restrain himself from grinning like an enthusiast who had just met his favorite historical figures in the flesh.
Because reality was always less cinematic.
Up close, they weren't legends.
They were just men.
A little older. A little stiffer. A little more human.
And yet Oskar knew what they could become.
As the driver opened the door, names flashed through Oskar's mind like future ghosts—men he would need later if he truly intended to rebuild the Army into something modern.
Manstein.
Rommel.
Guderian.
But those names belonged to later pages.
Hindenburg and Ludendorff were step one.
The A-Class cabin was warm, leather smelling faintly of oil and polish. The car rolled away at a controlled speed, slow enough for conversation—fast enough to feel like the future.
Hindenburg and Ludendorff sat opposite him.
Both men studied Oskar's face, quietly measuring the prince they had heard so many stories about.
Approachable.
Charismatic.
The People's Prince—now the Iron Prince.
Oskar smiled, then went straight to business.
"General Hindenburg. General Ludendorff," he said. "It was on my behalf that my father approved your appointments—Deputy Commander and Acting Chief of Staff of the Eighth."
He watched their reactions carefully.
"You both know the truth," Oskar continued, voice even. "I have no formal training on paper. I didn't grow up inside Army academies. For now, I will give direction—structure, doctrine, building, equipment, and the broader plan."
He lifted one gloved hand slightly, as if placing a boundary.
"But I do not have the time to live inside the small daily details. That's where you come in."
His gaze sharpened.
"I need professionals. I need discipline. I need a machine that runs even when the prince is pulled away by politics."
He leaned forward, sincerity clear.
"So I ask you plainly: assist me. Help me build the Eighth into a force strong enough to hold the East—and sharp enough to achieve results when the moment comes."
For a moment, the car's soft engine was the only sound.
Then Hindenburg gave a slow nod, the way a man nodded when he accepted duty not as a favour, but as a vow.
Ludendorff's eyes brightened slightly—hunger masked as devotion.
They were moved not by flattery, but by the rarest thing a prince could offer a soldier:
Honest responsibility.
Oskar was twenty.
He was powerful.
And yet he was not arrogant.
Not complacent.
And to two traditional Prussian officers raised on loyalty and patriotism, that combination felt… dangerous in the best possible way.
"Your Highness," Hindenburg said at last, voice deep and steady, "please rest assured. We will do our utmost to assist you from this day forward."
Ludendorff nodded beside him, sharp and immediate—agreement like a snapped salute.
Oskar let out a quiet breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Good," he said. "That puts my mind at ease."
The A-Class rolled through winter streets at a controlled pace, smooth enough that the conversation could stay low. Frost clung to the window edges. Outside, Berlin's morning moved with sleepy celebration—people still half in yesterday's champagne.
Inside, it was already war.
"You both know the logic of the Schlieffen Plan," Oskar said. "When war comes, the Empire looks west. That's where the mass goes. That's where the prestige goes."
He leaned forward slightly, gloved hands resting on his knees.
"And the East is expected to hold."
Hindenburg's expression didn't change. Ludendorff's eyes sharpened.
Oskar continued, voice calm, but with iron underneath.
"We will build the future Eighth Army from three corps."
He lifted a finger for each, naming them as if placing pieces on a board:
"I Corps—East Prussia."
"XVII Corps—West Prussia."
"XX Corps—East Prussia and Masuria."
He paused, letting the reality settle.
"At present, that's roughly six divisions—about a hundred thousand men in peacetime strength, give or take."
Hindenburg nodded once. That was correct.
"But when war comes," Oskar said, "mobilization can change the shape of everything. Ten divisions. Perhaps twelve, depending on what Berlin dares to spare, what the railways can carry, what the reserves can be turned into."
His voice tightened.
"Russia's standing army is enormous. Even if they mobilize slowly, they can strike us early with forces that dwarf ours. We could face—on the eastern frontier—numbers that feel like a tide."
He didn't say a million as if it was a precise figure. He said it like a warning.
"We will be outnumbered," Oskar said simply. "Badly."
Hindenburg watched him, unreadable.
"So we win by being sharper," Oskar continued. "Better trained. Better supplied. Better equipped. We win by maneuver and firepower. We win by having the most modern killing tools the world can offer—and the discipline to use them correctly."
That last part was for Hindenburg.
The first part was for Ludendorff.
Hindenburg cleared his throat.
"Your Highness," he said, careful, "will the weapons developed by your Imperial Weapons Works truly be sufficient to equip an entire army on that scale?"
Oskar's mouth twitched—almost a smile.
"It will be," he said. "Once I have my hands fully on the lever, deliveries will arrive in numbers that make the quartermasters dizzy."
He didn't add the full truth aloud.
That most of it would be paid for by him.
That the rearming of the East would be conducted like a state secret.
Because if foreign newspapers ever realized that buying Oskar's civilian products was feeding the most advanced military program in Europe, panic would spread like wildfire—and the very markets funding him would turn hostile overnight.
No.
This would be done quietly.
Crates. Contracts. "Routine upgrades."
A hundred small steps, none of them loud enough to trigger an international scream.
Hindenburg and Ludendorff exchanged a brief glance and nodded.
Hindenburg frowned slightly.
"Even so," he said, "the budget of the eastern formations has limits. Large-scale re-equipment will not be cheap."
Oskar didn't blink.
"Don't worry about expenses," he said. "I have it covered."
The words were simple.
But in the car, they landed like artillery.
Hindenburg did not ask how.
Ludendorff did not ask from where.
They had both seen enough of the new Germany to understand what kind of money lived behind the name Oskar.
They relaxed—not as men abandoning caution, but as professionals hearing that the impossible had been financed.
Oskar watched them and then asked the question he truly needed answered.
"What do you think of the Eighth—of our eastern force, as it stands?"
He had read reports. He had read tables. He had read neat lines of statistics.
But paper did not tell you morale.
Paper did not tell you officer culture.
Paper did not tell you whether a corps had pride—or rot.
Hindenburg answered first, as expected.
"Your Highness," he said, "the formations earmarked for the Eighth can indeed be built up toward ten infantry divisions through expansion and mobilization planning. The three corps together can reach well over one hundred sixty thousand at full peacetime establishment."
He spoke as if reading the army's skeleton aloud.
"In wartime mobilization, we can exceed two hundred thousand, depending on reserves and the speed of call-up."
Oskar nodded.
"However," Hindenburg continued, and his tone hardened slightly, "at this moment there is a gap in equipment and firepower compared to the western armies. Berlin has invested more heavily in the formations that will march through Belgium and toward France."
Ludendorff finally spoke, voice clipped.
"The East has good men," he said. "But the West gets the newest toys."
Oskar's eyes narrowed in satisfaction, not anger.
Good.
A problem that admitted itself could be solved.
He leaned back slightly and allowed himself a breath.
"Very good," he said. "Then we'll correct that."
He looked between them—pillar and blade.
"Gentlemen," he said quietly, "we will make these men into the most powerful force this world has ever seen."
The confidence in his voice was not boyish.
It was deliberate.
Then he nodded toward the window, where the road ahead vanished toward Königsberg.
"Now," Oskar said, "we go east. We meet our forces."
"Yes, Your Highness," Hindenburg said immediately.
"Yes, Your Highness," Ludendorff echoed, even faster.
Oskar watched their faces and felt the real stakes settle into place.
Their careers were on the line.
His reputation was on the line.
And if the East failed in the war to come, Germany itself would bleed for it.
They could not fail.
The A-Class continued rolling toward the winter horizon.
And somewhere in Oskar's mind, factories were already shifting—Imperial Weapons Works expanding output, ammunition lines multiplying, production schedules rewritten.
Safety Works and AngelWorks preparing new standards—gloves, goggles, pads, and field gear—while police modernization plans moved in parallel like a second army forming quietly inside the nation.
Because Oskar wasn't building "a corps."
He was building a system.
And, yes—
He was building something that would frighten men.
A custom force with its own identity.
A darker uniform.
A sharper discipline.
A name that would spread in whispers long before it ever appeared in print.
The Black Legion.
Because black was not only a color.
It was a warning.