While Crown Prince Wilhelm's mind frayed inside his gilded cage at Babelsberg—pacing in circles, muttering to himself, clutching a wine bottle like it was the last thing he owned—the rest of the world kept moving.
Germany braced for a new year.
Oskar healed, slow but stubborn.
And far across the Atlantic, Karl Bergmann had already stepped into another world, with three Eternal Guards at his back.
The voyage itself took nine long days.
Nine days of grey water and colder wind.
Nine days of seasickness, tin plates, crying babies, and families who had fled the rising anger in Germany.
One day in particular, Gunther nearly threw an old pickpocket overboard for trying to steal Karl's beloved umbrella-cane.
Karl spent most of the crossing wrapped in blankets on deck, leg propped up, doing his best to look like a respectable man of business while secretly praying he wouldn't throw up in front of everyone whenever the ship rolled.
On the morning of the ninth day, the fog thinned.
A murmur spread across the deck.
Then she appeared.
The Statue of Liberty rose out of the mist, arm lifted high. Around Karl, people gasped, wept, crossed themselves, or simply stared with eyes that had been hollow a moment before and were now full of trembling hope.
To most, she was a promise:
A new life. A second chance.
To Karl, she was something else:
> That would look very good in Hamburg, he thought.
Except taller. And with Oskar holding the torch or a sword.
Behind her, the skyline slowly revealed itself.
Not church spires and palace domes, but a jagged forest of steel and brick.
Warehouses, factories, office blocks.
Cranes like iron skeletons along the docks.
Rooftop tanks and smoke stacks.
More glass than Karl had ever seen in his life, glittering in the winter light.
Later, he would say that by the time the liner slid into its berth, he felt less like a German banker and more like a 15th-century peasant who had accidentally walked into the future.
He limped down the gangway with his umbrella-cane and his three "fishermen" (who moved like soldiers no matter how hard they tried not to), and the first thing he noticed:
The tide had reversed.
On the docks, ethnic Germans queued with bags and suitcases to board ships back to Hamburg—faces set, determined to "go home" to the land where Prince Oskar lived and to the promise of a better future under his reforms.
At the very same time, Poles, Danes, Jews, and others stepped onto American soil with cheap luggage and wide eyes. The ones Germany had pushed away were coming to the United States for a chance at life, while some Germans were leaving the United States to return to Germany.
The second thing Karl noticed hit even harder.
New York moved differently.
Automobiles were everywhere.
Not curiosities, not rich men's toys—just normal. Dozens at a time, snorting and rattling over wide black-paved roads smoother than anything in Berlin. Electric trams screamed along their tracks, sparks flashing under the wires. Streetlights glowed even under low clouds.
Crowds surged at crossings:
Businessmen in sharp suits.
Dockworkers with shirts rolled to the elbow.
Street boys weaving between carts.
Women in hats and gloves walking with the quick, decisive step of people who had places to be.
Immigrants shouting over each other in a dozen languages.
It was loud.
It was fast.
It was chaotic.
And beneath the chaos, Karl could feel it:
Money.
Motion.
Momentum.
Then, on a street corner, he saw something that nearly made him laugh out loud.
A big colourful poster:
> PEOPLE'S WELFARE LOTTERY – AMERICAN BRANCH
GRAND PRIZE: 50,000 DOLLARS
"PLAY FOR HOPE. PLAY FOR OTHERS. THERE IS NO TRY, ONLY DO."
Below it, a line of Americans waited patiently to buy tickets. Some wore Angelworks shirts or scarves. They argued about numbers, joked about what they'd do with the money, and assured each other that it was "for a good cause" because part of the proceeds went to charity.
Even here, on another continent, Oskar's ideas were rooted deep.
Karl couldn't help a crooked smile.
He had known from reports, from ledgers and letters, that the American branch of the lottery and Angelworks were profitable. But numbers on paper were one thing.
Seeing it in person—in this roaring, glittering, impossible city—was another.
For the first time, standing in New York's winter air, Karl truly understood why the American market had become such a goldmine for the Oskar Industrial Group.
And why, if Germany wanted to stand beside such places and not behind them—
Oskar's insane, relentless pace of change back home was not madness at all.
It was necessity.
They pushed through the crush of bodies on the streets, hailed a cab willing to take four oddly-proportioned "Businessmen," and rattled westward into Manhattan's veins of steel and noise.
Karl pressed his face to the window like an enchanted child.
Then—like a horrified adult.
New York was impressive, yes.
Magnificent, yes.
But it also stank.
A yellowish haze clung to the streets like a permanent ghost.
Coal smoke poured from rooftops.
Factories belched black clouds that made Potsdam's carefully filtered chimneys look like polite teapots.
He coughed once.
Gunther patted his back sympathetically.
"Air taste like poison, Herr Karl."
"It is poison, Gunther," Karl muttered, waving the haze from his nose. "And we thought Berlin was bad."
The scale of New York was something no German city could match. Not only was the crowds tens of thousands strong churned between buildings, but all the buildings in this city rose like cliffs.
Karl realized something unpleasant but true:
> "Germany isn't behind in intelligence," he murmured to himself.
"Just in… size."
Even the filth proved it.
What Germany lacked in population and chaos it could compensate for with Oskar's ideas, but only if they kept sprinting.
They lodged in a noisy hotel for the night—a place full of jazz, shouting, drunk businessmen, and wallpaper that peeled if you breathed too hard at it. Karl did not sleep. Gunther did, loudly.
In the morning, Karl bought train tickets west.
The Eternal Guards practiced English on the platform.
"I would like… one ham-bur-ger," one said slowly.
"I am… tourist," another added proudly.
Gunther attempted:
"Please stop stabbing me."
Karl whacked him with the umbrella-cane.
"NO, don't use that word! You will scare the people."
Two days by uncomfortable rail brought them past the guts of America—coal towns, endless farms, steel mills glowing like fiery temples, and wide open spaces that made Germany look like a dollhouse.
At last they arrived in Dayton, Ohio.
Small. Industrial. Busy. Proud.
A far cry from Manhattan—but exactly where genius hid.
The Wright brothers greeted him with polite curiosity and suspicion in equal measure.
Their workshop smelled of sawdust and ambition.
Karl admired their gliders.
Their engines.
Their bicycles.
He complimented their designs so vigorously he nearly pulled a muscle.
Then, when the timing felt right, he made his pitch:
German citizenship.
Land.
Labs.
Unlimited funding.
A partnership with the world's most exciting (and strangest) prince.
A chance to reshape aviation forever—not from a shed in Ohio, but from the industrial heart of Europe.
Wilbur and Orville Wright listened.
Then exchanged a glance.
Then shook their heads.
Not out of disrespect.
Not out of fear.
But because they had opinions.
They had followed the newspapers.
They had seen the German innovations spreading across Europe.
They had bought Oskar's books.
They even had an AngelWorks ballpoint pen on their workbench.
And they didn't believe any of it.
"Your prince," Orville said cautiously, "he's only eighteen, yes?"
"Ja," Karl answered proudly.
Wilbur rubbed his temples.
"That's the problem."
They explained—embarrassed, but firm:
They believed Oskar was a propaganda puppet.
No single teenager could invent that much, that quickly.
Germany must have found some secret lost archive of ancient knowledge.
Or perhaps a hidden group of geniuses were feeding the prince ideas to make Germany look more advanced.
(Technically, they were correct. Germany had found a lost archive of impossible knowledge—his name was Oskar.)
Karl tried to explain.
They didn't believe him.
Not even slightly.
And then came the final blow:
"We're Americans," Orville said.
"Our parents are buried here.
Our future is here.
We'll work with Germany—perhaps.
But we will not leave America."
And that was that.
Karl walked out of the workshop with:
• a migraine,
• a bruised ego,
• the sinking realization that he had failed his prince,
• and Gunther patting him on the back saying, "We beat them next time, Herr Karl."
The Eternal Guards dragged him back to the hotel before he could collapse from stress.
Meanwhile, inside the workshop, the brothers stared at each other.
"These Germans," Wilbur muttered.
"They want our secrets."
Orville nodded.
"And that prince… I don't trust it. Nobody that young is that brilliant."
They went back to their gliders.
Karl went back to bed, and there he lay awake that night in the hotel, staring at the ceiling, knowing one thing: failing once didn't mean the mission was over. Not while there was still one insane card left in his suitcase.