For a heartbeat after he said it, the room stayed very, very quiet.
"One hundred million Marks," Oskar had told them.
Wilhelm II and Tirpitz had both blurted the same words:
"Only one hundred million?"
For ordinary men it was a mountain of gold.
For the Imperial Navy, it was two decent battleships.
For Oskar, given everything they'd just watched him do, it sounded almost modest.
Which was exactly the reaction he'd wanted.
He let them sit in that confusion for a moment, then smiled faintly.
"Father. Herr Grossadmiral. I think you misunderstood me."
Two sets of eyes fixed on him.
"The one hundred million Marks I mentioned," Oskar went on, "is not a total. It's per year."
Tirpitz actually jerked in his chair.
"Per… year?" he repeated.
"Yes," Oskar said. "One hundred million Marks annually. As long as I can keep the lottery and the Group growing. I have other projects to fund, so I can't just dump everything into the fleet, but a hundred million a year I can ring‑fence for the Navy."
He didn't bother explaining all the internal calculations:
how much he could safely siphon from the German Welfare Lottery without strangling its growth,
how much Angelworks, Pump World, Albrecht Safety Works and now Diesel engines needed to reinvest,
how much cash could move before foreign governments started asking why "People's Welfare Lotteries" in half of Europe always seemed short of coin.
To them, the simple number was enough.
"One hundred million… every year," Wilhelm II repeated slowly.
Tirpitz's face was already changing—shock giving way to something almost boyishly eager.
"And not just until war begins," Oskar added calmly. "Until it ends."
"Until it—" Tirpitz stopped himself, then laughed under his breath. "Your Highness, do you expect this future war to last so long?"
Oskar's eyes darkened for a moment.
"In another world," he thought, "they were still killing each other after four years."
Aloud he only said, "I expect everyone will hope for a short war. I also expect reality to be cruel. Better we prepare for a long one and be pleasantly surprised."
Wilhelm's moustache twitched.
"Good," the Kaiser said at last, a broad smile breaking through. "Very good. Oskar, you have done well. I am proud to have a son like you."
Tirpitz's chair scraped as he half‑rose, then remembered himself and sat again.
"Your Highness," he said, voice suddenly rough with emotion, "a hundred million Marks each year… until the war ends… that is an enormous reinforcement. With that, our capital ships are assured. The Navy's own budget can go to light forces, destroyers, cruisers, infrastructure…"
His eyes shone.
"With this, we can catch the British. We may even surpass them."
They both began, very quickly, to calculate.
At roughly sixty million Marks per first‑class battleship, Oskar's annual loan was worth almost two hulls every year. And because a battleship took years from laying down to commissioning, the running stream of money meant that at any given point there would always be several dreadnoughts building on Oskar's coin alone.
The more they thought about it, the wider their smiles grew.
"We will formalise this as a loan from the Royal Family to the Navy," Wilhelm said, already reaching for the pen on his desk. "Publicly, I mean. That way, the British and French need never suspect your lottery or your companies."
Oskar shook his head slightly.
"Officially, yes, let it be the Crown supporting its fleet," he agreed. "But nothing stays hidden forever, Father. Sooner or later the British and French will notice that 'People's Welfare Lotteries' in their countries somehow feed back into German shipyards."
Tirpitz frowned. "If they expel us by decree…"
"Then they'll have deliberately sabotaged a legitimate business," Oskar said coolly. "If we lose the war, we can do nothing. If we win… their governments can compensate us nicely in reparations. With interest."
For a moment the three of them shared the same thought:
In this world, the strong eat the weak. Better to be the one at the table than the one on the plate.
Wilhelm nodded slowly.
"Revenge is a dish best served when the bill comes due," he said. "So. The loan stands. The cover stands. We delay suspicion as long as possible, and then… see what history allows."
Tirpitz closed his notebook with a sharp snap.
"Your Highness," he said, "with the Nassau class adopted and your loan secured… may I ask the next question?"
He leaned forward.
"What, precisely, do you have in mind for the next generation? For these 'super‑dreadnoughts' of yours?"
Oskar's smile returned.
He reached down, flipped open the leather briefcase by his chair, and slid a thick roll of drawings onto the Kaiser's desk.
"Then let's talk about them properly," he said.
On the polished wood, the future took shape in ink and paper.
Oskar unrolled the first sheet—a side profile. Then a top‑down view, then a cross‑section through the armoured citadel. Steel and geometry sprawled across the green baize.
"Father, Herr Grossadmiral," he began, "this is what I propose as our next step beyond Nassau."
He tapped the first silhouette.
"Length just under a hundred and sixty metres. Beam around twenty‑six and a half. Standard displacement about twenty‑three and a half thousand tons, full load twenty‑five and a half. Three triple main turrets—forward, amidships, aft—each mounting three 34.3 cm guns. That's thirteen‑and‑a‑half inches in English terms."
Wilhelm whistled softly.
Tirpitz leaned closer.
"The secondary battery is fourteen 15 cm guns in casemates," Oskar went on, "and a belt of smaller quick‑firing pieces to swat torpedo boats. Armour: main belt and turret faces up to 330 mm—thicker than anything afloat today. Deck armour around 55 mm; not perfect, but enough to start protecting against plunging fire at long range."
He slid to the next sheet.
"Sixteen oil‑fired boilers, feeding four Curtiss‑type steam turbines, one shaft each. Designed power around thirty‑two thousand horsepower. That gives us twenty‑three knots on trials. More importantly, she can keep that speed."
Tirpitz blinked.
"Twenty‑three knots? On a twenty‑five‑thousand‑ton hull?" he murmured. "Most battleships today barely make eighteen… nineteen at best."
"Exactly," Oskar said. "More firepower, thicker armour, and higher speed. A true super‑dreadnought. Not just a refined Dreadnought… but a ship that hunts dreadnoughts."
He let them look.
On paper, the differences from Nassau were simple: bigger guns, thicker armour, more boilers, more power. But the overall effect was a clear, brutal step up.
Where Nassau was already a monster, this was a monster that had been in the gym for a year.
Wilhelm's fingertip traced the outline of the three triple turrets.
"So these are the 34.3 centimetre guns you talked Krupp into," he said.
"Yes," Oskar replied. "Fifty calibres long. High muzzle velocity. Excellent armour‑piercing capability. They'll hit harder and farther than anything the British mount on their first generations."
Tirpitz couldn't resist a question.
"And the cost, Your Highness?" he asked. "A design like this cannot be cheap. Even with your loan, the budget must be stretched carefully."
Oskar hesitated only a moment.
"Roughly sixty million Marks per ship," he said.
Both men stared at him.
"Sixty…" Wilhelm repeated. "Per ship?"
Tirpitz almost choked.
"That is—Your Highness, that is ruinously expensive. Four such ships would be over two hundred million! Are we to build a fleet of jewelled battleships?"
Oskar spread his hands.
"Big guns, thick armour, turbines, oil‑fired boilers… none of that is free," he said calmly. "But consider what you get: a vessel that out‑guns, out‑armours and outruns anything the British are likely to launch for years. If a cheaper ship loses to a more expensive enemy, every Mark we saved was wasted. If the more expensive ship wins and lives… then every Mark was well spent."
War, he knew, was the ultimate "all or nothing" game. There were no partial refunds for second place.
Wilhelm rubbed his forehead, weighing pride against arithmetic.
Before he could speak, Tirpitz raised another, more political issue.
"Your Highness," the Grossadmiral said carefully, "there is something else we must address. The next class of capital ships cannot all be built at Deutsche Werke in Danzig."
He glanced at the Kaiser, then back at Oskar.
"Four Nassau‑class hulls already went to your yard. The other major shipyards—Kiel, Wilhelmshaven, Vulkan, Weser—have accepted it this time because the design is new and their slips are busy with other orders. But if the next class also goes entirely to you, there will be… consequences. Protests. Resentment. Even bankruptcies. We cannot allow that."
Wilhelm nodded, face serious.
"Oskar, I know what you have done for the Navy," he said. "But Germany's shipbuilding strength does not rest on one yard alone. If the others lose too many big‑ship contracts, their capacity will wither. In a war of construction, that would cripple us."
Oskar had already expected this.
He inclined his head.
"I understand," he said. "Deutsche Werke has eight large slipways. Four are occupied by Nassau already. I can't reasonably demand that the other four also be tied up with my 'Heligoland' design for years."
He smiled slightly when he said the name.
Wilhelm caught it.
"Heligoland?" the Kaiser repeated.
Oskar shrugged. "A fortress island guarding the North Sea approaches," he said. "Short, sharp name. Good symbolism. I thought it suited a ship meant to stand between Germany and the Royal Navy."
Wilhelm's moustache twitched in approval.
"Heligoland…" he said again, tasting the sound. "Yes. Very good. The first of the new class will be Heligoland."
Tirpitz brightened. "Then the class as a whole—"
"The Heligoland‑class," Wilhelm said, deciding then and there. "Five ships. One for Deutsche Werke, funded by my son as he promised Dean Birkenhagen… and four others for the main imperial yards. The Naval Shipyard, the Royal Shipyard, Vulkan, and Weser."
He looked to Oskar.
"Do you object, my son?"
"Not at all," Oskar said. "I never wanted to build every hull. I want the design in every fleet list. As long as everyone follows the plans, I don't care whose cranes lift the plates."
Tirpitz, relieved, jumped on the opening.
"Then we will proceed with five Heligoland‑class battleships," he said. "With your loan, Majesty, and the existing naval budget, the cost can be spread over several years. Painful—but manageable."
Wilhelm nodded firmly.
"And the timetable?" he asked. "When can we lay down the keels?"
Here Oskar had to grimace.
"Not this year, Father," he said. "We have to wait."
"Wait?" Wilhelm's brows rose. "Why?"
"Because Krupp is already fully engaged with the 30.5 cm/50 guns for Nassau," Oskar explained. "They need to finish proving those first. Only then can they redirect manpower and foundry capacity to the 34.3 cm main guns."
He tapped one of the turret sketches.
"Jumping calibres looks simple on paper. In reality, the metallurgy, recoil systems, mounting, shell design… all of it becomes more demanding and more expensive. If we force them to rush both at once, we risk ending up with two unreliable gun families."
He shrugged.
"Let them finish the 30.5 cm this year. Early next year they can begin serious work on the 34.3 cm. By then, Deutsche Werke's expansion will also be complete. We can start laying down Heligoland and her sisters next year and, if all goes well, have them in service within about two and a half years each."
Tirpitz thought for a moment, then nodded.
"Two and a half years from keel‑laying to commissioning is ambitious," he said. "But with proper coordination… possible. Especially if the slips are prepared and the machinery contracts lined up."
Wilhelm leaned back at last, exhaling.
"Very well," he said. "Next year. Five ships. Heligoland leading. And we keep as much as possible hidden from British eyes."
Oskar's mouth quirked.
"Complete secrecy is impossible," he said. "A twenty‑five‑thousand‑ton warship isn't exactly a pocket pistol. The British will see them sooner or later. But we can delay them from knowing details—calibres, armour thickness, speed—for as long as possible. The longer Whitehall underestimates us, the better."
Tirpitz's eyes gleamed.
"I'll have our counter‑intelligence people earn their pay," he said. "Leak some harmless figures. Confuse the spies. Make them believe Heligoland is just a refined Nassau."
Wilhelm pushed back his chair and rose.
"Then it is decided," he said. "With Oskar's designs, his money, and God's favour, the German Navy will build ships that can meet the Royal Navy head‑on."
He extended his hand.
Oskar stood and clasped it. The familiar weight of the Kaiser's grip felt different now—warmer, almost fatherly. In his past life he'd lost his parents early, bounced between relatives, and been treated more like an income stream than a son. Those people had pushed "Zhan Ge" to stay in Ukraine for content until it killed him.
This man in front of him, loud and flawed as he was, had begun to feel like a real father.
This family, with all its drama, felt like a real family.
And his women and their children… that was the anchor that tied him to this world more than anything else.
At Oskar's side, Tirpitz rose as well, heels clicking together, posture perfect as the three of them came to a shared understanding.
The documents were signed. The debts agreed. The first "super‑dreadnought" plans lay on the table.
Now came the rest of the world.
Wilhelm II and Count Tirpitz chose to stay and talk strategy. For the first time, Oskar was not politely dismissed when the "real" politics began.
He was allowed to remain.
He understood what that meant: he'd crossed an invisible line. Until now, only Crown Prince Wilhelm had been permitted to sit in on such conversations. None of the other sons. Not even Heinrich regularly.
Now the fifth prince, the "ghost child," had a chair.
Oskar folded his hands and sat quietly, forcing himself to be what they needed: calm, attentive, useful. Not a doomsday prophet from the future babbling about Sarajevo and trenches.
He could not tell them everything he knew. He still feared how quickly adoration could flip to fear if people began to see him as something unnatural. Right now they thought him brilliant, maybe even blessed. They did not yet see him as dangerous.
Humans needed time to get used to new ideas, even new people. Push too fast and they panicked.
So he listened.
From the talk between Wilhelm and Tirpitz, the picture was brutally clear.
Germany was surrounded by problems.
The Moroccan crisis had backfired. Instead of splitting France from Britain and Russia, it had nudged them closer together. They had no formal alliance yet—but anyone with eyes could see the Entente forming.
If those three ever fully locked arms, Germany would be the rock in the middle of their hammer blows.
"So Tirpitz," Wilhelm said, moustache twitching, "if Britain, France, and Russia truly conclude a treaty, we will face even greater pressure. At worst they may drag neutral nations in as well—Belgium, perhaps Greece… all of them hemming us in."
His brows knotted.
"Germany has become a high‑speed train. We cannot simply stop. If we surrender our position, the Empire collapses. If we wish to defend what is ours, then war will come sooner or later unless something changes their minds."
Tirpitz nodded grimly.
"Yes, Your Majesty. Once war breaks out, the Empire will face immense pressure. Our army is the finest in the world, but it will almost certainly have to fight on two fronts. If the army cannot win quickly and decisively, the war becomes a stalemate. Then we must rely on the Navy to break any British blockade and keep our trade alive. Without that, we will simply be strangled."
He hesitated, then added:
"And there is always the possibility that Japan joins in, hoping to seize our colonies in the Far East."
Wilhelm's jaw tightened. He believed in the army—believed they could repeat the miracle of 1870. But he wasn't blind. The world had changed. Artillery, machines, industry… nothing would be as quick or clean as the last war with France.
If the army stalled, Germany would have to live or die by the sea.
"In short," Tirpitz said, "we must pour everything we can spare into the fleet and narrow the gap with the Royal Navy as much as possible."
Wilhelm exhaled slowly, then spoke the thought he clung to like a cold comfort.
"And if we build a strong enough navy… perhaps we can deter Britain from entering the war at all. Without British intervention, France and Russia alone cannot defeat us—especially with Austria‑Hungary and Italy at our side."
Oskar kept his face blank, but inside he winced.
If he could, he would have reached across the table and shook him.
Too simple, Father.
Britain didn't fight because it "hated" one country. It fought to prevent any one power from dominating the continent. It had fought Louis XIV, then Napoleon, then intervened against Russia in the Crimea—all for that same "balance of power."
If Germany smashed France and Russia in one go and stood towering over Europe… how could Britain ever accept it?
Their entire imperial instinct screamed: you must not let a single hegemon rise.
But Oskar couldn't say that outright without sounding like he was reciting a script from the future. So he chose another angle.
"Father," Oskar said carefully, "even if the British know a war against us would be costly, they will also know that letting us win easily would be even worse. We should assume that, one way or another, they will oppose us."
Wilhelm and Tirpitz both turned to him.
He saw their attention and pushed on.
"That is why we must not only strengthen ourselves—but also weaken them wherever we can, using methods cheaper than building battleships."
Wilhelm's eyes narrowed with interest.
"Oskar, do you have something in mind?"
"Yes," Oskar said. "Starting with their colonies."
He leaned forward, hands steepled.
"Britain is powerful because it has the largest colonial empire in the world. Those colonies—dozens of times larger than the British Isles and far more populated—feed their industry and treasury. But we can already see cracks."
He ticked them off on his fingers.
"India has seen uprisings. The Boers in South Africa fought them twice. Even now there are many in those lands who hate British rule. If we quietly give those people money, weapons, printing presses… we will not destroy Britain, no. But we will bleed her strength and attention."
Wilhelm nodded slowly.
"Yes… perhaps we cannot overthrow their empire, but if we can force them to waste troops holding it down, that alone would be worth the effort."
"Exactly," Oskar said. "And it's cheap. A few million marks in the right hands, the right agitators, the right newspapers… and London has headaches for years."
He paused, then smiled faintly.
"And then there is the British home itself."
Tirpitz tilted his head. "You mean… Ireland?"
Oskar nodded.
"The Irish have sought independence again and again. They still haven't forgotten the Great Famine, and the religious divide between Catholic and Protestant only deepens the wound. If we quietly support their independence movement—money, printing, safe houses, maybe a few rifles—we might achieve two things."
He raised one finger.
"One: if they succeed, Britain loses a large chunk of its western flank and we gain a small, grateful neighbour right across from them."
A second finger.
"Two: even if they fail, the attempts will make the hatred much worse. The Irish will not forget who did or didn't help them. And Britain will be forced to keep troops and police at home instead of sending them to blockade us."
He let a bit of his old Chinese sarcasm slip through.
"For London, it would be like having a permanent itch in its backside, Father."
Tirpitz actually snorted.
Wilhelm stroked his moustache, thinking it over.
"I like it," the Kaiser said at last. "Cheap, deniable, and troublesome for them. Even if it does not break them, it weakens them."
He gave Oskar a proud, almost indulgent look.
"This kind of thinking is good, my son. We will expand the Foreign Office's 'unofficial' budget. Tirpitz—speak to the General Staff and the intelligence people. If the Irish want to dream of independence, let them dream with German money under their pillow."
Tirpitz nodded, eyes glinting.
"Yes, Your Majesty. Anyone who irritates Britain we shall quietly help—Irish, Boers, Indian nationalists. Even small successes are worth the cost."
Oskar sat back, hiding the tight knot of tension under his ribs.
This was how it started, he knew: not with declarations, but with small secret budgets and quiet, ugly little operations in far‑off places. History with muddy hands.
The storm outside had long passed, but the air in the council room was still heavy. Maps lay scattered across the big oak table, cigar ash dusted the polished surface, and empty coffee cups clustered in small, untidy fortresses.
They had been talking for hours.
Dreadnought. Alliances. The encirclement tightening around Germany.
And just as the conversation seemed ready to wind down, a new thought pushed to the front of his mind.
He leaned forward.
"Father, Marshal… there is one last type of warship we need."
Both men looked up at once.
Tirpitz raised an eyebrow.
Wilhelm II folded his hands. "And what type do you mean, Oskar?"
Oskar tapped the North Sea on the map with a knuckle.
"Commerce raiders."
The words hung in the air like the opening move of a chess game.
"Ships built specifically to destroy Britain's trade routes," he went on. "Britain lives on sea‑lines. Food. Ore. Cotton. Nitrates. Rubber. All of it. If those lines break, Britain starves."
Tirpitz frowned.
"We can raid commerce with ordinary cruisers. That is what cruisers are for."
Oskar shook his head.
"Ordinary cruisers can be hunted down and killed. We need ships too fast for battleships to catch, and too heavily armed for cruisers to fight."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"And we need more than one or two. We need enough that Britain can never feel safe."
Wilhelm II slowly nodded. "And what do you call such a ship?"
Oskar's smile sharpened.
"A battlecruiser. Fast as a cruiser, armed like a battleship. A ship that cannot be caught by what can kill it, and cannot be killed by what can catch it."
Tirpitz exhaled, intrigued in spite of himself.
"The British are thinking in that direction as well," Oskar added. "Their new type—Invincible‑class—is already on the drawing boards. Fast, yes, but thin‑skinned. Big guns, weak armor."
The Kaiser's moustache twitched.
"Of course the British have given it a heroic name," he muttered.
Oskar slid a rolled set of plans across the table—paper already worn at the edges from being handled too often. He had prepared these long ago, quietly, the way any good strategist does.
"Here," he said. "This is what ours should look like."
Tirpitz pulled the roll open and bent over the drawings.
"Three triple 30.5‑centimeter turrets," Oskar summarised. "One forward, two aft on the centerline. Oil‑fired boilers feeding turbines enough for twenty‑six knots. Armor better than British dreadnoughts, not just cruiser‑thin plating. Secondary guns to murder anything smaller that gets too close."
Tirpitz traced the lines with a fingertip, his expression changing from scepticism to something close to delight.
"This… would outrun any British battleship," he murmured, "and outgun any cruiser afloat."
Wilhelm II narrowed his eyes. "And the British version?"
"Three twin 12‑inch turrets, but armor like paper," Oskar said. "One good hit from ours and they will come apart. They are building three—Invincible, Inflexible, Indomitable. Just trust me I know."
The Kaiser slapped his palm lightly on the table.
"Then we will build three as well—and better ones," he declared. "If they launch chickens, we will launch wolves."
Tirpitz couldn't quite hide his grin, especially regarding the bad metaphor.
"Twelve new capital ships in all, then," he said. "Four Nassau‑class battleships, five of the improved type… and three battlecruisers. With these, the balance in the North Sea will look very different indeed."
Oskar bowed his head slightly.
"If we truly want peace, we must be too dangerous to challenge."
Wilhelm II clapped a big hand onto his shoulder.
"And thanks to your designs, we will be."
"Father," Oskar said gently, "there is one more thing."
The Kaiser leaned back, amused. "Sprechen Sie, mein Sohn."
"Unterseeboote," Oskar said. "Submarines."
The word changed the room.
Both Wilhelm II and Tirpitz went very still.
"Diving boats?" Tirpitz asked slowly.
"Yes," Oskar said. "Small, cheap, deadly, and made possible due to my Oskar Industrial Group's diesel-electric engines. Perfect for enforcing our blockades, and slipping through theirs. Perfect for attacking their merchant shipping without warning."
Wilhelm II's eyes narrowed. He was not a fool; he heard the unspoken implication at once.
"Perfect for… discrete purposes as well?" he asked. "Moving… questionable cargo where it should not be?"
Oskar allowed himself a faint smile.
"Support for certain independence movements in certain British territories," he agreed. "Irish arms. Messages. Maybe gold. The same for other colonies, if we wish. Boats that dive are difficult to catch."
Tirpitz drew a sharp breath between his teeth.
"Commerce raiders on the surface," he muttered, half to himself, "and unseen hunters beneath. Battle fleets to meet them if they come, and knives in their sea lanes if they blockade us…"
He looked up.
"You are describing a navy that fights Britain from angles they cannot easily counter."
"Exactly," Oskar said simply.
The Kaiser leaned back in his chair and studied his son.
"You wish to build the future," he said.
Oskar bowed his head.
"Only if Germany wishes to survive it," he answered.
The room went quiet.
Outside, the sky had gone black; somewhere in the palace, servants were lighting the evening gas lamps. Inside, the War Council Chamber smelled of spent cigars and cooling coffee and the ink of new plans.
At last, Wilhelm II pushed his chair back with a sigh.
"Genug. Enough for one day," he said. "We will plan more tomorrow. Now let us go eat."
Three chairs scraped on the floorboards.
Three men—emperor, admiral, and seventeen‑year‑old prince—walked together into the adjoining dining room. No ceremony, just a private meal: roast meat, dark bread, potatoes, heavy sauce, thick beer.
They ate like tired soldiers after a long march, talking in quieter tones now—little jokes, brief complaints, snatches of gossip about ministers and ambassadors.
At the end, Wilhelm II lifted his mug.
"To Germany," he said simply.
Tirpitz echoed him, raising his own glass. "To Germany."
Oskar lifted his beer as well.
"And to the ships that will keep her safe," he added.
They drank.
Outside, Berlin was beginning to go to sleep under a low clouds, unaware.
Inside the palace, in a room lined with maps and lit by a handful of lamps, the outline of Germany's next war—and its only real hope for peace—had just been sketched out in ink, steel…
…and the restless imagination of a seventeen‑year‑old prince.