Oskar stayed at Central Bauxi Town for three days.
Not because the place was comfortable—nothing in the interior was comfortable—but because a camp without shape was just a waiting grave. The river could flood. The jungle could reclaim the clearing overnight. Fever could run through men like fire through dry grass.
So he gave the place bones.
He worked from sunrise until the light turned rotten and soft. He cut back brush until the clearing widened into something defensible. He dug ditches—first shallow, then deeper—until water had somewhere to go that wasn't straight through the sleeping nets. He broke the earth with a shovel the way other men broke it with a plow. Palisade posts went in rough and fast. Smoke pits were placed where they could breathe across the camp like low fog, because smoke was the only language mosquitoes respected.
Karl tried to pretend he was "supervising," but after the first day even he stopped arguing and started hauling. He did it with theatrical misery, swearing about empire-building and hygiene and the utter depravity of a world without proper latrines, but he hauled.
Captain Carter and the Eternal Guard did what they did best—turned chaos into habit. Rotations were set. Perimeters were measured. Firewood was stacked with the care of ammunition. The machine-gun team chose their angles. The medic checked feet and fevers like a priest inspecting sins. If Oskar was the storm, Carter was the wall that made the storm useful.
The guides kept them alive.
Not with speeches. With knowledge.
They found bitter greens that could be boiled into something safe. They pointed out trees whose bark repelled insects when burned. They showed where traps could be set without attracting predators. And when the men insisted on trying crocodile again—because starving men always become bold—the guides made sure they cooked it properly.
Because crocodile was not pork.
It was not beef.
It was a thing that wanted revenge even after it was dead.
And if you cooked it wrong, it would poison you anyway.
---
On the third day, the jungle gave them a different sound.
Gunfire.
Not close—downriver, far enough that the shots arrived thin and delayed, but clear enough to stiffen spines and bring rifles off shoulders.
Carter's head snapped toward the river. Orders moved without shouting. Men took positions on instinct, because instinct was what you had when the jungle gave you no time to think.
Then the canoes appeared.
First one. Then three. Then a line.
Engineers in khaki and sweat-darkened shirts. A few uniformed soldiers. Work crews with tools strapped to their backs. Men with measuring instruments wrapped in oilcloth. Boxes. Bundles. Food. Nails. Wire. Medical crates. Even a handful of locals who knew the land—where it flooded, where it held, where the ground could take weight.
Ebermaier had not wasted a day.
He had heard Oskar was inland and acted like a man who understood the real truth of empire:
A prince could claim a place with a flag—
…but only supplies could hold it.
Oskar watched the reinforcements unload, and something in his shoulders loosened.
Central Bauxi Town would stand.
Not forever, not yet.
But long enough.
Long enough to become real.
---
That evening, Oskar made the next decision.
On the morning of the fourth day, he would go again—north, along the narrower branch, toward the future site of Northern Bauxi Town.
He left thirty men behind.
Three squads—his weakest in the sense that they were the most exhausted, the most fever-prone, the men who had taken the worst of the first march. They would remain under a senior sergeant of their own choosing—an older NCO with the kind of voice that did not negotiate.
Their task was simple:
Keep the camp alive.
Keep the trenches clear.
Keep the fires smoking.
And above all—
Keep the flag standing.
Oskar took the rest: twenty Eternal Guard, two squads, along with Karl, Captain Carter, and supplies for another push.
He meant to take all four guides.
But the river took that choice away.
At the edge of camp, the Limba, Bakoko, and Basaa guides refused to go any farther. They did not shout. They did not argue. They simply stopped and looked at the north as if it were a doorway into a different kind of death.
Only the Duala envoy stayed.
A young man with careful manners and a merchant's eyes, who had introduced himself properly after the camp had stabilized:
Njoh Bell.
A fifth son of King Rudolf Duala Bell, he said—an interesting name, and a name that carried weight in his posture even when he spoke softly. Oskar stored it away.
Njoh did not refuse the north.
But he did not look happy about it either.
When Karl asked why the others would not come, Njoh answered in a low voice:
"Flatlands."
It was not a direction.
It was a warning.
The Fulani.
Muslim rulers who sat on the grasslands like a lid, holding down the peoples beneath them through tribute, cavalry, and the kind of authority that did not need to shout. They had risen, Njoh said, through holy war generations ago—jihad that lasted long enough to carve a kingdom out of fear and conviction. Their power had weakened only when their own succession fractured and Europeans began changing the balance of force on the coast.
Oskar knew the administrative version.
Ebermaier had explained it bluntly: the Fulani had once paid tribute and accepted German "protection" in exchange for being left mostly alone. Autonomy, on paper. Subordination, in reality. A convenient arrangement for men who preferred stability.
But Oskar had not come inland for convenience.
He had come for red soil.
And if the red soil lay under Fulani influence, then the Fulani would need new terms.
Terms that left their pride intact—enough to prevent war—while allowing Germany what it wanted.
He would not march in as a conqueror.
He would arrive as a man who offered trade backed by power.
Bauxite in exchange for autonomy.
Autonomy under German protection.
A leash made of velvet—still a leash, but one that did not draw blood unless it had to.
That was the plan.
And plans required movement.
---
They left Central Bauxi Town at dawn.
Oskar was not healthy, not fully—but he was no longer collapsing into fever. His eyes were clearer. The swelling from the mosquito siege had begun to fade. Karl still looked like he had aged five years in five days, but he climbed into the canoe without complaining, which meant he had accepted the reality:
This would end only when it ended.
North of Central Bauxi Town the river changed.
It narrowed, losing the lazy breadth of the lower Sanaga. Banks turned sandy. Channels grew fickle and shallow, forcing them onto land more often. Some days the water carried them; other days it betrayed them and made them drag the canoes like wounded animals.
The jungle did not open politely.
It had to be persuaded.
They fought it the only way you could fight a place like this:
By refusing to die.
Crocodiles watched from the reeds, eyes like wet stones. Hippos blocked stretches of water like living boulders, forcing slow detours and careful portages through mud. They hunted when they could. Ate when they had to. Once or twice curious monkeys followed them at a distance, shouting from the canopy as if insulting them was a civic duty.
Njoh chose the campsites.
Always high ground. Always open enough for smoke. Always near water but not too near.
Four days passed like that—hard, monotonous, and strangely dreamlike.
And then, as if the river itself understood the pattern, the land offered another hinge.
A split.
A meeting of waterways—two branches diverging like a hand offering directions.
Oskar stepped onto the bank, muddy and bitten and grinning through exhaustion, and pointed.
"Here."
Carter looked once, measured angles with his eyes, then gave a single nod.
Njoh stared for a long moment, then slowly agreed.
They planted the imperial flag again—black eagle against green world—and declared it:
Northern Bauxi Town.
Another beginning.
Another nail driven into the jungle.
And somewhere beyond that, on the flatlands, the Fulani waited—whether they knew it yet or not.
---
They remained several days at what would become Northern Bauxi Town.
Long enough to clear a perimeter.
Long enough to raise a crude camp.
Long enough to dig latrines, set smoke fires, and erect the first rough shelters.
Long enough for the men to breathe without feeling hunted every waking hour.
But this time, reinforcements did not come.
Not immediately. Not when Oskar had hoped.
The march north had taken more from the men than the earlier journey. Fever lingered. Muscles ached. Tempers thinned. And so, after the third night, Oskar made the decision to reduce the party once more.
The bulk of the force remained behind to hold Northern Bauxi Town and wait for support.
And then Oskar went onward with only what he needed.
Oskar.
Karl.
Captain Carter.
Njoh, their guide.
And four Eternal Guard riflemen — the healthiest, the hardest, the kind who could still move without complaint.
Eight people.
No banners. No formations.
A scouting force now, not an army.
Because what came next was not about defense.
It was about finding the red earth.
---
They followed the river northeast, and the world began to change.
The jungle thinned. The canopy broke apart. The air widened, no longer pressing from every direction, and the land rolled flatter into pale grasslands where the horizon could finally breathe. New animals appeared—open-country beasts unused to the sound of paddles and boots—and once they brought one down for food, grateful for meat that did not fight back even after death.
Villages followed.
Small ones—twenty people, thirty, sometimes fifty. Clusters of huts and smoke and quiet, assessing eyes. People clothed lightly, if at all, living with an ease in their own bodies that made the dense jungle behind them feel like another country entirely.
And here and there, riders came to meet them.
Bare-chested men marked with war paint and scars, mounted on lean horses. Not Fulani—but peoples beneath Fulani authority, tributaries rather than masters. Njoh spoke with them as best he could, and the warnings were always the same.
Be careful.
You are close now.
At night, they no longer slept in the open.
Hospitality was offered without hesitation. Fires were shared. Food was brought. Laughter carried easily in the dark. Stories passed between tongues through Njoh's careful translation, but much was said without words at all. They were guests—honored guests—and treated accordingly.
Word had traveled faster than Oskar expected.
That forced labor had ended.
That German patrols had vanished.
That the coast had been abandoned for a single river corridor.
And that a giant white man—larger than any gorilla—was the one who had done it.
When Oskar appeared, dressed only in his trousers with a pack slung across his back, sweat gleaming on bare skin, recognition was instant. Cheers broke out. Voices rose. Hands reached for him as if to confirm he was real. Sunlight caught on the broad planes of his chest and shoulders, on muscles hardened by work and heat rather than armor.
Some called him a savior—not because he was gentle, but because he had ended what came before. Because he stood there unashamed, unguarded, a promise made flesh.
Oskar did not speak their languages.
He did not need to.
He shook hands. Smiled. Let himself be examined when curiosity demanded it. Women stepped close without hesitation, fingers pressing into his arms, his chest, his back—testing, squeezing, laughing softly at what they found. Palms lingered. Nails traced lines through sweat-slick skin. Warm bodies brushed against him as if by accident, then did it again without pretending.
Whispers followed. Amused glances passed between them. Smiles that did not bother to hide their intent.
Oskar felt himself stiffen—not with fear, but with something worse. He flinched once when a touch strayed lower than courtesy allowed, breath catching before he forced himself to laugh it off. He should have stepped back. He knew that.
He didn't.
Strength fascinated them. Size. Presence. The way he filled space simply by standing there. In these villages, power was not admired from afar—it was approached, measured, claimed.
And Oskar, for all his titles and vows, had never been strong where women were concerned.
Some women grew bolder.
A hand sliding lower than propriety allowed, feeling his enormous size. Another resting at his side, then his back. Warm breath against bare skin. Oskar should have stepped away. He always knew when he should step away.
But saying no to women had never been his strength—especially not when they were half-clothed, unashamed, smiling up at him as if he were something rare and desirable rather than a man with obligations.
And once—at their insistence—he wrestled a horned cow to the ground, laughter and shouting erupting as the animal finally yielded. The story spread through the villages like fire through dry grass.
After that, distance vanished.
Curiosity became boldness. Admiration turned into open offers. Chiefs spoke plainly of alliances sealed through blood and marriage. In these places, strength was not admired from afar—it was claimed, welcomed, tied into the future.
Oskar tried to refuse.
He always tried.
But smiles were given as permission, not restraint. Hospitality became intimate. Warm nights followed shared fires. Music. Dancing. Bodies moving close in the dark. One moment he was laughing with a woman beneath the stars; the next, he was surrounded—fed, guided, drawn into the shelter of a hut while rain drummed softly on woven roofs.
Boundaries softened in the heat.
And once crossed, they were not easily restored.
He woke more than once with shame sitting quietly in his chest, limbs heavy, the memory of warmth and closeness lingering even as dawn crept in. Each time he told himself it was harmless. That it meant nothing. That it was only hospitality, only goodwill, only something that would end when he left.
Karl pretended not to notice.
He, too, spent a night he did not talk about afterward.
Carter noticed everything and said nothing.
The Eternal Guard drew attention they had never known before. Men built like carved stone, bodies shaped by years in Pump World rather than fields or warbands. To the villagers, they looked unreal—white-skinned men with the mass and density of small gorillas, disciplined and confident. Karl, short but impossibly compact, drew just as much attention, to his own mounting horror.
Njoh explained it later, without judgment.
They saw strength.
They saw protection.
They saw better blood for the future.
It was not romance.
It was politics.
These people were tired of paying tribute to Fulani overlords. They wanted new ties, new patrons, new leverage. What they offered was not submission, but investment—bonds meant to last longer than treaties.
Oskar understood that.
He accepted the hospitality.
He made no promises—only quiet thanks, offered with a hint of shame he could not fully hide, echoed by the others when farewells were exchanged.
As they rode on in the mornings—mounted now, well-fed, rested, and carrying more unspoken connections than they had intended—Oskar could not shake the feeling that something irreversible had already been set in motion.
Something that would not stay behind when he left.
---
After several days of overland travel—through hills that lay like sleeping beasts and valleys carved by ancient water—Karl saw it first from his perch atop Oskar's shoulders.
"There," he breathed.
Oskar stopped.
Ahead, the land rose gently, the jungle finally loosening its grip. Two tall grassy hills stood apart like sentinels, their tops jagged with exposed stone.
And between them—
Red.
Not jungle green.
Not river brown.
Red earth lay exposed in broad, open mounds, streaked and layered, visible from a distance like old wounds in the land. It wasn't hidden. It wasn't buried deep. It simply was—as if the earth itself had grown tired of pretending it wasn't there.
For a long moment, Oskar did not move.
Not because he doubted what he was seeing—but because his mind, for the first time since leaving Europe, was struggling to keep up with reality.
This had been a gamble.
A guess.
A half-remembered scrap of information pulled from a former life filled with history forums, late-night readings, and idle "what-ifs." He had come here guided by nothing more solid than memory and instinct—by the knowledge that somewhere in Cameroon there had once been bauxite, that somewhere Germany had lacked it when it mattered most.
And now—
Now it lay before him in the open.
A weight he hadn't fully acknowledged slid off his shoulders all at once.
He crossed the ground quickly and dropped to one knee.
His fingers plunged into the soil.
Red stained his skin immediately.
Bauxite.
Not a narrow seam.
Not a single vein.
Hills of it.
Clay-rich and pebble-hard, warm to the touch, streaked with iron and flecked with stubborn vegetation—grass, flowers, small trees clinging to it as if even life itself understood this place was different.
It was absurdly accessible.
You could dig it with your hands.
A shovel would be luxury.
A sack would be enough.
Oskar laughed softly, breathless, and tilted his head back toward the sky.
For a moment he said nothing.
Then, quietly, almost to himself, he whispered thanks—thanks to God, to fate, to whatever cosmic accident had dropped him into this life with just enough knowledge to make madness work.
Karl slid down from his shoulders, eyes wide, and knelt beside him.
"We found it," Karl said again, more firmly now—like saying it twice would make it real.
Carter arrived next, then the riflemen, boots crunching softly on red grit. Njoh followed last, still uncertain why this soil mattered so much, but smiling because the white men were smiling—and because joy, whatever its source, was contagious.
Karl lifted the camera.
"Wait," Oskar said.
He turned and gestured Njoh forward.
"You too."
The guide hesitated, then stepped in.
Together, they raised the flag.
The Imperial German banner went up on the central mound—black eagle against red earth and green sky.
Then two more flags were planted on the surrounding hills, overlooking the shallow valley like watchful guardians.
Karl filmed it all.
The image was raw and awkward and perfect: mud-stained men, a giant prince kneeling in the dirt, a native guide standing shoulder to shoulder with Europeans, hands on the same pole as history shifted under their feet.
The riflemen cheered—not loudly, not grandly, but with the tired satisfaction of men who knew they had reached the end of something difficult.
Then, despite exhaustion, excitement took over.
Pouches came out. Hands dug in. Small sacks were filled—not greedily, not in bulk, but carefully, reverently. Proof. Samples. The first tangible pieces of a future that had only existed in Oskar's head until now.
Red dust smeared faces. Stained fingernails. Laughter broke out as men knelt in the earth like children.
Karl kept filming, circling them with the camera, muttering about lighting and angles while smiling like a madman.
The journey was over.
The gamble had paid off.
And standing there, knees in red clay, Oskar knew with absolute certainty:
This was not the end.
This was the beginning.
And then—
dust rose on the horizon.
Not smoke.
Movement.
Horses.
Oskar was still crouched between the red mounds, bare-chested beneath the sun, red earth smeared across his forearms and ribs, when he saw them crest the low rise.
A line of riders appeared.
Then another.
Then more.
They came in disciplined silence—horses tall and narrow-chested, built for distance rather than brute power. Leather tack creaked softly. Spears rode upright in practiced hands. A few old rifles lay across saddles, not raised, not hidden.
Fulɓe.
"Hold," Oskar said quietly.
No one fired.
The Eternal Guard moved without command. Carter stepped in beside Oskar, posture loose but ready. The four riflemen spread just enough to matter, muzzles low, fingers steady. Karl slid down from Oskar's shoulders, revolver already in hand, jaw tight.
Njoh stepped forward, spine straight, chin high.
Sixty riders closed in at a measured pace and stopped as one.
The leader rode ahead.
He was lean and tall, wrapped in layered indigo and earth-colored cloth despite the heat. A white turban framed a sharp face marked with dark lines of war paint across the cheekbones—old marks, not for show. His spear was long and elegant, iron tip polished bright. A short curved blade rested at his hip.
He took in the scene in a single sweep:
the flags,
the red soil,
the men,
the camera hanging from Karl's chest,
and finally the giant of a man standing barefoot among it all.
Then he spoke.
Njoh translated immediately, voice careful.
"State your name.
State your purpose.
Why do Germans stand armed on Fulɓe land?"
Oskar rose.
He was still bare-chested, sweat cutting clean lines through the red dust on his skin. He looked nothing like a court prince and everything like something the land itself had tested and failed to break.
"I am Oskar," he said calmly. "Crown Prince of Germany. Son of the Kaiser."
The Fulɓe leader studied him for a long moment.
"You are large for a prince," he said at last. "I am Lamido Umaru, ruler of these plains. They answer to me."
The title carried weight. Even Njoh's breath hitched—only for a heartbeat.
Oskar inclined his head once.
"Then we speak plainly, Lamido Umaru."
Umaru's lips curved—not into a smile, but into interest.
"Speak."
"We have come for the red earth," Oskar said. "Nothing else. No tribute. No labor. No obedience from your people. We will take the soil, move it along the river, and leave."
A murmur passed through the riders.
"You will rule your lands as you always have," Oskar continued. "Germany will recognize your authority. And if outsiders come—French, British—Germany will stand between them and you."
Njoh translated carefully, weighing every word like glass.
Lamido Umaru's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but calculation.
"And when you have taken all the red earth you desire?" he asked.
"We leave," Oskar replied. "We want nothing else."
Silence stretched.
Then Umaru laughed—softly.
"This soil must be valuable indeed," he said. "Very well. We accept."
A tension Oskar had not named loosened in his chest.
Then Umaru raised a hand.
"And yet," he added, gaze sliding past Oskar to Njoh, "you have brought a Duala man into Fulɓe land."
Njoh's shoulders stiffened.
"For this intrusion," Umaru said mildly, "he will give compensation."
Njoh's spear was named.
The stainless-steel spear—bright, perfectly balanced, a gift Oskar himself had placed in Njoh's hands as a symbol of alliance.
Njoh's fingers closed around the shaft instinctively.
Umaru turned his eyes back to Oskar.
"This is not your concern," he said softly. "You promised not to interfere in our internal matters."
The riders did not move.
Spears stayed angled.
Horses stamped.
Oskar stood very still, red earth under his feet, imperial flags snapping behind him.
Steel he could replace.
A spear he could forge again by the thousand.
But Njoh's pride—
the meaning of that gift—
and the way Umaru's voice carried both permission and threat—
All of it struck at once.
This was not a demand.
It was a test.
A test of whether Oskar's promise of non-interference meant what it said—or only when convenient.
The wind tugged at the flags.
The red earth waited.
Sixty riders watched.
And Oskar understood, with sudden clarity, that his first true bargain inland had already caused conflict, whether he liked it or not.