While Karl Bergmann and his three bodyguards were, on the far side of the Atlantic, fatally failing to recruit the Wright brothers—and accidentally inspiring them to jump to their deaths—life in Germany did not pause.
The Empire moved on.
By early December 1906, the fingerprints of the Oskar Industrial Group were everywhere.
Third-class rail passengers, who once froze on bare wooden benches in wind-whistling cattle cars, now found themselves in carriages with padded seats, better insulation, and stoves that actually worked. The upgrades were far from complete or luxurious, but thousands of the worst wagons had already been refitted to not be rolling punishment cells.
Cities and towns bristled with new trees and shrubs along streets and boulevards. The winter winds were still sharp, but no longer sliced quite so bitterly through the brick canyons. Snow fell cleaner; fewer chimneys belched thick smoke into the sky. Children rolled in real snow, not grey ash-dusted slush—though posters in every station still warned sternly:
DO NOT EAT THE SNOW.
Oskar had insisted.
He was still insisting now.
Still bandaged.
Still aching.
Still in a hospital bed.
But his private ward no longer looked like a sickroom.
It looked like a command center.
Desks had been brought in. Folding tables lined the walls. Engineers, clerks, and foremen sat with notebooks open, pencils ready, while the Fifth Prince of Germany lay half-reclined against his pillows like a wounded general preaching to his staff.
Germany was not going to modernize itself.
So he worked.
Even Luise had been conscripted.
Once she finally stopped trying to sneak into his bed for highly questionable reasons, Oskar gave her something else to pour her restless energy into: work.
Now she sat at a little desk by the window, diligently taking dictation, drafting memos, and sketching teddy bears. Oskar had decided she would be far safer—and saner—if she trained as Tanya's assistant at AngelWorks: helping design products, modelling clothes, or planning the next generation of German toys.
A busy sister was far less dangerous than a bored one.
She had pouted loudly at first.
Then she had worked.
Surprisingly well, in fact, once she realised she was genuinely being useful to her big brother.
The Empress hadn't liked it, of course. But even she had to admit the potential. If future German children grew up playing with toys that bore Luise's name as designer, then her reputation—so fragile, so troublesome—might finally shift into something positive, admired, even beloved.
Aviation remained one of his main obsessions.
The Wright brothers might come to Germany. They might not.
Karl's letters from America were hopeful, but far from certain.
So Oskar refused to gamble on hope alone.
He'd already secured Gustav Lilienthal. Now he added another piece to the board.
A quiet man with sharp eyes and a mind full of equations arrived at the hospital:
Hugo Junkers.
He brought notebooks filled with thermodynamics, sketches of metal wings, and vague ideas of all-metal aircraft that traditional engineers laughed at.
Oskar did not laugh.
He flipped through a few pages and said, simply:
"Good. You start today."
That was how German aviation came to be led by:
Gustav Lilienthal – the glider philosopher
Hugo Junkers – the engineer of metal birds
the German Engine Company – adapting and refining engines for the sky
and one deranged, bandaged teenage prince with memories of WWI-era fighters and modern control systems
To Oskar's 21st-century mind, the gaps were obvious:
Pilots here still thought in terms of shifting their weight like birds or hanging from primitive frames.
Most didn't yet understand what a central control stick could do.
Tailplanes and control surfaces were crude.
Wing design was guesswork more than science.
Nobody thought in terms of drag reduction or aerodynamic streamlining.
Aluminium was rare and expensive, not yet seen as the future skin of aircraft.
So Karl might fail with the Wrights. But German aviation would not fail. Not with this team, not with this funding, and not with Oskar whispering the future into their ears.
He fully intended that by 1909—when, in another timeline, the first flight would cross the English Channel—his aircraft could, in theory, reach as far as Spain with bombs… even if he still hoped never to need them.
But engines and airplanes were only part of the picture.
There was a quieter, filthier war to fight.
If Germany was to avoid cholera, typhoid, dysentery, even in the future the Spanish flu, and the thousand invisible killers that stalked early 20th-century cities, the most important "technology" was not motorized.
It was cleanliness.
And Germany's cleanliness was… primitive.
Oskar had known it in theory. He'd smelled it in practice. But the reports piled on his hospital table finally made him swear out loud.
Open trash heaps.
Street bins without lids.
Household waste tossed into rivers.
Sewage mixing with stormwater.
Minimal filtration.
Almost no chlorination.
In parts of Berlin, people were quite literally drinking diluted traces of their neighbours' waste.
"Unacceptable," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Absolutely unacceptable."
So he had summoned another Karl.
Not Bergmann this time, but Karl Imhoff—an engineer whose ambitious thesis on municipal sanitation had been rejected by four cities as "too grandiose, too expensive, and unnecessary."
Oskar read the thesis once.
Then he sent for him.
Imhoff arrived looking sceptical, clutching his worn briefcase like a shield.
Oskar held out a hand.
"Congratulations, Herr Imhoff," he said.
"You now control the waste of the German Empire.
Or at least… the beginning of it."
Imhoff had stared. Then, to everyone's alarm, his eyes had filled with tears. Imhoff actually wept—partly from joy, partly from knowing that he was about to spend the rest of his life thinking about sewage.
And thus, from a hospital room that smelled of ink, medicine, and chalk, the Great German Cleanliness Project formally began.
Under Oskar's direction and with Imhoff as its iron-nerved architect, the People's Housing Project grew new limbs:
1. Standardized household waste
Every household under Oskar's influence was to receive labeled bins:
Organics
Metals
Glass
Paper
General waste
A quiet revolution in how people thought about trash.
2. Municipal collection & recycling hubs
Collection schedules posted and enforced.
Trash brought to central depots:
metals sorted and sent to Krupp
glass crushed and re-melted
organic waste composted for farms and new green belts
paper reprocessed
Waste became raw material.
3. Modernized sewage
Using a mix of established science and future knowledge, Oskar pushed through:
separated sewage and stormwater systems.
sand filtration basins, updated with precise engineering.
chlorination of drinking water.
primary and secondary treatment tanks.
early forms of activated sludge systems—years ahead of their historical debut.
It was expensive.
It was politically annoying.
It saved lives.
Krupp, of course, did not miss the opportunity.
Bertha Krupp—heiress, businesswoman, and privately far too close to Oskar—agreed at once to a partnership.
Krupp would manufacture:
standardized steel trash bins
modular pipe systems
filtration structures
mechanical sorting and recycling equipment
In exchange, the Krupp family would receive 10% ownership of the national recycling and sanitation network.
Germany's filthiest problem turned into Germany's newest, cleanest profit stream.
By mid-December, snow dusted Berlin's rooftops.
Behind the white roofs, unseen but growing, were:
cleaner streets
safer water
slowly improving air
and a rail system, waste system, and industrial base all quietly being rewired
Oskar lay in his hospital bed, diagrams all around, voice hoarse from talking, signing papers between check-ups.
He still dreamed of the means to make the military strong and scary to deter war, and he dreamed of expanding all that the Oskar Industrial Group did.
But more and more, he also dreamed of the quiet things:
children not dying from bad water
mothers not boiling rags over coal stoves to filter filth
cities that didn't smell like open drains
History, in his first life, had moved at one harsh speed.
Here, he was forcing it to move faster—so fast that even time itself seemed to struggle to keep up.
The world was absurd.
But it was changing.
One upgraded railcar, one trash bin, one glider wing, one stubborn prince at a time.
However as engulfed in his dreams of the future as Oskar was, he soon began noticing that something was not right.
The first sign that something was wrong came from the real estate letters.
More and more of Berlin's worst tenements—
the cramped, damp, disease-breeding blocks Oskar's housing program had been eyeing, were suddenly appearing on the market.
Cheap.
Too cheap.
Not just in Berlin.
Hamburg.
Breslau.
Frankfurt.
Even small towns.
"Owners are eager to sell," one report read. "Families moving abroad. Others leaving the cities for 'the countryside.' Some simply 'quitting Germany entirely.'"
At first, Oskar thought it was a statistical fluke.
Or a consequence of his own reforms: people leaving slums in anticipation of demolition, perhaps.
Then—reluctantly—he asked a guard to bring him a newspaper.
He rarely read them.
Most of the time they either told him things he already knew from history, or they told him far too much about himself.
This paper did both.
Across the front page, in heavy black letters:
> REICHSBÜRGER- UND SICHERHEITSGESETZ
(IMPERIAL CITIZENSHIP AND SECURITY ACT PASSED)
Ethnic German criteria tightened.
New registration rules.
Non-assimilated minorities to lose citizenship rights from 1 January 1907.
Foreign-born residents given choice:
— Full Germanisation or
— Permanent guest status with restricted rights, or
— Voluntary departure.
Oskar read it once.
Twice.
Then again, slower.
His hands shook.
He read the commentary, the justifications, the smug editorials, the satisfied quotes from reactionary politicians.
He saw his own name linked explicitly to the law:
> "The attempted assassination of His Royal Highness Prince Oskar, the Iron Prince, proves the danger of foreign extremist elements within our borders…"
He stared at the words until they blurred.
Then he swung his legs out of the bed.
"Your Highness—!" a nurse cried.
He ignored her.
Bandages tugged, stitches protested, pain roared up his side like fire. He didn't care. He pulled on a coat, his hospital trousers, boots, and marched for the door.
A doctor ran alongside. "You must not exert yourself too much or leave the hospital your Highness! The people have just heard the rejoicing news of your amazing recovery, don't jeopardize that!"
"I apologise doctor, but I cannot just stand by," Oskar snapped. "I have a law to discuss."
Two Royal Guards tried to gently block the corridor.
He walked before them, and looked down at them.
They stepped aside and Oscar's own Eternal Guard loyally followed him just incase.
Some time later, he was in the palace, pale and limping, but upright.
Wilhelm II was in his office, just finishing a meeting with the Chancellor. Papers were being sorted, pens capped.
The Kaiser looked up in pleasant surprise when Oskar stormed in.
"Oho, my boy! Coming back to the palace already? The doctors will have a fit," he chuckled.
Oskar didn't laugh.
He slammed the newspaper down on the Emperor's desk.
"The hell is this?" he demanded.
The room went quiet.
Chancellor Bülow froze with his hand halfway to his hat. A clerk stopped breathing.
Wilhelm's eyes dropped to the headline.
He exhaled.
"Essen, Bülow, leave us," he said calmly.
They left without a word.
The door clicked shut.
Father and son faced each other.
"What is the meaning of this?" Oskar said, voice tight. "You passed this without even telling me? Without even asking? Do you have any idea what you've just done to everything I've been building?"
Wilhelm II's moustache twitched.
"I will pretend," he said slowly, "that you did not just slam a newspaper onto the Emperor of Germany's desk like a tavern drunk."
"I almost died," Oskar shot back. "And now you're using me as a pretext to throw millions of people into panic."
"That law," Wilhelm II said, tapping the paper, "is not about you. It is about Germany."
"It uses me," Oskar snapped. "It uses what happened in the park. Look at this—!" He flipped the paper open, jabbing at a passage. "'In light of the vile assassination attempt on the Iron Prince…' My assassination was a crime, not a blank cheque to redraw the Empire."
Wilhelm's eyes hardened.
"Sit down," he said.
Oskar did not.
"You have done much for this country," the Kaiser continued. "You have my gratitude. You have my pride. But do not confuse that with authority. You are not a minister. You are not the Crown Prince. You are not the Kaiser. You do not decide these matters. I do."
"I know who I am," Oskar said through his teeth. "But I also know what I've done. For years now, I have been repairing the image of this country. With my books, with my inventions, with my companies, I have slowly, painfully convinced people abroad to look at us as something other than the caricature of a militaristic, backwards empire."
He paced once, winced, leaned heavily on the desk, pushing the paper toward his father.
"French people reed German Man to their children," he said. "Russians use First Aid for Dummies in their clinics; even the Tsar's boy is better because of it. British housewives wear AngelWorks products and dress their animals in them. Americans buy our lottery tickets, and in Florida they even buy our harnesses to walk their alligators!"
He looked up, anger blazing.
"For the first time in decades, there was a path to make people see us as more than a threat—and now, because of this, they will see exactly what they feared. A cold, hard, 'Germany for Germans' wall slammed in their faces."
Wilhelm II listened, jaw set, eyes thoughtful but unyielding.
When he spoke, his voice was quieter.
"Oskar," he said, "do you think I do not see the value of goodwill? Do you think I have not spent my life trying to hold together this empire of tribes and tongues and stubborn fools? I have tried. God knows, I have tried."
He gestured vaguely toward the window.
"Since 1871, we have been trying to make Germans out of Prussians, Bavarians, Saxons, Rhinelanders. All while Poles, Danes, French-speaking Alsatians, Jews, Russians, and others pull their own way. I have bent over backwards not to force too hard, hoping they might come of their own will."
He looked back at the paper.
"They have not. Not enough. Even now many still wish to have their own countries, they wish to have their own laws and separate communities. And now we stand on the edge of the gun barrel."
"We always have," Oskar said. "That's why I've been working like a lunatic to make friends."
"And it has not changed a single border," Wilhelm replied sharply. "France still resents us. Britain still fears our industry. Russia still eyes our east. You send them books. They smile. They nod. They still plan for our defeat."
He thumped the desk once with his gloved fist.
"We are surrounded," he said. "One day, perhaps soon, war will come. When it does, we cannot afford to have potential enemies inside our own house."
"You can't just label them all enemies," Oskar protested. "That's—"
"I am not labelling them all enemies," Wilhelm snapped. "I am saying this: if they wish to be Germans, let them become Germans. Fully. Language, loyalty, law, and—eventually—culture. If they do not wish this, they may live here as guests under conditions. Or they may leave. So simply said, either they become like family within our house, or they become guests, or just leave. That is their choice."
"This is not a choice," Oskar said, shaking the paper. "This is a gun with three barrels. 'Become like us entirely, or never belong, or get out.' You're forcing people to choose at speed, with fear snapping at their heels. You're creating bitterness. Radicals. Hatred."
"Your method," Wilhelm replied, "might work in a century. Two, perhaps. A slow softening. Children growing up bilingual, bicultural, choosing to blend. I do not deny it is… elegant."
"Then why—"
"Because we do not have a century!" Wilhelm roared.
The room shook with it.
He drew a deep breath, steadied himself.
"Oskar," he said, voice firm but less explosive, "your assassination gave me the last piece I needed. The people see that a prince of Germany, the most beloved of their princes, was nearly murdered. They understand the fear. They accept the law. Even many who do not like it."
He met Oskar's eyes.
"You say I have ruined your work," he said. "But I tell you: your work allowed me to pass this at all. If you had not captured their hearts, they would not have cared so much when you were almost killed. Now they see a reason. They see danger. They see necessity."
Oskar stared at him, chest rising and falling with pained, angry breaths.
"You're proud of me," he said bitterly. "And you're using me."
"Yes," Wilhelm said simply. "Welcome to politics."
There was a long silence.
Finally, the Kaiser leaned back, fingers steepled.
"You think I enjoy this?" he asked quietly. "You think I wanted to be the man who writes a law that will push hundreds of thousands to leave, or even millions? I know it is harsh. I know it is ugly. I know it will be criticised. But I have to think of Germany first. Germany before sentiment. Germany before reputation. Germany before your idealism."
He nodded toward the paper.
"Germany first," he said. "And damn what others think."
Oskar closed his eyes a moment. Then he inhaled sharply, steadying himself.
"Father," he said, using the word pointedly instead of Majesty, "give me authority to counterbalance this. At least let my companies work properly. Let us run assimilation programs the right way — with education, with employment, with language classes, with community ties. Not fear. Not force. Not this."
He pushed the paper toward Wilhelm again.
"I'm sure that in time I can take every willing man, woman, and child into a structured program. Teach them German. Teach them our history. Give them work in my factories, homes in my housing projects. Give them a stake in Germany — let them want to be German, not be threatened into it."
Wilhelm's eyes narrowed.
"And if they refuse?" he asked softly.
"Then they refuse!" Oskar snapped. "But at least give them the time! You can't force a society into a single mold overnight — it breeds resentment, paranoia, resistance—"
"Enough."
Wilhelm II's voice cracked the air like a whip.
Oskar felt the temperature in the room drop.
"You speak of morality as if you are the only one who understands it," the Kaiser said, rising slowly. "You speak as if compassion alone can rule a nation of sixty million souls. You speak as if the world will fall neatly into line with your dreams if you simply smile hard enough."
He stepped around the desk until he stood directly before his son — shorter, older, but radiating an authority that filled the space like iron.
"You are not the Emperor," Wilhelm said, eyes unblinking.
"You are not the Crown Prince."
"You do not bear the responsibility of this nation on your shoulders."
Oskar clenched his jaw.
"I bear enough responsibility," he said. "More than anyone else seems willing to—"
Wilhelm's voice slammed down over his.
"You bear what I allow you to bear."
Silence.
Heavy.
Cold.
Then Wilhelm leaned closer.
"You ask me to undo the law. I cannot. Even if I wished to, I cannot. I have signed it. The Reichstag has backed it. The nation has embraced it. The world is watching it. To revoke it now would shatter my credibility as a ruler. It would fracture the Empire. It would make us look weak — and weakness means death."
He straightened.
"And I will not allow Germany to die."
Oskar opened his mouth, fury rising again—
But Wilhelm cut him off sharply.
"And this," he said, voice darkening, "is precisely why you are not — and cannot yet be — Crown Prince. You speak of morality. I speak of survival. You speak of ideals. I speak of the steel reality of power."
He gestured around him — the office, the walls, the Empire itself.
"A Kaiser must make hard decisions," he said. "Decisions that will be hated. Feared. Questioned. Decisions that bloody his own conscience. But a ruler who cannot choose between what is painful and what is necessary is no ruler at all."
His voice softened — but it did not warm.
"You are brilliant, Oskar. Beloved. A miracle of a boy. But you are still too soft. Too hopeful. Too willing to believe that the world can be shaped without breaking anything."
He shook his head.
"That is not how empires survive."
Oskar felt something inside him twist painfully.
"So that's it?" he whispered. "No matter what I do — no matter what I build — my big brother Wilhelm stays Crown Prince?"
Wilhelm II did not flinch.
"Yes," he said. "Unless you change. Unless you learn what leadership truly requires. Or unless your brother fails beyond all hope. But I will not strip him for the sake of your ideals. And even then, you are only my fifth son, so there are other choices still."
"Father—"
"Enough."
The word struck like a hammer.
"You overstep your place, Oskar. Remember who you are. Remember your station. And remember that I tolerate your tone only because you nearly died."
Oskar swallowed hard.
His right hand — the one that had been shot through — throbbed violently.
The bandage beneath his sleeve was dampening with fresh blood.
Wilhelm II saw it.
His tone softened — but only slightly.
"Go back to the hospital," he said. "Recover. Continue your… projects. Make your factories as German as you like. But leave statecraft to me."
Oskar stared at him — at the man he admired, the man he loved, the man who held the fate of millions in a clenched fist.
There was nothing left to say.
He bowed stiffly.
"…As you wish, Your Majesty."
And he turned.
At the door, Wilhelm called one last time:
"Oskar."
He stopped.
"You have changed much…" the Kaiser said quietly. "But not enough to change the world yet. History does not bend so easily."
Oskar didn't answer.
He walked out into the corridor.
Barely made it ten steps.
Then had to catch himself against the wall as pain ripped through his stitched side.
A guard rushed forward.
"Your Highness—!"
"I'm fine," he lied.
But his hand was bleeding again.
And his thoughts were worse.
I didn't change history at all, he realised numbly.
All of this… and the world still marches toward the same war.
Maybe even faster now.
He felt sick.
He felt small.
And for the first time since waking in this world, he wondered:
What if I can't stop it?
What if I make things worse?
He limped back toward the hospital, defeated and trembling, clutching at the wound that had reopened — in his flesh, and in his faith.
Behind him, the Kaiser's words echoed:
"This is not your empire."
Not yet.
And Oskar realised that if he wished to truly change things, he needed to become the Crown Prince at least.