Oskar had been a very good son for quite some time now.
Good enough that the Kaiser, in a blend of pride, curiosity, and weary surrender, had quietly granted him something no other prince possessed: control over a sealed section of the palace basements in Potsdam, which Oskar was already turning into his private laboratory.
The approach to it alone felt wrong for the century. A rounded staircase spiraled down into the older stone beneath the palace, and beside it he had already forced in the beginnings of an elevator system—crude by the standards of the future, but advanced enough to feel almost sorcerous in 1906. At the bottom, a short, dim corridor led to a heavy metal door of Oskar's own design, cold, reinforced, and utterly out of place among the old foundations.
Behind it lay his hidden world.
No courtier entered there. No minister. No curious servant.
Only his Eternal Guard stood watch, and even they were allowed only so far. He had armed and outfitted them in his own transitional designs for the time being—dark, enclosed, intimidating protective uniforms that made them look less like ordinary palace guards and more like some experimental order of industrial knights. Their helmets, visors, and breathing masks gave them the silhouette of men pulled out of a future battlefield and shoved backward into imperial Germany before history was ready for them.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of oil, warm metal, ozone, and something stranger beneath it all—synthetic, sweet, and faintly intoxicating, the smell of chemistry dragging the future into the present.
Glassware, wiring, tanks, tools, and precision metal components crowded the heavy tables. Harsh electric light cut across workbenches cluttered with notes, prototype casings, experimental alloys, and materials no one in Germany should yet have been touching. Here and there, under canvas covers or against the far walls, stood shapes that belonged to no known branch of the imperial military: partial exoskeletal frames, armored harnesses, reinforced gauntlets, sealed helmets, and crude proto-suits that looked like knightly armor rebuilt by a mad engineer who had seen the twenty-first century and wanted more.
Some of it was barely functional. Some of it was dangerous. All of it was years, if not decades, ahead of where the world should have been.
And to make sure it stayed that way, Oskar kept most of his notes in a private cipher so deranged that no one in 1906 would ever break it unless they were, by some cosmic mistake, both a military engineer and a terminally online lunatic from the future. His Morse code was not real military shorthand at all, but a mutilated stream of gamer slang, meme fragments, mangled American and British slang, and words deliberately swapped out for things no sane man would ever connect to weapons or armor.
So a single note might read, "BIG LAD KIT v0.7 = full 2m+ giga-shell, Berserk-core meets Space Marine drip. User req = absolute unit only, no normies, no manlets, no twig-bones. Front waffle and think-lid stacked rude with moon-bone remix, red giga-drape to near floor for max aura. Right mitt gets 2m slab, basically a mobile coffin-lid with edge, around 60–100kg depending on how stupid we're feeling. Left beef-column gets top-mount bloom tube, six spicy pineapples, thumb-bop trigger from right mitt after parking slab. Recoil is turbo-rude—would self-delete a normal bloke's arm, but shell bracing should let me tank it. Whole point = one-man bossfight suit for breaching, trench bullying, and motherfucker hunting."
To anyone else, it looked like a fever note written by a man whose brain had been kicked loose in battle.
To Oskar, it was perfectly clear, and perfect.
Also as a precaution, only Anna and Tanya had ever been allowed inside to clean.
Even then, they were permitted to touch nothing important. They dusted, wiped the floors, changed linens in the adjoining rest chamber, and kept the place from descending into complete industrial filth, but the laboratory itself remained his kingdom. Although recently, though, due to their new pregnancies, it had made that arrangement less practical. They were slower now, heavier, more easily exhausted, and he had begun to forbid them from overstraining themselves.
Which left him with a new solution.
He needed a new cleaner, and someone to try on his clothes, and that someone was, Bertha.
If anyone had told him a year ago that Bertha Krupp, heiress to the greatest steel empire in Germany, would one day be allowed into his secret underground laboratory, to model for him and clean, he would have assumed he was drunk or already dead.
But things had changed.
Ever since their first real meeting at Villa Hügel, Bertha had been coming to Potsdam with increasing frequency. At first, it had been business—steel contracts, armor plate discussions, artillery orders, practical matters between dynasties and industry. Then it became tennis. Then riding. Then the palace gym.
And over the last year, Oskar had reshaped her.
Not into some absurd fantasy caricature, but into something stronger, healthier, more alive. He had put her through a carefully designed regimen of weights, swimming, riding, walking circuits, mobility drills, and food plans strict enough to make lesser nobles cry. The results showed most clearly in her lower body. Her legs had grown firmer, her hips stronger, her waist tighter, her whole frame carrying a new tone and density that she had not possessed when they first met.
In Oskar's private classification system, she had become a proper pear.
A very, very dangerous pear.
He tried not to stare when she walked away from him.
He failed often enough to stop pretending otherwise.
The first time he had given her a playful slap on the backside after a brutal set of squats, she had yelped, spun around, and flushed so red he thought she might actually faint on the spot.
She had not pushed him away.
The second time, she had laughed—really laughed—and smacked him back in retaliation.
The third time, she had rolled her eyes, muttered something about his barbaric manners, and then, instead of keeping distance, stayed close enough that he could have done it again.
By now, in private, the occasional firm little smack had become an accepted language between them. Teasing. Provocation. A test of nerve. Not innocent, not entirely playful, and certainly not accidental anymore.
They trained together often enough that the tension had become impossible to ignore.
She had taught him to ride better, sometimes sitting in front of him in the saddle, her back pressed to his chest while he learned to move with the horse instead of against it. He had corrected her form under iron, hands on her hips, her thighs, her waist, guiding, adjusting, lingering just enough that neither of them could pretend not to notice.
Whenever their eyes met now, something held there a beat too long.
A pause, a flush, a mouth tightening around words left unsaid.
When no one watched, she had begun greeting him with cheek kisses that lingered just beyond propriety.
And Oskar—who in his old life had never exactly been a conqueror of women—could no longer deny the plain truth, "Bertha Krupp, heiress of the greatest steel empire in Germany, almost certainly liked him."
And he… liked her very much in return.
But he had no plans of marrying her; Anna and Tanya already filled his private world more than enough.
But as a training partner… a friend… perhaps a little more…
He could not pretend she hadn't taken up residence in his thoughts.
There was, however, a problem.
Her engagement to Gustav von Bohlen und Halbach was drawing near.
If nothing changed, they would marry, have children, and — in Oskar's old history — somewhere down the line the Krupp heir would be frail and sickly, dragging the whole dynasty down.
He did not want to ruin Gustav.
By all accounts, Gustav was a decent man and a competent future head of the company.
But the bloodline… the health issues…
Oskar kept circling the same uncomfortable conclusion, "If the first child of that marriage were healthy, strong, and carried the right mix of genes… their future might be different."
He did not need to replace Gustav.
He just needed to make sure the first heir was… different.
That thought bothered him, and it would not go away.
Which was how Bertha had ended up in his secret basement laboratory, standing behind a curtain, trying on the first set of nylon stockings and a short test skirt he'd had made.
"Are you quite sure this is proper?" she called from behind the curtain, voice shy but amused. "This is… much less than I am used to wearing."
"It's only for research," Oskar said, trying to sound clinical and failing. "They're just prototypes. I need to see how they move on a real person. Whether they're comfortable. Whether they look… right."
He sat in a broad armchair, shirt open at the collar, still faintly damp from their earlier workout. His dark sweatpants clung to his powerful legs; a towel lay forgotten over one arm of the chair.
He leaned back, lost in thought, while the soft rustle of fabric came from behind the curtain.
Then he heard a small cough, followed by the click of heels on stone. The curtain swayed open, and Bertha stepped out.
For a moment, Oskar forgot how to breathe.
She wore sheer nylon stockings that hugged her legs like a second skin, catching the light along the curves of her calves and thighs. A short, fitted skirt hugged her hips, barely covering the rounded line where her back met her legs.
Above that, there was no blouse, no corset or even a bra.
Only her hands, a little unsteady, covering her breasts, although it was not quite enough to fully conceal them, just enough to pretend she was still "proper."
Her dark-blonde hair spilled over her shoulders and down her bare back in loose waves, brushed smooth and shining. As she turned in a slow, uncertain spin, it swept over the top of the skirt and stockings like a waterfall of gold.
Her stomach was soft but firm, with the faint suggestion of muscle under the skin. Her face, lightly touched with AngelWorks cosmetics and a careful red on her lips, looked like something out of an advertisement Oskar had not yet drawn.
"Oskar…" she whispered, blush deepening. "Do you… like what you see?"
Like it?
He nearly slid right out of the chair.
His voice came out lower than usual.
"Oh yes," he said, forcing the words through a suddenly dry throat. "Very much."
He cleared his throat, his voice rougher than he'd intended.
"Come closer. I need to see how… how the fabric moves on you."
Her breath caught audibly, but after a slight pause, she obeyed.
Each gentle click of her heels against the cold stone floor echoed impossibly loud in the hushed laboratory. With every step, the delicate sway of her hips, the subtle trembling of her legs beneath the nylon, and the increasing flush of her skin became harder and harder for him to ignore. He was losing his internal battle, forgetting his careful calculations in the face of raw, instinctual need.
When she reached him, he took her small hand into his large, calloused fingers, guiding her gently onto his lap with deliberate slowness.
Bertha let out a quiet, startled gasp as she felt his warmth and strength envelop her, pressing fully against his powerful chest. Her bare back, soft and vulnerable, met the solid heat of his body, his broad shoulders and chest surrounding her like armor forged from raw masculinity. Her thighs pressed gently against his, the sheer nylon smooth and cool against the rougher fabric of his trousers.
His hands moved around her waist with instinctive possession, fingers tightening slightly as he felt her shiver beneath his touch. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips, a delicate note of surprise mixed with rising anticipation.
From this angle, he felt her presence intensely: her smaller, feminine frame cradled perfectly within his larger form, her breathing quickening slightly as the air grew charged between them. Something primal and hot stirred deep within his chest, breaking free of carefully maintained restraint.
He no longer remembered exactly when this had shifted from "testing fabric" to something far more intimate. Only that it had. And in the depths of his mind, the part of him still shaped by another life thought clearly, If I truly intend to live this life fully, I cannot pretend any longer that Bertha is only my training partner.
Bertha's body tensed slightly, and he realized with an electrifying clarity that she felt every subtle reaction of his own body: the growing heat, the trembling anticipation, the unmistakable way he had responded to her presence. He did not hide it. He made no attempt to pretend otherwise.
Slowly, with quiet courage, Bertha allowed her hands to fall from where they guarded her modesty, revealing herself fully to him for the first time—soft curves, pale skin flushed gently pink, her breathing quickened by vulnerability and trust. Her eyes held his unwaveringly, open, honest, impossibly brave in their clarity.
Then, with her delicate fingers trembling, she reached for his large hands and carefully guided them upward, allowing him to feel the fullness and softness of her, her heartbeat racing beneath her skin. Her breath quickened, her chest rising gently into his touch, silently communicating, I trust you, I choose you.
"Oskar…" she breathed softly, her voice trembling with sincerity, vulnerability, and longing. "All this time, when you told me to grow stronger, healthier, ready to bear strong children…"
She swallowed, gathering courage.
"I couldn't help but think… What if those children weren't Gustav's."
His hands froze, his entire being held captive by her words.
She continued softly, almost desperately, "What if they were yours instead?"
Her words hung between them like an electric charge, tension so powerful it was almost physical. For all his careful planning, his silent rationalizations, his subtle calculations—he had never expected her to voice this wish aloud, so openly, so honestly.
She turned her face slightly, eyes bright and glistening, gazing up at him with heartbreaking openness.
"Why won't you help me, Your Highness?" she whispered softly. "If you truly want the Krupp children to be strong… then bless me with your strength instead. Let my children be like yours—healthy, powerful, clever… beautiful, like their father."
His breath caught in his throat. She was not speaking out of duty, or manipulation. Her words were pure, genuine desire. Not for the prince, or the visionary—but for him, the man who now held her, the man who had teased and trained and challenged her, the one who saw beyond her status and name, who saw the woman she truly was.
His carefully maintained caution finally crumbled beneath the quiet force of her sincerity and the warmth of her trust. He lowered his mouth to her neck, brushing a slow, heated kiss along her skin, savoring the soft, intoxicating shiver that rippled through her.
She gasped, her fingers gripping tightly onto his forearm, clinging to him as though afraid she might fall if she let go.
"Alright Bertha," he murmured huskily, his voice filled with restrained passion and undeniable command, lips brushing against her throat. "I'll give it to you—but only if you ask nicely."
She trembled, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper, urgent, yet impossibly vulnerable.
"Please, Oskar…" she begged softly, her words almost lost beneath her breathing. "Make me yours. At least once, before it's too late. I've wanted you since the very first moment I saw you."
Her hands traced the powerful lines of his muscular arms, holding on as if her very existence depended upon his strength.
He knew he should resist.
He didn't.
"Bertha…" he said, voice deep, roughened by restraint and desire. "If we cross this line, it remains our secret. Are you certain?"
"Yes," she answered firmly, her voice steady and certain. "I want only you."
She turned her head, and their lips met gently at first, but quickly grew hungrier as Oskar deepened the kiss, dominating her mouth with unmistakable possession. His tongue claimed hers decisively, leaving no question of his intent as she yielded completely, surrendering herself without hesitation.
His powerful arms tightened around her, pulling her firmly against him as his hands explored her boldly, reclaiming her soft, generous curves with possessive authority. Her full, rounded breasts filled his hands perfectly, their softness yielding beneath his strong touch. He massaged them slowly yet firmly, savoring their weight and warmth, the gentle rhythm of their movement beneath his palms drawing shivers of anticipation from her trembling form. His fingers teased and gently pinched her sensitive nipples, eliciting soft, involuntary gasps that escaped from her parted lips.
Bertha arched her back instinctively, pressing herself even closer, breathless, completely overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of his touch. Her mind spun as his hand moved lower with deliberate purpose, slipping beneath her short skirt to explore her most sensitive folds, teasing her expertly, coaxing her open with practiced patience and skill.
Her breathing quickened sharply, each quiet moan a surrender as he guided her toward readiness. Then, when he felt she was fully prepared, his powerful hands moved slowly beneath her smooth nylon tights, gripping her firmly yet with gentle care as he effortlessly lifted her into position. She gasped softly, calling out his name, her voice shattering slightly as she felt him—the hard, heated strength of him pressing insistently against her entrance.
He lowered her onto him gently yet without hesitation, claiming her fully with a slow, deliberate thrust. The overwhelming sensation made her gasp sharply, her body tensing in surprise and awe, pain and pleasure mingling inseparably as he claimed her first time. A faint trace of blood marked the depth of her surrender to him, a silent promise sealed between them.
His powerful embrace held her securely, dominant yet protective, allowing her body the necessary moments to adjust fully to his overwhelming size. She trembled against him, breath hitching softly, and consciousness briefly slipped from her grasp as sensation overtook her entirely.
When awareness returned moments later, he remained deeply within her, still cradling her firmly against his powerful chest. She took a deep breath, feeling both utterly vulnerable and perfectly safe in his unwavering embrace.
In that dim, quiet room, surrounded by gleaming machinery, nylon prototypes, and blueprints of a distant future, Prince Oskar of Prussia had irrevocably claimed Bertha Krupp as far more than merely his training partner.
The moments that followed unfolded in quiet intensity—whispered pleas, breathless laughter, shared heat, and a passion so complete it allowed no room for thought, only feeling.
When at last it was finished, the lamps burned softly, their light dimmed to gentle, intimate shadows. Machinery stood silent, forgotten; blueprints lay still, momentarily irrelevant.
Bertha rested against Oskar's broad chest, her breathing deep, slow, content. A faint, satisfied smile played gently at the corners of her mouth.
Oskar held her protectively, one hand gently tracing comforting patterns along her back, the other resting purposefully over her stomach, a wordless acknowledgment of the significance and consequence of what had just occurred between them.
If fate could indeed be reshaped, he had just decisively set it upon a new path.
Deep within him, beneath the prince, beneath the visionary who was rewriting history, the young gamer who had once watched history from afar thought, "Whatever future now unfolds, the Krupp heir will carry my blood, and nothing will ever be the same."
In the secret basement of the Potsdam palace, under the weight of stone and empire, nylon was no longer the most world-changing thing Oskar had created.
Not anymore.
And although Oskar felt a flicker of guilt about lying with Bertha, it was the sort of guilt that didn't really bite.
He would never dare claim her publicly—touching the Krupp heiress in that way was already playing with fire. To try and turn her into "his woman" would bring his father's wrath, a court scandal, and possibly half the officer corps fainting in outrage.
But in the privacy of his mind?
He felt almost… virtuous.
Everyone whispered that he was "the people's prince." Well, then—wasn't he simply providing a great service to the Krupp family? His body in this life was absurdly strong, his health ridiculous, his children so far almost unnaturally robust. Compared to the somewhat fragile nobles and industrial dynasties of Europe, his blood seemed like reinforced concrete.
If a child of his and Bertha's could quietly shore up the shaky Krupp bloodline, wasn't that good for Germany?
He told himself yes.
And thus life went on—quite literally.
While the basement laboratory of Villa Hügel became the place where Oskar bent the future of chemistry, nylon, synthetic rubber and oils, the palace study remained the place where he reshaped culture.
Below ground: bubbling beakers, faint chemical smells, experiments on polymer threads and ersatz fuels.
Above ground: ink, paper, ideas.
While Oskar and Bertha continued their "testing sessions" with nylon at least twice a week, and while synthetic fuel and rubber prototypes slowly took shape in glassware, Oskar pushed forward on what he had discovered was the easiest, fastest, most unstoppable money machine in the world, "Books."
So far First Aid for Dummies and German Man, Volume 1 together were throwing off nearly a hundred million marks a year. It was insane. Steel and engines needed coal, factories, shipyards. Books just needed paper, ink, and people who wanted to dream or learn.
So he doubled down on Books, Comics and Games. They were cheap to print, cheap to ship, impossible to stop.
Metal and engines might win wars, he decided, but books and stories win hearts and minds.
So he unleashed the next wave with German Man, Volume 2 first.
Thanks to his writing team and artists, the second issue was completed in a frenzy of late nights and ink-splattered sketches. Where Volume 1 had shocked Germany with its colourful pages, dramatic heroics, and the Molemen's Emergence Day, Volume 2 took the insanity to a new level.
German Man no longer just rescued kittens, lifted wagons, and fought Molemen under Berlin.
This time he crossed the border.
In Volume 2, the caped hero flew into France to defend Paris itself from Ratbag the Mole Warlord and his hordes of burrowing, armour‑wearing, drill‑tunnel shock troops. German Man and French soldiers fighting shoulder to shoulder, shouting the same battle cry, "For humanity!"
It was half science fiction, half fantasy, half geopolitical satire—logic be damned—and decades ahead of anything in Europe.
Children devoured it.
Adults, especially in France, bought it "for the children" and then read it themselves in secret.
Teachers complained it was "too exciting" and "far too imaginative."
Which, of course, sent sales through the roof.
For Oskar, it wasn't just about profit. It was a deliberate message:
even Germans and French, after all their quarrels, could stand together against something worse.
Karl reported, almost dizzy, that Volume 2 outsold Volume 1 by nearly double in its first week.
Then came the two "serious" books.
If comics were candy, these were meant to be bread and meat. The first was titled simply, "Prince Oskar's Guide to Healthy Eating."
Inside were explanations of balanced diet, protein, fats, vegetables, vitamins—and, shockingly for 1906, calories. There were simple, tasty recipes using common ingredients, little diagrams, and step‑by‑step instructions written as if for children so that anyone could understand.
Housewives loved it.
Noble ladies loved it.
Anyone who wanted a narrower waist, better skin, or more energy suddenly had a prince-approved excuse to change how their homes cooked.
The second book was, "Prince Oskar's Guide to Staying Fit and Beautiful."
It laid out daily exercise routines, stretches, strength work, simple "heart and lung" training, and gentle explanations of how muscles grew and fat shrank.
There were even sections for, "men who wanted bulk and power, women who wanted to stay slim and graceful, older people who wanted to stay mobile instead of fading quietly into a chair."
It wasn't the same as attending a Pump World gym. But for people who lived far away or could never afford a membership, it was a door opening.
Some schools quietly adopted the book.
Factory owners, wanting to look modern and benevolent, began simple morning exercises with their workers.
Women—both noble and common—secretly did the routines in their rooms.
And scattered through the text were Oskar's favourite little lines, "Pain is temporary, but if you quit, the regret lasts forever."
Most of all, the German nation's body was quietly changing, one page and one stretch at a time.
And every cover carried the same name, "Written by Prince Oskar of Germany."
But even that was not enough for him.
He could have simply stolen a story like Star Wars or Lord of the Rings from his old world memory, or rewritten The Art of War for the West and retired on the profits.
It felt lazy.
So instead, his Asian nerd brain turned toward something else, "Board games."
When he wasn't handling rubber synthesis, arguing with chemists, or enduring Bertha's enthusiastic "nylon testing," he drew hexes, sketched maps, and designed tiles and tokens.
Soon, with the help of his team, the first great game was ready, "The Game of Napoleonic Conquest."
A grand‑strategy board game with dice, colourful plastic armies, and a map of Europe carved into regions. Players picked nations, manoeuvred troops, formed alliances, betrayed one another, and fought to dominate the continent.
Within weeks of its release, cafés were full of students and officers hunched over the map, arguing over troop movements and supply lines, learning basic strategy without realizing it.
It was essentially Risk—but earlier, sharper, and very European.
A second game followed: a proto‑Monopoly.
Buying streets. Building shops. Charging rent. Risking scandal. Going bankrupt. Clawing your way back. Laughing, swearing, learning how money actually worked.
Merchants adored it.
Their children did too.
Across Germany, people began to joke that the Fifth Prince invented more in a month than some men did in a lifetime.
Oskar mostly tried not to think about it. The more everyone said things like that, the more he felt like an overclocked computer about to melt.
But he had one more quiet layer to all this.
Every book, every comic, every board game he sold in Austria‑Hungary was printed only in German.
If people in Vienna or Budapest or the Balkans wanted to read German Man, cook like Prince Oskar, or play Napoleonic Conquest, they had to learn enough German to manage it.
Just a little.
Enough to read simple sentences.
Enough to shout German phrases during game night.
Enough to feel that German was not some enemy tongue, but a shared language of fun and knowledge.
If, one day, the Balkans and Central Europe were full of people who all knew a bit of German thanks to his silly games and comics… well, that would not be a bad thing for future alliances, and that nation's unity.
By early June 1906, the river of Marks flowing into the Oskar Industrial Group had become a flood.
AngelWorks profits climbed.
Pump World profits doubled again.
SafetyWorks exports grew.
Every book sold faster than the printers could stack pages. German Man volumes were being traded like treasure on schoolyards.
Board games became a middle‑class status symbol. In the modern world, children went to those friends who had the newest game console. In 1906 Germany, children and adults alike went to that one friend whose family owned the latest Oskar board game.
And unlike steel or engines, which ate raw materials and labour…
Books, comics, and games cost almost nothing to make.
It was pure margin.
Karl hunched behind his mountain of papers, twitching every time a new report landed on his desk. His projections told the same unbelievable story:
just from books, comics, and board games alone, Oskar was on track to earn an extra hundred to two hundred million Marks a year.
Cheap to produce.
Hard to counterfeit well.
Irresistible to anyone with eyes and a bit of spare money.
For 1906, it was revolutionary.
And somewhere between the laboratories, printing presses, and toy shops, Prince Oskar of Germany was becoming something new and faintly frightening, "A cultural force, or even a polarising international icon whose ideas were seeping into homes, kitchens, classrooms, and café tables, one page, one panel, one little plastic army at a time."
By 17 June 1906, Berlin had grown used to surprises from the Fifth Prince.
Even so, people on their way to Pump World, AngelWorks, or the tram stopped and stared when they saw the German Welfare Lottery Company's headquarters wrapped in heavy black tarpaulin from street to roof. The building loomed like a sealed monument on the boulevard, its purpose suddenly obscured.
Curious Berliners asked the clerks at the ticket windows what was happening.
"All will be revealed tomorrow," they were told with mysterious smiles.
The next morning, 18 June, the tarpaulin was gone.
In its place, a single enormous poster covered the façade.
On the left, a tall, absurdly muscular young man in a fitted riding coat straddled a powerful motorcycle, its frame gleaming, its stance predatory. The man, of course, was Oskar himself, helmet under one arm, wind in his hair, every line of his body screaming speed and confidence.
On the right, a second motorcycle: smaller, exquisitely painted in deep red, with curved fenders and a lower seat. Tanya, visibly five months pregnant, but radiant, leaned forward over the handlebars, blonde hair flying behind her, smiling at the viewer. For many women who saw it, the temptation was instant and undeniable.
"Mein Gott, what has the Prince invented now?" a young worker in an Albrecht Safety Works coat blurted, stopping dead in the street. "Is that thing real?"
"Oh heavens, it's beautiful…" a middle‑class woman in Pump World sweats breathed. "Does anyone know where they're selling it? I'd ride that anywhere."
Crowds gathered.
Within hours the same advertisement appeared in Leipzig, Hamburg, Munich, Cologne, and half a dozen other cities. Lottery kiosks across the Empire sprouted smaller versions of the design, along with a new promotion: special tickets whose grand prize was not only money but one of two "Muscle Motors" motorcycles.
The name spread in days.
Newspapers were bought out the instant they arrived at stands. On the inside pages, paid adverts explained what the giant posters only hinted at, "Two new machines from a new company, Muscle Motors, created by Daimler, financed and fronted by Prince Oskar."
A heavier "Herrenmaschine" for men. A lighter, elegant "Damenmaschine" for women.
Both promised unheard‑of reliability, a top speed that made cab horses look pathetic, and a level of style that turned heads even standing still.
Germany, the adverts promised, would be the first in the world allowed to buy them.
The only catch, "They would not be available for sale until 27 July 1906."
"My God, a whole month?" a young man groaned, raking his hands through his hair. "How are we supposed to wait that long?"
"I'll bet they're releasing it on His Highness's birthday," a girl in braided pigtails said with conviction. "So the whole Empire can celebrate with him. You'll see, 27 July exactly."
She was right.
While anticipation built, Daimler's men spent that month furiously buying or leasing shopfronts in every major German city. These new premises, marked with the bold, double M, MUSCLE MOTORS sign, would not only sell motorcycles but also handle repairs and spare parts, the embryo of a proper dealership network.
When 27 July finally arrived, it felt as if half of Germany had decided to throw a party with Oskar.
In Berlin, Hamburg, Munich, Cologne and beyond, exhibition grounds and public squares were packed. Banners fluttered, street vendors shouted, and noisy crowds surged toward rope barriers and polished display stands where the new machines waited.
The first production run was modest by Oskar's standards, "10,000 men's machines, 10,000 women's machines."
The Herrenmaschine, larger, heavier, aggressive, was priced at 1,500 Marks.
The Damenmaschine, lighter, lower, beautifully finished, cost 1,000 Marks.
For 1906, these prices were brutal.
A good worker might earn 80–120 Marks a month. Even a factory foreman or junior officer thought twice before dropping a year's wages on something that could neither plough a field nor pull a wagon.
But price did not kill desire.
Men in their Sunday coats and caps crowded the lines, eyes devouring every curve of the fuel tanks and frames. Some muttered numbers under their breath, already designing saving plans and bargaining with themselves.
Young engineers and clerks stared at the engines the way priests stared at relics.
Women circled the Damenmaschine, fingertips brushing the paint, whispering about wind in their hair and the shocking idea of going somewhere without a carriage, a husband, or a timetable. The fact that the poster's version had a clearly pregnant Tanya riding it only made the freedom seem more attainable, not less.
"It's too expensive!" a young man in line complained loudly.
A broad‑shouldered miner behind him snorted. "Idiot. Have you ever seen anything like it? Shut up if you're not buying. Some of us will."
The young man bristled. "Who said I'm not buying? I was only complaining. If I don't grab one now, who knows when I'll get another chance?"
His fear was justified.
By the end of that first day, all 20,000 motorcycles were gone.
At the same time, another novelty appeared on German streets.
In Berlin and a few other large cities, small plots of land at busy corners now held strange new structures with bright Muscle Motors signage: simple, low buildings with a few fuel pumps out front and shelves of food, drink, and basic travel supplies inside.
They were christened Muscle Motors Pump Stations.
You could ride in, buy fuel for your machine, and walk away with bread, sausage, milk, sweets, even a newspaper for the journey. In an era with no real convenience stores and no true gas stations, Oskar had quietly invented both at once.
Within weeks, every other industrialist in Europe would be watching them and taking notes.
That afternoon, before returning to the palace for his joint birthday celebration with his triplets, Oskar rode his own motorcycle through central Berlin.
His bike looked like something stolen from the 1970s and smuggled back in time: muscular frame, low aggressive stance, roaring exhaust note. He wore a skull‑face helmet, goggles, leather gloves and pads, half knight, half demon on two wheels.
When he arrived at the main Berlin dealership, the crowd erupted. People shouted his name. Some women latched shamelessly onto his arms; one bold mother plopped her snot‑nosed son onto his shoulders for a moment so the boy could "see what a real prince looks like."
Oskar laughed, posed, and then his gaze snagged on the man Karl had hired to manage this flagship shop.
A slim young fellow from Austria‑Hungary with a carefully combed dark fringe and an already ambitious little moustache, standing on a crate and delivering an impassioned sales pitch to the crowd as if speaking in a parliament.
His German was sharp, his gestures dramatic, his eyes burning with conviction about the greatness of Muscle Motors and the Prince who stood behind it.
When Karl introduced them, Oskar almost dropped his helmet.
The young man bowed quickly, eyes shining.
"It is the greatest honor to work for Your Highness," he said. "I came from Vienna for this chance. To sell your machines. To help build a new Germany."
His name, he said, was Adolf Hitler.
Not the hardened, broken veteran Oskar remembered from history documentaries. Just a skinny, intense, slightly awkward twenty‑something with too much energy and too many opinions, now a fanboying dealership manager in Oskar's expanding empire.
Life, Oskar thought faintly, truly had a sense of humor.
He kept it brief, complimented the moustache, encouraged the man to keep up the "good speeches," and then excused himself. He still had a palace full of guests, three toddlers' birthday cakes, and a sulking Crown Prince to deal with.
That night, the party at the palace went about as well as could be expected.
The Empress cooed over the triplets. The Kaiser beamed at his son. Ministers spoke of "the Prince's extraordinary year." Even Crown Princess Cecilie smiled politely and danced a turn with Oskar.
Crown Prince Wilhelm drank too much and glowered from the edge of the room, pretending he absolutely was not glowering.
The next morning, the numbers came in.
"Your Highness, this is unbelievable!" Paul Daimler almost shouted when he burst into Oskar's office. "All twenty thousand motorcycles sold out in a single day! When did the German people's purchasing power become this strong?"
Oskar lounged back in his chair with a satisfied smile.
"My man Daimler, of course they can afford it," he said. "We've been paying workers and staff well for years so that they can. And this is only the beginning. Those first buyers are now our best advertisements, riding around every town, letting people hear the engine and see the machine. Soon everyone will want one. Orders will fall on your factory like the leaves in Autumn. Are you ready?"
Daimler straightened, excitement and a hint of panic in his eyes.
"The company is as ready as it can be. After these twenty thousand, we still have another twenty thousand machines in stock. With the expanded lines, we can reach a production capacity of about forty thousand motorcycles per month, including some for export."
He sounded proud. It was, by any normal measure, enormous.
Oskar only shook his head.
"Forty thousand might not be enough even for Europe," he said. "Demand will grow faster than you think. We'll scale as the markets grow. And more importantly, we must build the infrastructure to support them, real pump stations in every major city and along the main roads, starting with Germany and Austria‑Hungary. Without fuel and service, no machine matters."
Daimler nodded, already calculating.
Outside, somewhere in Berlin, a newborn motorcycle rumbled past a window.
Germany had taken its first step into the motor age.
And as always, at the center of it, stood the Fifth Prince and his impossible ideas.