It was already dark when the train rolled back into Berlin.
But Oskar did not return to his lovely golden cage for long.
He ran with Karl across town to the palace, went in, grabbed a suitcase, and started shoving things inside with the brutal focus of a man packing for exile: his favorite pillow and blanket, a stack of documents that mattered, two notebooks—then, most importantly, his diary, fat with cramped writing and childish drawings that were somehow also the most dangerous object he owned.
Then he walked right back out of the palace.
No farewell dinner. No dramatic speech. Just a few hurried, mangled pleasantries—"my man… nice day"—thrown at the confused guards who tried to ask where he was going.
One sweaty prince in clothes he couldn't remember taking off. One dwarf attendant with his own case. And between them, the last of their "future warship money," carried like contraband.
Oskar knew the telegram from Kiel would either already be in Wilhelm II's hand or arrive within hours.
The Emperor would read:
YOUR SON PROMISED ME A BATTLESHIP.
And he would probably react in one of two ways. Either laugh, or decide to kill him.
Either way, being within immediate shouting distance of the man did not seem wise.
So he left, quickly.
Karl followed without hesitation, carrying his small case and wearing an expression that said I regret everything and also I'm extremely interested in what happens next.
Tanya—the young blonde maid—stood on the steps watching them, wringing her hands hard enough to turn her knuckles white. She tried one last time, voice small in the cold air.
"Your Highness… do you need a bath? A change of clothes? Anything?"
Oskar stopped, turned back, and answered with solemn conviction—as if he were delivering wisdom rather than avoiding his father.
"Worry not, little woman. This road is my journey, not my destination."
Tanya blinked. She had no idea what he meant by that. But it did not sound like yes, I will bathe.
The palace gates shut behind them with a clang that sounded suspiciously like no refunds.
They did not look back.
They walked through the night, across Potsdam and toward Berlin.
City of smoke.
City of art.
City of banks.
City of opportunity.
If you wanted to make tens of millions of marks, you didn't do it in Potsdam feeding ducks. You went where the money lived.
Somewhere along the road, Karl finally said what had been chewing on his spine since Kiel.
"Your Highness," he said quietly, "I hope you understand that building even a single battleship will require at least forty million marks, yes? More, if you want it to actually float."
Oskar nodded like this was perfectly reasonable.
"Yes, I like money."
Karl closed his eyes for a moment, then continued in the tone of a man reading a death sentence aloud.
"And you understand you currently have… what? Five million marks."
Oskar shrugged. It was a huge sum for any private man—helped along by the sympathetic "get well" gifts that had poured in after his fall down the stairs a year ago and Karl gambling with it.
But it wasn't even close to battleship money.
"Five million," Karl said flatly. "You do realize this is our startup capital. So we are missing… thirty-five million or so."
Oskar grinned into the winter air.
"Big money starts small, my man."
Karl gently banged his head against a nearby surface like it might reset reality.
"We are so doomed," he muttered.
As they walked through Berlin's quiet streets and gas-lit parks, Karl struggled to keep up with Oskar's relentless stride. The city breathed smoke and ambition. Money lived here. Power lived here. And if one intended to make forty million marks in four years, this was the place to begin.
Eventually, they arrived at one of the finest five-star hotels in the capital.
Polished marble floors reflected chandelier light like still water. Heavy carpets swallowed footsteps. Crystal decanters lined the bar in quantities sufficient to tranquilize Karl's spiraling anxiety. The staff moved with trained elegance — the sort of composure designed specifically for royalty with unpredictable tendencies.
The manager nearly folded in half when he realized the sweat-soaked man in a rumpled uniform was, in fact, a Hohenzollern prince. He offered the best suite with trembling reverence and pretended not to notice that Oskar smelled faintly of train smoke, old sweat, and what might have been fried sausage grease.
Karl, however, did notice the bill.
Oskar waved him off.
"Hotel price will not shake our resolve," he declared. "Remember, my little man — one must spend big to become big."
Karl looked like a man who hated that philosophy deeply but lacked the stamina to argue with it.
Once alone in the suite — and once Karl had fortified himself with enough alcohol to dull the edge of impending financial collapse — he turned serious.
"Your Highness, please stop doing pull-ups on the canopy bed frame," he said wearily. "It is expensive. And I must now ask plainly, what exactly do you intend to do? Earning forty million marks in four years is not ambition. It is lunacy. Even our African colonies do not produce such sums annually — and coconuts, as it turns out, are neither easy to harvest nor particularly fashionable."
Oskar dropped lightly from the bed, wiped sweat from his handsome, slightly greasy face — which had not encountered soap in two days — and took a seat at the cluttered table. Bottles clinked as he steepled his fingers.
"Karl," he said calmly, "have you truly decided to work with me? If we fail, you know what happens. Emperor angry, also Navy angry, and no more palace or salary. I think my father will not let you go free of charge. It will be, the streets for us, and no Caucasian wives."
Karl did not hesitate.
"Of course, Your Highness," he replied. "You are my friend — and frankly the only nobleman willing to accept a dwarf as an attendant. It is not easy to find a respectable position for someone like me. And I… believe you will succeed."
Among all the princes, Oskar had been the least arrogant. He treated Karl as a man, not a curiosity. He shared food, jokes, absurd ideas. For someone like Karl, that mattered more than rank — even if he occasionally skimmed a few coins from Oskar's pocket and justified it internally as a handling fee.
"Good," Oskar said, eyes brightening. "Then I will not fail you. Before long, we will shock the business world and all of high society."
Somewhere in the distance, history groaned softly.
Karl's lips twitched despite himself.
"Very well," he said. "So, for the love of sanity, what is the plan?"
Oskar reached into his suitcase and withdrew his diary, the little red book. The leather cover was worn, cluttered with childish doodles — unicorns, armored monkeys, soldiers with impossible weapons.
"Behold," Oskar said dramatically, sliding it across the table. "Our weapon."
Karl opened it cautiously, and froze.
On the first page, there was a German shepherd with oversized ears in full Prussian military uniform, helmet slightly crooked.
Below it, neatly labeled, "Stylish dogs, probably big money."
Karl blinked.
He turned the page.
His face flushed immediately.
There, carefully sketched, was a striking maid reclining across a grand bed — petite yet undeniably curvaceous, posed with confident allure. The uniform was unlike any Berlin servant's attire, tailored, fitted, modern. The skirt shorter. The waist sharper. The neckline suggestive without crossing propriety.
And the legs.
Long, elegantly drawn, accentuated by something boldly underlined in the margins:
NYLON STOCKINGS – FUTURE MATERIAL. VERY SHINY. VERY PROFITABLE.
Arrows pointed to the sheen. Notes filled the edges of the page:
"Gloss = luxury."
"Women buy to feel rich."
"Men buy for women."
"Mass production = massive margin."
A separate sketch zoomed in on the legs alone, annotated like an engineering diagram.
Karl swallowed.
"That… looks suspiciously like Tanya."
Oskar coughed lightly.
"Art is inspired by reality, my man."
Karl turned the page again, and once again paused.
Now the pages exploded into madness.
There were detailed sketches of something labeled "supermarket – big money" with arrows pointing to endless shelves and smiling customers pushing wheeled carts. Rockets blasting off toward space. Aliens shaking hands with suspiciously muscular Germans with mustaches and Pickelhelms. A red flag that was clearly not German, was planted next to the Imperial German flag on the Moon, with a tiny drawn Oskar saluting beside it in full imperial uniform.
Next came the true madness, Penguins with rifles. Something called a Tank with annotations about "Panzer III." Karl had only ever heard of a water tank before, but he saw the turret and the tracks, and understanding began to quickly dawn on him.
There was also advanced sleek looking Airplanes with wings shaped like knives, along with maps of some vast future war in the east, marked with arrows and circles and ominous question marks.
There were notes about "stocks to buy," about the "year when internet begins," about opening the first German gym with supplements and a "real training program." A martial arts academy. Game concepts. Architectural sketches of buildings that looked both practical and faintly illegal. Pages and pages of pandas, some in hoodies and sweatpants lifting weights, some eating pickles, one running on something called a treadmill.
Karl's confusion reached critical mass.
He had glimpsed the diary before. He had assumed it was mostly scattered nonsense and a few ambitious notes.
He had not realized it contained hundreds—perhaps thousands—of these feverish visions.
His brain began to vibrate.
Finally, Oskar leaned in, reached past rockets, pandas, and penguins with rifles, and flipped several pages forward with sudden precision.
He stopped.
"This," he said.
At the top of the page, written in heavy, confident script:
Deutsche Wohlfahrtslotterie
(German Welfare Lottery)
And below it were charts, rules, payout tables and many examples.
It was all surprisingly clean and organized, even sort of mathematical.
Karl's eyes moved slowly across the lines talking something about, 33 red numbers, 16 blue numbers
choose 6 red + 1 blue
match all for "jackpot"
jackpot: 5,000,000 marks
He blinked.
"Wait," Karl said carefully. "Is this really your master plan? A lottery?"
Lotteries were not new. German states ran them. So did other European countries. But they were dull affairs—small prizes, simple formats, limited excitement.
But this, this was engineered.
Oskar's version had structure. Psychology. Escalation.
"Yes, my man," Oskar said, leaning back. "It is called 'Double Color Ball' in my—" he paused, "—in my imagination. Red balls and blue balls. Six red, one blue. Match all, you get life-changing money. Many balls, big money. But even with fewer balls matching, you win something."
He tapped the diagram.
"If you have only one blue ball? Still prize. Small win. People love small win. It is spark. Keeps hope alive. Keeps wallet open."
Karl stared at the payout structure.
Multiple tiers. Carefully spaced rewards. Frequent small victories. A single enormous prize anchoring everything.
"People will keep buying," Oskar continued calmly. "They lose, but sometimes they win. They feel close. Almost there. They chase the feeling, like hamster running in wheel. Very human."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Big jackpot. Many small prizes. Many winners every draw. Not too many—but enough."
The design was mathematically ruthless.
High odds for tiny rewards. Astronomically low odds for the jackpot. Perfectly calibrated to feel generous while extracting steady profit.
Oskar had seen this machine before—in another life. He had watched ordinary men line up week after week, clutching tickets like folded prayers. He had watched hope turn into habit.
He knew how addictive it was.
He knew how profitable it was.
He just wasn't used to standing on the house side of the table.
Karl read in silence for several long minutes, occasionally pausing to glance at a panda in the margins wearing a spiked helmet as if guarding the numbers.
The son of the Emperor's steward was no fool. He had been educated properly. He had watched fortunes bloom and collapse in the salons of Berlin. He understood inheritance, speculation, panic, greed.
He knew the scent of real money.
And this—
This had it.
When he finally closed the diary, he did so slowly, as if afraid the pages might explode.
His heart was beating faster.
"Your Highness," he said carefully, "I must admit… this design is far more compelling than any lottery I have seen. The structure is… elegant. The distribution of prizes, the frequency of minor wins…" He exhaled softly. "It is dangerous."
"In good way?" Oskar asked.
Karl allowed himself the smallest smile.
"In a very good way. For us."
"So you believe it can succeed?"
Karl nodded.
"If we secure legal approval — and that will not be simple — and if we frame it correctly. Not as vice. Not as gambling. But as patriotic participation. As a welfare instrument. As hope." He tapped the page lightly. "Yes, once launched, I believe it will spread rapidly."
Oskar leaned back, satisfied.
"Germany has over sixty million people," he said. "Millions already buy lottery tickets. Our version is more exciting. More layered. More… addictive." He tapped the rough projections scribbled in the margins. "Even if taxes are heavy. Even if we share with the state. Profit remains enormous."
He traced the numbers with his finger.
"If each drawing produces one million marks in net profit — three times a week…" He smiled slowly. "One hundred fifty-six drawings per year. That is at least one hundred fifty million marks. Perhaps two hundred."
He looked up.
"One battleship? Two? Three? No problem, my man."
Karl swallowed.
"Right," he said faintly. "Although, to be precise, not all sixty million are adults."
Oskar waved the detail away with imperial optimism.
Karl stared at the diary again.
He could see it now, not just a single ship, but an entire fleet.
Steel rising from paper.
Cannons funded by hope.
"However," Karl said slowly, thinking aloud now, "if this performs even half as well as you project… it will attract attention."
He lifted his eyes to meet Oskar's.
"The wrong kind."
Even as a prince, Oskar was far from being the Emperor's favorite. He wore the name, yes—but in the vast, tangled forest of Hohenzollerns he was only one strange branch: too loud, too modern, too unpredictable, and therefore easy to sacrifice if the court ever needed a scapegoat.
If the German Welfare Lottery began pouring out millions, people would notice.
And in high society—and in capitalism—being noticed was not admiration.
It was a target painted neatly on your back.
"Other capitalists will not sit quietly while you rake in millions from the pockets of the masses," Karl said grimly. "They will be jealous. They will try to worm their way in. Buy you out. Undercut you. Bribe officials. Sabotage the draws. Slander you in newspapers. Accuse you of fraud, indecency, foreign influence—anything that forces you to share or collapse."
Oskar nodded as if Karl were reciting weather.
He knew this story. He knew it intimately.
In his original world he had watched men cheat in games without blinking, watched companies swallow competitors like wolves in business suits, watched governments twist under money until the laws were only suggestions, watched families tear themselves apart over inheritance and pride.
The pattern never changed.
"The blood of capital," Oskar said quietly, "is always sticky."
He paused, searching for the right comparison, then added with solemn certainty:
"Like bubblegum."
Karl stared at him.
Oskar stared down at the diary.
This wasn't merely a clever venture.
This was survival.
"Many of my future plans depend on this," Oskar said. "If Germans keep buying tickets, we get money for ships, for industry, for… everything. If someone takes this from us, we are dead men."
Karl closed the diary carefully, as if it contained not paper but teeth.
"So the question," he said, voice low, "is not whether people will buy. They will. The question is how we protect the gold mine once we strike it."
Oskar nodded again.
"Yes. We need protection. Legal. Political." He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing with that sharp, future-minded focus. "Maybe partnership with the state."
A cold faint smile crossed his mouth.
"Harder to steal from a prince," he said, "if the government is also eating from his plate."
He looked up at Karl, eyes bright with equal parts excitement and madness.
"First," he said, "we build the mine."
Then, softly—almost happily:
"Then we build the fortress around it."
Karl let out a long, exhausted sigh. He looked half drunk, half doomed, and fully aware he'd just stepped onto a road with no exits.
"Very well, Your Highness," he said. "Then our next step is simple."
He took a breath.
"We must convince the government of the German Empire to let you sell hope to sixty million people."
Oskar's grin returned instantly, like a light snapping on.
"Hope," he said, "is very good business, my man."
And somewhere far away in Kiel, an old admiral stared out at the gray sea and wondered, whether he had just accidentally unleashed something dangerous upon the world.
Not a powerful battleship or a well trained officer of the academy, but a prince with bad German and insane ideas.