After the incident in the palace garden, Oskar didn't spend much time thinking about his brother.
He after all had much more important things to worry about, like the three tiny crawling silver-haired, violet-eyed babies "his little turtles" back in his room who tried to chew on chair legs, boots and anything else they could reach. He loved them fiercely, but he had very little time to actually roll around on the carpet with them.
Every day came at him like artillery fire: engines, ships, laws, safety equipment, comic books, housing designs…
And today?
Housing.
The future of German homes.
So he sat now in Karl's office at the German Welfare Lottery headquarters near the Brandenburg Gate in Potsdam—a room buried in ledgers, city maps, lottery ticket drafts, and the occasional doodled cat—while Oskar hunched over a mountain of sketch paper, charcoal smearing his fingers.
He wasn't doodling like a bored prince.
He was designing the architecture of a century.
Reinforced concrete frames with brick infill.
Steel or timber roof trusses.
Clay tiles with proper slope and drainage.
Courtyard blocks loosely inspired by Roman insulae.
Stucco façades dressed with pilasters, cornices, terracotta ornaments.
Modern bones wearing Greek–Roman beauty.
Durable.
Low‑maintenance.
Timeless.
A city built to last a hundred years, not ten.
Oskar grinned at one sketch—a four‑story block with balcony columns faintly echoing the Stoa of Attalos.
Not bad, he thought. Berlin could use a little Athens.
He flipped to plumbing diagrams next: pipe gauges, materials that wouldn't rot or poison people, ways to prevent freezing in winter, efficient vertical risers. Then came electrical layouts: where lines would run, where switches should go, how to keep it all as safe as possible for people who'd never seen a light switch in their lives.
Across the desk, Karl watched him with his chin in his hand, looking both proud and exhausted.
It was Oskar who broke the silence.
"Sometimes I wonder," he muttered, "if I'm designing houses or reinventing half of Europe."
Karl adjusted his tiny spectacles and smiled.
"Your Highness, I must say congratulations. His Majesty is very, very pleased with you lately."
Oskar raised an eyebrow.
"Oh? Did your father tell you that?"
Karl shook his head.
"No, Your Highness. Essen von Jonarett told him. And my father told me." Karl's beard bobbed as he spoke. "Apparently His Majesty is extremely dissatisfied with the Crown Prince. He even sent Essen to warn him personally."
Oskar's charcoal paused mid‑line.
"Warn him?"
Karl nodded.
"Yes. According to Essen and my father, His Majesty's patience is almost exhausted. The Crown Prince has contributed nothing truly significant to the Empire so far—nothing except existing. That was normal for a royal heir… until you appeared."
The words landed in the room like a hammer.
Karl continued gently:
"You must understand, before you began doing all… this—" he waved at the mountain of drawings and papers—"the Crown Prince felt completely unchallenged. He was the golden son. Groomed, adored, untested. But now…"
He leaned in, lowering his voice.
"Now the streets speak your name. The Navy follows your designs. Factories use your machines. The Church debates your words. The newspapers make you into a legend. And the young… they talk about you like you stepped out of a storybook."
He sighed, sitting back.
"I know he's your brother. But even I—even the ministers—can feel it. The pressure on Crown Prince Wilhelm is enormous. And he is not handling it well."
For a while, the only sound was the soft scratch of Oskar's charcoal moving again.
Karl folded his hands, nervous and hopeful all at once.
"And… forgive me for saying so," he murmured, "but I believe—no, I hope—that someday you will replace him. If Germany is to survive… I think you must. For my family's future. For everyone's future."
Oskar didn't answer immediately.
He stared at the half‑finished blueprint before him: thick columns, a concrete skeleton, a sunlit courtyard. A building meant to outlast wars, revolutions, even dynasties.
Finally, he exhaled.
"Oh, come now, my little man," he said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes, my big brother has acted childish. But young men get angry. Words are one thing. As long as he takes no action, I don't really care."
The smile wavered.
"Besides… I still hope he'll see that I don't wish him harm. I truly don't. We're family. You help me, Karl—and I would like to stand by my brother the same way. If he lets me."
Karl's face scrunched in outrage.
"Hmph! You're far too humble, Oskar!" he snapped. "If succession were based on merit, your brother wouldn't be Crown Prince. The crown should be yours!"
He pointed a tiny finger at Oskar's chest.
"And if you can't see that, I swear I'll slap sense into you again—like at the banquet. Remember?"
Oskar nearly choked.
"Karl—! We agreed never to speak of that again."
"I lied," Karl said smugly.
Oskar rubbed his temples.
"Listen. Whether the Crown Prince is qualified or not isn't for us to decide." He shook his head. "And I don't want to waste energy on this matter of succession. Honestly my father is still extremely healthy, so by the time Father dies—my brother and I will both be old men."
He paused, lips quirking.
"Perhaps even… racing wheelchairs down the palace corridor."
Karl involuntarily pictured a grey‑haired Wilhelm and a grey‑haired Oskar ramming wheelchairs into each other and shuddered.
"My father is healthy," Oskar went on. "Strong. He'll rule for a long time. When the time comes, my brother Wilhelm will be old and possibly slow in the head. So don't worry about such things, Karl. As long as Father lives, all is well."
Karl quieted—but did not agree.
He only watched Oskar for a long moment—a giant, bent over housing plans, intelligence pouring out of him like light—and knew perfectly well:
Oskar was not nearly as naïve as he pretended.
Nor as passive as he sounded.
Karl watched him—and smiled.
Not the usual mischievous grin, but one of quiet, almost greedy satisfaction.
Because the truth was simple:
The Oskar Industrial Group had become a monster.
A benevolent monster, yes—but a world‑spanning titan all the same.
AngelWorks boutiques glittered in every major German city and it's products were being shipped all over the world. Their perfumes, cosmetics, baby powder, cat sand, dog harnesses, and inexplicably fashionable crocodile and alligator leashes were selling as fast as ships could carry them.
Some eccentric Florida millionaire who walked two pet alligators had practically turned AngelWorks into a household name in parts of the American South, and also helped them with their other businesses as well.
Pump World gyms were multiplying too.
Germany now had dozens, and London had one—a single, polished cash cow filled not with sweaty workers but rich aristocrats paying high fees for "exotic Prussian fitness," then buying branded clothes and equipment on the way out.
Hans' company, Albrecht Safety Works, had become a financial volcano.
By law, every mine and factory in Germany had to buy safety gear: helmets, gloves, boots, goggles. And now French, Italian, even British industrialists were quietly ordering the equipment as well—not only for safety, but to look progressive in front of their workers and newspapers.
The German Welfare Lottery was expanding faster than anyone had expected.
Austria‑Hungary and Italy were already on board. Quiet preparations for further expansion in France and Britain were underway. Even the United States showed promise; gamblers were gamblers in any language.
Each draw poured rivers of money back toward Germany. People could, and had begun in some places begun trying to imitate and copy them, but no copy was ever going to be as good as the real thing that had a famous German Prince backing the brand.
German Works, the shipyard Oskar had dragged from decay into steel‑forging life, was doing well. The Diesel family's new research center was making strides in turbines and engines that no one else on the continent could yet match.
Karl's pulse quickened as he thought it through:
Oskar wasn't just rich.
He was becoming an institution.
A force.
A future.
And Karl—small, sharp, loyal Karl—stood right in the middle of that storm.
He knew Oskar. Knew that beneath the jokes, the muscles, the bizarre product ideas, there was a mind planning far beyond battleships and cat sand.
Of course, Karl would never say it aloud.
But deep in his dwarf-sized heart he believed:
If the throne ever trembled, the navy, the army, the workers, the engineers, the common people…
they would choose Oskar.
Not Wilhelm.
Karl tried not to grin too obviously at the thought. Dreams of influence and near‑unlimited authority warmed him like a second sun.
If Oskar ever became Crown Prince—
or even Emperor—
then Karl Bergmann would not remain "just" a manager.
He would become the most powerful non‑royal in Germany.
He cleared his throat to hide the excitement.
"Karl," Oskar said suddenly, eyes still on his blueprint, "have you heard anything about the people I asked you to look for?"
Karl straightened at once.
"Yes, Your Highness. I've sent our best people. Germany may lack oil, but finding talent to run extraction and refinery operations should not be too difficult. We'll have names soon."
Oskar nodded, satisfied.
"Good. Then speed it up. I want us ready before the world realizes what's coming."
He paused.
"And, Karl—"
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Find time to register German Energy as well. Our national energy plan must begin this year."
Karl's eyes gleamed.
"Yes, Your Highness. I'll see to it immediately."
Oskar went back to his drawing—a Romanesque apartment block with thick walls, elegant arches, and neat plumbing lines marked in charcoal.
Karl watched him work.
A prince designing homes for the poor.
A businessman reshaping industry.
A visionary preparing Germany for engines, steel fleets, and whatever the future might bring.
Karl couldn't shake the feeling:
History had already started to bend around this man. And he was right here watching it all unfold.
___
The very next morning, ideas turned into paper and paper into reality.
With Karl's usual ruthless efficiency, the German Energy Company was formally registered—its charter dry and bureaucratic, its ambitions anything but. On paper its purpose was simple: exploration, extraction, refining, storage, and sale of oil, plus the construction of the Empire's first synthetic fuel plants and an energy research center.
In practice, it was to be the fuel artery for Oskar's future navy.
Head-hunters from the Welfare Lottery network—now quietly moonlighting as talent scouts—had already compiled a list of candidates. One by one, they were ushered into Oskar's office and subjected to questions that sounded deceptively simple.
"What is oil actually made from?"
"Where in the world does most of it come from today?"
"Do you see oil as a passing fancy… or the blood of the future?"
Most gave memorized answers. A few tried to flatter him. Only one spoke like a man who had really thought about it.
He was in his early thirties, with tired eyes, an ambitious jaw, and calloused hands that belonged more to a mechanic than to a banker.
His name was Moritz.
He talked about oil as "stored sunlight," about how machines that drank liquid fuel would go further than any steam locomotive, about how whoever controlled oil in the twentieth century would control armies, fleets, and trade.
He also, embarrassingly, quoted Oskar's own lines from newspaper interviews about "future warships burning oil instead of coal" and "Germany needing energy independence"—word for word, with the earnest fervor of a complete fanboy.
He had parents and siblings in a cramped Berlin tenement, he said. They needed him to succeed. He needed someone to give him a chance.
Oskar liked him immediately.
"Mr. Moritz," he said at last, "German Energy is nothing but paper and a dream at the moment. No offices. No people. No structure. I want you to fix that."
He leaned forward.
"You'll be general manager. You'll build the organization from scratch. Three months. Recruit your key staff. Set up the Hamburg synthetic-fuel project and the energy research center on paper. After that, we start pouring concrete."
Moritz swallowed, then straightened.
"Your Highness, as long as there is money…" he said, voice shaking with excitement, "there is no problem I cannot solve."
Oskar smiled.
"Good. Then you will like this part. The Oskar Industrial Group will provide German Energy with more than enough funding. The first tranche will be ten million marks into your company account. From there, if you can justify the expense, the money will follow."
Moritz went very still. Ten million was a sum most men would never see even on a bank ledger, let alone be told to spend.
He bowed his head.
"I will handle the funds with the utmost care, Your Highness."
"Do that, my man," Oskar said. "Once the company shell is in place, I want you looking for sites along our northern coast—Baltic first, North Sea only where we can defend it. We'll need tank farms and refineries. And I want storage. A lot of storage."
He tapped the map spread on the desk.
"Our first target: at least two million tons of crude in reserve. More if possible. Above all, keep the key synthetic plants and main depots away from where the Royal Navy can casually shell them one day."
Two million tons meant nothing to most businessmen in 1906. To Moritz, it still sounded like insanity.
He hesitated.
"Your Highness… if we build so much storage and refining capacity before we even have clients, I'm afraid the company will operate at a loss. Who are we going to sell all this oil to?"
The question wasn't disrespectful. It was exactly the kind of question a serious manager should ask.
Oskar's lips curved faintly.
"We're not building this to impress shareholders," he said. "Most of that crude won't be sold at all. It'll sit quietly in tanks as a strategic reserve. Think of German Energy less as a normal business and more as… the Empire's fuel vault."
Moritz's brow furrowed. He could tell there was something deeper underneath, something he wasn't seeing. But he also remembered every article, every speech, every story about this enormous young prince who had dragged Germany forward in a whirlwind of factories, laws, and inventions.
If Oskar said it was necessary…
"My man Moritz," Oskar continued, his tone turning more formal, "what I'm about to tell you touches directly on the Empire's military secrets. I expect your silence—as a German and as my man. Do you understand?"
Moritz's spine straightened. His eyes shone with something like worship.
"Your Highness, I swear by my life and before God," he said fervently, "I will not speak a word of what you tell me. You do not need to explain details to a man like me. Just give the orders—I will carry them out."
The devotion was almost unsettling.
Still, Oskar decided to give him at least the outline. Blind loyalty was useful. Informed loyalty was better.
He pointed again at the map.
"In the next years," he said, "our capital ships and most major warships will run on oil, not coal. Oil-fired boilers. Turbines. Fast, long-legged ships. That means the navy's oil consumption will explode."
He looked Moritz in the eye.
"And Germany has almost no oil of her own."
"In peace," he went on, "that's merely inconvenient. We can buy from the Americans, from Russia, from the Dutch East Indies. Once war comes, it's different. British cruisers will sit across our sea lanes like wolves. Russia will be an enemy, not a supplier. If we don't have large reserves ready, our warships will stay tied up in port. Floating fortresses with no legs."
Moritz stared at him, stunned.
So that was it.
German Energy was being built as the secret fuel lung of the Imperial Navy.
"I understand, Your Highness," he whispered. "You need oil that no blockade can touch. I will make sure we have it. I will keep this secret with my life."
Oskar nodded, then added matter-of-factly:
"For your planning: a barrel of crude costs barely four marks today. A ton, including transport, around thirty. Two million tons is only about sixty million marks. For most men, that is an unimaginable fortune. For us, it's just another line in a long ledger."
He shrugged.
"Compared to a fleet of battleships, it's cheap."
Moritz's mind raced: sixty million marks spent not to earn money, but to sit in giant tanks until war came. It was a scale of thinking he had never encountered before.
"And one more thing," Oskar said. "We can't only buy oil forever. German Energy must also learn to extract it. So—begin recruiting geologists, drilling engineers, anyone in the Empire who has studied oil fields, even on paper. Talk to universities, talk to Germans who have worked overseas. We'll need them."
Moritz hesitated again.
"Your Highness… forgive the question, but… Germany has no oil. Where are we meant to drill?"
"In Germany," Oskar said calmly, "nowhere. We leave what little we have under the North Sea alone for now. But overseas…" He flicked his fingers outward, as if scattering seeds over the map. "Overseas, there may be opportunities. The United States, Baku, Romania, the Dutch East Indies. Even Persia has begun to attract British interest."
His gaze darkened slightly.
"They will try to lock us out wherever they can. So we prepare quietly. Train people now. Build a company with the right knowledge. Then, when a gap appears, we slip in."
Moritz nodded slowly, beginning to understand the long game.
"Yes, Your Highness. German Energy will be ready when that moment comes."
After Moritz left, clutching his new title and responsibilities like a holy relic, Oskar remained alone for a moment, staring at the wall map.
His finger traced invisible circles: the Caucasus, the Dutch East Indies, Texas, the still-mostly-unknown Persian Gulf.
In his mind's eye, each region glowed with numbers from a future no one else could see—billions of barrels, pipelines, refineries, tankers.
Above all, the Middle East burned brightest.
Enough oil there to fuel not just Germany, but the entire world for centuries.
If Germany could someday break British sea power and take a share of that…
Energy would never be their weakness again.
But that was far, far ahead. You didn't snatch bones from a bulldog's mouth before you could handle its bite.
His thoughts shifted closer to home.
Libya.
On the map it was just a stretch of Ottoman sand across the Mediterranean from Italy—no one in 1906 thought of it as anything but a colonial backwater.
Oskar knew better.
There's oil there too, he thought. Good oil. Untouched.
Right now Libya still answered, at least on paper, to the crumbling Ottoman Empire. But Italy was already watching it like a hungry dog watches a butcher's cart.
Sooner or later, Rome would move. The Italians might be clumsy soldiers, but the Ottomans were sick, corrupt, and overstretched. In the end, Italy would win.
And when that happened…
If Germany helps them just enough, he thought, and I have a serious energy company ready with German engineers and German money… then asking for Libyan exploration rights in return will sound perfectly reasonable.
That might strain relations with the Ottomans later. It might even complicate alliances if a great war came.
But Oskar had learned one hard truth in two lifetimes:
A nation without energy didn't get to choose its future.
It had its future chosen for it.
"So we'll start small," he murmured to himself. "Tank farms, foreign crude, synthetic plants. We'll buy time with oil—and then buy oil with victory."
He tapped the map once, lightly, over Libya.
Then he turned away and reached for his next stack of work.
German Energy had been born.
Now it had to grow into the quiet giant he needed it to be.