With Wilhelm II's decision spoken aloud, the world rearranged itself.
What had been a battle of principle became—instantly—an argument of signatures, seals, and what line the money would be drawn from.
Moltke the Younger still opposed it, of course. He still carried that stiff, burning certainty that the Army was the Empire's spine and the Navy should never be allowed to grow teeth on land.
But the other's… shifted.
Von Falkenhayn and Waldeck, whatever their private feelings, stopped pushing. The moment the Kaiser had spoken, resistance ceased to be righteous and became—at best—petulant.
Five divisions.
The number had done its work. It sounded small enough to calm the old order and precise enough to make continued outrage feel childish. And in truth, five divisions—funded largely through Oskar's industrial machine—did not threaten the Army's mass.
It threatened something else.
It threatened exclusive control.
Moltke felt it in his bones.
That was why he left without grace, boots striking the palace floor harder than necessary, jaw locked, eyes cold. He didn't even bother hiding it. He didn't look like a man who had lost an argument.
He looked like a man who had been insulted.
Resentment was not always loud.
Sometimes it was a seed.
And the most dangerous seeds were planted quietly—then watered daily with pride.
He did not return to his office.
He went hunting.
Not because he needed sport.
Because he needed a place where the rules were simple—aim, squeeze, kill—and nothing smiled at you while planning your ruin.
Oskar and Grand Admiral von Tirpitz departed more smoothly.
They did not celebrate. They did not smile too widely. Men who survived courts learned early that triumph was a perfume you wore lightly, or enemies would smell it and come running.
They moved through the warmer corridors of Potsdam, past guards who looked healthier than they had any right to in winter—cheeks less hollow, fingers less raw—an entire palace subtly altered by Oskar's obsession with systems that worked.
Outside, the yard waited. Snow lay thin over stone. Oskar's Eternal Guards were patrolling the palace grounds with the royal guards, always watchful, rifles held with the patient certainty of men who had already decided what they would die for.
Tirpitz's car was there, in front of the steps waiting.
The old admiral looked exactly as he always did—heavy, sharp-eyed, built out of discipline and stubbornness, a man who had spent his life forcing the sea to obey him through steel.
Oskar walked beside him in silence for a few steps.
Then, just before Tirpitz could climb into his vehicle, Oskar spoke—quietly, controlled, like a man placing a hand on the future and turning it in the direction he wanted.
"Your Excellency," Oskar said, "the Marine Corps is now entrusted to you."
Tirpitz's eyes flicked to him.
Oskar didn't let the moment become sentimental.
"The Army will tolerate no more than five divisions," he continued. "So the only path left is quality. Elite personnel. Superior weapons. Superior safety equipment. Training so rigorous it becomes instinct. It must be done in the same way as I have taught my personal guards."
His tone hardened, just slightly.
"If we have only five hands… then each hand must hit like a hammer."
Tirpitz nodded once, slow.
Five divisions wasn't a ceiling.
It was a cage.
And if they were trapped inside it, then they would fill the cage with tigers.
"Understood, Your Highness," Tirpitz said simply. "We will make them… worth the argument."
Oskar returned the nod.
No handshake.
No speech.
Just two men acknowledging that the Empire had bought new tools—
and the old ones were already jealous.
Tirpitz stepped into his car—
—and that was when a third man appeared, as if he had been waiting for the exact second the admiral was no longer part of the conversation.
Von Falkenhayn.
Standing near the edge of the yard, calm as polished stone. Gloves perfect, uniform immaculate, expression composed in that special way politicians mastered: friendly enough to seem harmless, sharp enough to be feared.
"Your Highness," Falkenhayn said smoothly, "if it's convenient… I can take you to the Headquarters of the Oskar Industrial Group."
Oskar felt the irritation immediately.
Not because the offer was rude—
—but because it was obvious.
A car ride meant privacy. Privacy meant leverage. And Falkenhayn did not offer anything without knowing exactly what it was worth.
Still…
Oskar nodded once.
"Very well," he said.
Tirpitz gave Oskar a brief look—half approval, half warning—and the admiral's car rolled away.
Then Oskar followed Falkenhayn.
Falkenhayn's vehicle waited near the gate.
A Muscle Motors A‑Class sedan—black, long-bodied, modern enough that it looked almost insulting beside palace horses and ancient stone. It idled with that smooth, controlled purr that had become the unofficial sound of Oskar's Germany.
The driver opened the door.
Oskar slid in.
The interior smelled of leather and clean metal and faint machine-oil—not the messy stink of workshops, but the refined scent of industry that had learned to dress like nobility. The seats were warm. The cabin was quiet. Even before it moved, it felt like a statement.
Not just a car.
A symbol.
A year ago, generals still arrived in carriages out of habit and pride.
Now even the men abroad, or at home who disliked Oskar's influence rode in his machines.
Because the A‑Class was simply better.
And because Muscle Motors did what ministries and armies loved most:
it offered government pricing.
Falkenhayn settled beside him, closing the door with a soft final click.
The sedan rolled forward in near silence, engine humming low beneath them. Snow slid past the windows in gray streaks, palace walls drifting by like the edges of an old painting that no longer fit the world it tried to frame.
Falkenhayn did not speak at once.
He waited until the route curved onto the outer roads—close enough to return quickly, far enough to ensure no one could conveniently overhear.
Then he exhaled.
"Your Highness," he said carefully, "I wish to apologize for my earlier position regarding the Marine Corps."
Oskar didn't look at him immediately. He watched the snow instead.
"The officer corps opposed it," Falkenhayn continued. "Under those circumstances, I had little room to maneuver." He hesitated a fraction. "And… I believed you would succeed regardless. As you so often do."
There it was.
Not an excuse.
A calculation.
Falkenhayn wasn't asking forgiveness—he was asking not to be remembered as an enemy.
Oskar turned his head and nodded once.
"I understand your position, Minister of War," Oskar said evenly.
It was true.
Even as Minister of War, Falkenhayn could not openly defy the weight of the Army's senior caste—not without giving Moltke the excuse he waited for like a hawk waits for a rabbit to break cover.
Oskar understood that game.
That was precisely why Falkenhayn mattered.
Politically flexible. Not beloved, but respected. Ambitious enough to want Moltke gone.
If Oskar intended to expand influence inside the Army, Falkenhayn's support wasn't optional—it was essential.
And Falkenhayn, for his part, knew exactly why he was here.
With Moltke growing too rigid, too powerful, too untouchable, Falkenhayn's future depended on a shift at the top.
The thought hung between them like a blade neither man had yet chosen to pick up.
"Your Highness," Falkenhayn said quietly, "the Chief of Staff opposes the Marine Corps. But more than that… he seeks to restrain your growing influence within the Army itself."
Oskar's expression didn't change.
"He views you as a threat," Falkenhayn added.
"I am aware," Oskar replied calmly. "If I could remove him tomorrow, I would."
Falkenhayn's eyes flicked toward him—quick, sharp.
"But Father still trusts him," Oskar went on. "And unless Moltke commits a truly unforgivable error… I have no clean justification to move against him."
The car hummed on.
Falkenhayn nodded slowly.
That was exactly why Moltke was fearless.
"Then allow me to speak plainly," Falkenhayn said. "If Your Highness wishes to weaken Moltke's position, you must stop confronting him indirectly."
Oskar turned fully.
"How?" he asked.
Falkenhayn didn't answer immediately. He weighed his words the way a good minister weighed powder.
Then he said it.
"Command an army."
The words landed cleanly.
According to tradition, the Crown Prince did not merely attend reviews and smile for photographs. In war—and even in preparation for war—he was expected to learn the Army as something more than an idea.
Falkenhayn's tone stayed measured.
"War has not begun," he said, "but the situation is tightening."
He paused, then added with faint distaste:
"I have even heard Britain and France are pushing the stamp—Made in Germany—like a warning label. To discourage their own citizens from buying what you produce."
Oskar's eyes flickered.
"And as always," Falkenhayn continued, dry as dust, "it appears to have had the opposite effect."
Oskar didn't deny it.
Falkenhayn leaned slightly forward.
"The point is this," he said. "Despite all your efforts, relations continue to sour as German power grows. The stronger the Empire becomes, the more openly the world prepares against it."
Oskar had known about this, but he always tried to ignore it as if it wasn't there.
However hearing it now, stated so plainly still tightened something in his chest.
"Therefore," Falkenhayn said, "you should propose to His Majesty that you familiarize yourself with the Army in peacetime—before war forces the matter. Learn the structures. Learn the officer corps. Learn how the machine truly moves."
A beat.
Then, very politely—very deliberately—he added:
"And perhaps… you might consider finishing what you began. You never truly completed the naval academy. So maybe now, finally you could perhaps go study how to lead an army. Formally and properly enough that even the old generals can't sneer and say you are merely… improvising. Thus going to school could be useful for you."
School.
The word hit like a pebble thrown at a steel helmet.
Oskar frowned instinctively. He had no love for classrooms, examinations, and parade-ground rituals.
But Falkenhayn's first words returned:
Command an army.
And suddenly "school" didn't feel like humiliation.
It felt like a key.
The Crown Prince commanding troops was not fantasy.
It was tradition. It was myth. It was legitimacy.
If he could directly control an army—even partially—then he could shape it according to his vision. Not a relic built for the wars of yesterday, but a force built for the wars to come.
With his industrial reach…
he could arm them to the teeth.
He could train them with doctrine the old guard barely understood.
And most importantly, he would possess a lever inside the Army itself—an influence Moltke could not casually swat away.
But the obstacles rose instantly, cold and real.
He had no true Army background, not at least in this life.
He hadn't formally completed the naval path expected of princes.
He had the trust of the masses, yes—
but would the officer caste accept him as more than a symbol, if he didn't go to school?
Even the Eternal Guard—his fanatics, his shield—could not force old blood to respect new authority.
Did he even have time to waste on school? After all 1914 wasn't far now.
And Wilhelm II would not hand him an army simply because he asked.
Oskar spoke his doubts aloud, carefully.
"I like the idea," he admitted. "But I fear my command in real life will be… poor." He tapped his fingers once against his knee. "And I am only twenty. And besides, I don't have time for school."
Falkenhayn's expression softened—not with pity, but with confidence, as if he had already solved the problem before Oskar finished speaking.
"Your Highness," he said, "with your status, you do not need to fear the opinions of lesser men."
Oskar's eyes narrowed slightly.
Falkenhayn lifted a hand, calming, measured.
"And if you truly worry about command," he continued, "then do not command alone."
Oskar held still.
"You choose a deputy," Falkenhayn said. "A professional. An experienced general. The Army has more than enough men who would accept the honour of serving under a Crown Prince. Besides, don't you already push most of all your tasks onto other's in your businesses as well? So, all you must do is come up with ideas as you always do, and just let other's make those ideas into a reality."
He spoke with the absolute certainty of a politician who understood how men were bought—not with money, but with prestige.
"Everything will function," Falkenhayn concluded. "Without scandal. Without collapse. I assure you."
Oskar nodded slowly.
The logic was undeniable and the temptation was great.
Being able to personally command an army—even through deputies—would multiply his power.
Because the old truth still applied, crowns or not:
In the end, power followed the men who controlled guns.
If Oskar held real military authority, then even if his Big brother Wilhelm woke tomorrow as a clear headed man and decided to strip Oskar of his influence…
he would discover the Empire had already begun moving under Oskar's gravity.
The thought did not feel like victory.
It felt like necessity.
And somewhere deep inside Oskar, a hard seed of ambition took root.
"Your Excellency," Oskar said sincerely, "thank you. I will consider your words carefully. And when the time comes… I will need your support."
Von Falkenhayn inclined his head, perfectly composed.
"Your Highness," he said, "you will have it. With all my strength."
The car slowed.
Oskar glanced out the window—
and realized, with faint, grim amusement, that they had never been driving toward the Oskar Industrial Group at all.
They had been circling the palace roads the entire time. Close enough to be "on the way," far enough to speak freely.
A private conversation disguised as courtesy.
The A‑Class came to a smooth stop near the gates.
Oskar reached for the handle.
"Until next time," he said.
"Until next time," Falkenhayn replied.
Oskar stepped out into the cold.
The gates loomed.
The palace waited.
As Oskar walked back through the palace gates, his stride remained measured, his face composed—the Crown Prince returning from another necessary conversation.
Inside, however, something entirely different was happening.
For the first time since his death in the other world, since mud and drones and artillery had torn him apart in Ukraine, the abstract had finally become real.
Not weapons.
Not factories.
Not demonstrations.
An army.
A real one.
Formations. Staff structures. Logistics chains. Command hierarchies. Supply depots. Mobilization timetables. Rail schedules. Ammunition accounting. Medical services. Replacement pools. Officer politics. Doctrine battles fought with memoranda instead of bullets.
All the things he had only ever glimpsed from below—from the back of trucks, from muddy roads, from radios crackling with orders that arrived too late.
All the things he had obsessed over as a nobody, a footnote, a disposable body.
Now…
Now he would see it from above.
He would sit at the tables where arrows were drawn across maps. He would watch how decisions were delayed, distorted, ignored, or obeyed. He would finally understand why armies failed even when they had good weapons—and how they won when they shouldn't have.
A quiet, almost irreverent thought surfaced before he could stop it:
I actually get to watch the whole machine run.
The idea sent a sharp, illicit thrill through him.
Logistics.
Operational planning.
Staff friction.
The ugly reality behind heroic myths.
If he could not stop the war outright, then he could at least learn how it truly worked—so that when the moment came, he would not be guessing.
He would not be improvising.
He would be ready.
Oskar slowed for a heartbeat, then forced the excitement down where it belonged—locked behind discipline, behind duty, behind the mask the world expected him to wear.
The Crown Prince did not grin in palace corridors.
But inside, the soldier who had died once already was grinning like a child handed the keys to the engine room of history.
Alright, he thought.
Let's see how you really move.
And with that, Oskar continued forward—toward maps, toward commands, toward the beating heart of an army that had no idea it was about to be studied by a man who had already watched one future burn.
Oh and then, uninvited, the numbers surfaced.
If he remembered correctly—an army in this era didn't mean a few ten or so thousand men with rifles and a banner.
It meant hundreds of thousands.
A full Imperial German field army could easily reach two hundred thousand men, sometimes more. And the Empire itself, if mobilized, could put well over three million soldiers into the field.
Millions.
Actual human beings.
Not usernames.
Not chat messages.
Not pixel soldiers in a strategy game.
Men who ate, slept, bathed, had families, bled, froze, complained, obeyed—or didn't.
Oskar almost stumbled.
Holy shit, he thought.
That's… that's a lot of men and responsibility.
The thought hit him a second later, harder and far less dignified:
I'm going to be a fucking general.
The Crown Prince of Germany—yes.
Industrial magnate—sure.
Weapons designer—fine.
But this?
This was different.
Once, he had been a guy in a chair, streaming war games, arguing doctrine online, yelling at a screen about logistics and encirclements like it mattered.
Then he'd been a truck driver, watching war from the edges, feeling it only when the road shook or the radio went quiet, or when a drone tried to kill him, or when he had to pull a wounded soldier out of the mud which was called code 300, while the dead were called code 200 and those were not nice memories.
However now—
Now he was about to stand above the machine.
To see how orders were born, how they were twisted by egos and delays, how logistics strangled good ideas and how bad ones survived on confidence alone.
To finally understand not just what went wrong in wars—
…but why.
The grin he suppressed would have been wildly inappropriate in a palace corridor.
Alright, he thought, equal parts awe and disbelief.
Let's see how the real thing actually works.