After Oskar visited Princess Gundelinda, his life changed.
Not because Bavaria had bewitched him. Not because he'd suddenly become a romantic prince from a picture book. And certainly not because his work had become less important.
His life changed for a simpler reason:
His household declared war.
He returned to Potsdam expecting the usual—letters, meetings, schedules, another stack of reports tall enough to build a small wall between him and sleep.
Instead, he found himself confronted right outside his door.
Tanya was waiting.
So was Anna.
And behind them—like a tiny, wobbling honor guard—came six stubborn little toddlers, all toddling in the same direction with the same grim determination, as if the entire family had been summoned to court for judgment.
Tanya's belly was so large it looked like the final stage of a siege. Her hands were folded over it—partly protective, partly theatrical—under the weight of her heavy breasts as she looked up at him with the calm, deadly composure of a woman who had decided she was done being patient.
Anna stood half a step behind her, quieter as always, but her eyes held the same verdict.
Tanya spoke first.
"Until that little girl comes of age, Oskar," she said, voice sweet in the way sugar hid poison, "you are not seeing her again."
Oskar blinked.
Tanya didn't let him find words.
"And enough funny business with Cecilie and Bertha," she added. "They are grown women. They do not need you 'taking care' of anything."
She turned her head slightly, without looking away from him.
"Tell him, Anna."
Anna—timid, softer—still managed to sound terrifying when she agreed.
"Yes," she said. "No more funny business. And if you don't do as we say, you'll sleep in your office from now on."
Oskar stared at them, genuinely stunned.
Then he looked down.
The toddlers behind them were pouting too.
One had arms folded, imitating Tanya's posture with absurd seriousness. Another glared up at him as if he'd personally betrayed the entire empire. A third tried to copy Anna's "quiet disappointment" face and somehow made it more insulting than an adult could manage.
It was like being judged by a jury of angry ducklings.
Oskar raised both hands immediately.
"Surrender," he said, tone earnest. "Complete surrender."
Tanya's eyebrow lifted.
Oskar hurried on before she could sharpen the knife.
"Wait—listen," he said, stepping closer, careful not to startle the toddlers into a revolt. "You misunderstand what I was doing. I was trying to make my father and mother stop hounding me about a 'proper' noble bride. I thought… if I showed them I had options, they would relax."
He swallowed, then said the truth plainly, because Tanya and Anna always knew when he tried to wriggle.
"But you two," he said quietly, "are my first two women. And you are the two most important things in my life."
Anna's mouth tightened—like she wanted to believe him and hated that she wanted to.
Oskar kept his voice steady.
"You," he said to Tanya, "and you," he said to Anna, "and these little tyrants—are what make the work worth it."
His gaze flicked down again. One toddler immediately looked away as if ashamed of being seen.
Oskar's voice softened.
"Every day I leave to build Germany, I do it because I want to come back to this." He gestured helplessly at the entire formation: two women, six toddlers, and a wall of stubborn love that could apparently overthrow princes.
"And my promise still stands," he said, firm now. "I will marry you both. Together. Equally. At the same moment. I swear it. No one will convince me otherwise."
He took one more step, hands still raised as if approaching a wild animal.
"So… please," he said, almost pleading now, "forgive me."
Then, because Oskar was Oskar and couldn't help himself, he added with a faint, exhausted smile:
"And please let me enter my own room before I am executed in the hallway by my own children."
Tanya held his gaze.
Anna watched him like she was measuring whether his sincerity would collapse under pressure.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Tanya exhaled—sharp and grudging, like a queen allowing mercy.
"Fine," she said.
Anna nodded once.
Oskar moved in quickly, as if mercy might expire.
He wrapped both women in his arms—careful, gentle, reverent—and for a moment the tension cracked. Tanya didn't resist. Anna leaned in. Their warmth hit him like the first breath after surfacing from deep water.
And the toddlers—who had been waiting for their moment—charged.
Tiny hands grabbed his legs. Small bodies pressed against his knees. Someone hugged his calf with total commitment. Another toddler wrapped both arms around his shin and refused to release, as if claiming property.
Oskar laughed under his breath.
"Alright," he murmured. "Alright, I understand. I am owned."
They went inside.
Later, they ended up on the bed—Oskar sitting in the middle, one woman on either side, toddlers crawling and climbing as if the mattress were a battlefield and he was the hilltop prize.
And for once, Oskar did something he didn't often do.
He talked.
Not about ships. Not about ministries. Not about steel, logistics, or the future.
About feelings.
About fear.
About jealousy that wasn't evil, only human.
About the exhausting truth that even a man who could move empires could still be weak where it mattered most—weak to the pull of women, weak to the hunger for affection, weak to the temptation to solve problems by pleasing everyone.
But also the deeper truth:
That while Oskar could be pulled by charm and circumstance, the center of his loyalty did not move.
Tanya and Anna were his home.
This chaotic, crawling, loud household was his home.
And he would protect it.
He would stay true to it.
After that, his contact with Gundelinda became what it was always supposed to be at this stage:
Letters.
Careful, polite, almost sweet.
Nothing more.
And just like so, time moved on.
In August, Bertha gave birth again.
Another son.
This one was named Arnold.
And just like his older brother, Alfried, the resemblance was impossible to ignore: pale blonde hair, icy blue eyes, the unmistakable stamp of Oskar written plainly across the child's face. There was no hiding it. No amount of polite fiction could soften the truth for anyone who looked even briefly.
The Krupp Empire rejoiced, as it always did when a child was born into the family.
The Kaiser did not.
Wilhelm II made no public comment, but his silence carried more weight than any rebuke. He had warned Oskar once. He did not repeat himself.
The message arrived quietly instead.
Oskar noticed that the monthly allowance his father still provided—symbolic more than necessary—vanished without explanation. A small blow, materially insignificant, but unmistakable in meaning.
I see you.
And I disapprove.
The Empress, as ever, chose a gentler interpretation.
At least the bloodline was strong. At least it was spreading. If scandal could not be erased, then it could be wrapped in prosperity, routine, and silence. For Oskar, this translated into more appearances beside her at church, more visible piety, more carefully staged mother-and-son devotion—a public balm applied where truth could not be spoken aloud.
Gustav—Bertha's husband—accepted it all the way he accepted everything.
Quietly.
He loved Bertha. That much was undeniable.
And he knew his place.
To be married into the Krupp family at all was a privilege beyond anything a man of his background could have reasonably imagined. If the price of that privilege was humiliation swallowed behind closed doors, if it meant raising children who did not resemble him and pretending not to notice… then that was simply the cost of his fortune.
He paid it without complaint.
He introduced the boys as his sons. He signed the papers. He smiled when required. And in moments when he thought no one was watching, he could be found studying his own family records—searching for some distant uncle, some long-forgotten ancestor whose features might explain the two unmistakably Hohenzollern children sleeping under his roof.
It was not denial.
It was hope, working desperately to survive reality.
Oskar noticed.
And privately—without pity, without mockery—he respected the man for it.
Along with everything else, that summer brought Oskar relief for another reason.
One early morning, as he went to the stables to retrieve Shadowmane for a ride into town—Karl already waiting to be dragged to Pump World—he heard laughter.
Young, unrestrained laughter.
He stopped.
Hidden by a stall door and a stack of hay, Oskar watched and listened.
There, in a tangled, giggling heap of hay, were Louise and Gustav Schwarzenegger.
The stable boy—no longer a child, but not yet a man—was broad-shouldered, sun-browned, strong from honest work and disciplined training. Louise was laughing into his chest, tears of leftover sadness still clinging to the corners of her eyes.
Between gasps, fragments of the truth spilled out.
Louise had left the coming-of-age banquet hurt and humiliated, convinced she had been pushed aside and forgotten.
And somehow—by accident, by fate, by sheer improbability—she had found comfort in the last person anyone would have expected.
Oskar retreated silently.
He did not interfere.
He understood immediately what this was.
And more importantly—what it could become.
Gustav Schwarzenegger still possessed his fortune: five million marks from the lottery, invested and intact, supplemented by steady income and growing discipline. He was educated. He was loyal. He was physically capable. He was good with horses.
What he lacked was status.
Oskar could fix that.
The next day, without ceremony, Gustav Schwarzenegger received a sealed letter of recommendation bearing the Crown Prince's personal mark.
By week's end, the former stable boy was on his way to the Prussian Military Academy, enrolled in the cavalry track.
Officially, he would learn to ride, command, and serve.
Unofficially, Oskar already saw further ahead.
Cavalry today.
Armor tomorrow.
When tanks came—and they would—men who understood machines and movement would be needed.
Louise cried when Gustav left.
But she cried with hope, not desperation.
And she thanked Oskar.
That alone made the decision worthwhile.
Later that year, on the Autumn Equinox, September 23rd, 1908, the bells rang again.
Tanya gave birth to another son.
Aureliel.
Anna gave birth to another daughter.
Sereniel.
Both children were healthy. Strong. Marked by the now-familiar silver-blonde hair and deep violet-grey eyes that had become synonymous with Oskar's bloodline.
Germany celebrated.
Church bells rang from cities to villages. Newspapers printed engravings. People spoke of blessing and fortune.
The Kaiser and Empress were… complicated.
Bertha's second son still sat poorly with Wilhelm II, but the sheer scale of Oskar's growing household made outrage impractical. The Empress, ever pragmatic, chose again to frame it as abundance rather than scandal.
The empire moved on.
So did Oskar.
Despite the births, the family tensions, the books, and the quiet cultural revolution unfolding under his name, Oskar knew something fundamental.
Stories were powerful.
They shaped identity.
They created unity.
Ronald Tolkien and his younger brother, plus Edith along with a fantastical German writing team, all of them had been making books. They were great books, but stories did not stop artillery.
No amount of knights slaying dragons, no volume of illustrated histories of ancient Germany, no myth—however compelling—would decide the outcome of a modern war.
The books sold well. Internationally. They strengthened pride. They softened divisions.
But they were not enough.
And Oskar had been resting long enough, and now it was time to look at guns again.
In October 1908, word came from Krupp.
The 343mm naval gun—long planned, carefully engineered—had completed development. Mass production could begin immediately.
At the same time, work formally commenced on the 380mm main gun.
A monster.
An investment that would reshape naval warfare.
Krupp committed fully.
So did Oskar.
Then, in November, Imperial Weapons Works—Oskar's joint venture with Krupp—delivered results that finally made him smile without restraint.
The light weapons program had succeeded.
Semi-automatic rifles.
Dedicated sniper systems.
Squad automatic weapons.
General-purpose machine guns.
Mortars.
Grenade launchers.
All completed.
All entering testing.
Oskar allowed himself one rare moment of satisfaction.
There were still years before 1914.
If war came, Germany would not march into it with yesterday's tools.
And it was precisely because of that—because time still existed, because preparation still mattered—that Gustav Krupp made a special trip to the palace.
Not to Essen. Not to some factory office thick with soot and shouting.
To Oskar's private study, where the air smelled of paper, ink, and the quiet pressure of decisions.
Krupp arrived like a man bringing good news wrapped in bad reality.
"Your Highness," he said after the proper greetings, "we have completed development on all the weapons you requested. They are undergoing final testing now. I've consulted the specialists—there should be no major technical obstacles. If all proceeds as expected, the testing phase will be completed within a month."
He paused, eyes intent.
"So—what do we do next?"
Oskar leaned back slightly, hands clasped, mind already moving.
"My man, Mister Krupp," he said, half amused and half deadly serious, "if the tests go smoothly, then we do the obvious thing."
He tapped the papers.
"We sell them to the Army."
Krupp's mouth twitched—almost a smile—but the expression didn't hold.
"Your Highness," he said carefully, "these weapons are indeed advanced. But that does not mean the Army will actually purchase them."
Oskar blinked.
He genuinely hadn't expected that answer.
"…Why?" he asked, voice sharpening.
Had the Army gone mad? Was the General Staff truly so addicted to tradition that it would reject tools that could save German lives?
Krupp did not enjoy being the man who said unpleasant truths, but he said them anyway.
"Because they will be more expensive," Krupp answered. "Not ruinously—but enough to make accountants and procurement officers hesitate. Especially the amount of bullets these weapons use is extreme, which adds more to the cost."
He leaned in slightly.
"And because Mauser and Rheinmetall will fight us with everything they have. Their connections inside the Army are no less extensive than ours. They will whisper. They will obstruct. They will claim our designs are 'unproven' or 'too complex' or 'unnecessary, or they can just make their weapons so cheap that there will be no competing with them.'"
Oskar exhaled slowly.
Of course.
A weapon didn't win just because it was better.
It won because people allowed it to exist.
If Imperial Weapons Works captured the Army's contracts, Mauser and Rheinmetall would bleed market share. They would not accept that quietly. To them, this wasn't innovation—it was survival.
Oskar's status would not stop them.
Krupp's weight would not stop them.
Because when money and prestige were threatened, pride became a religion.
Oskar nodded once.
He understood.
And understanding only made him more stubborn.
"Even so," he said, voice calm now, "we don't stop."
Krupp watched him.
Oskar's eyes hardened—pure future-focused conviction.
"Everything we're doing," Oskar continued, "is for Germany's survival. If we let procurement games delay rearmament, then the price will be paid later in blood."
He leaned forward.
"So here's what we do."
He spoke as if laying down doctrine.
"Next—before Christmas—we hold a demonstration at the firing range, a big one."
Krupp's eyes narrowed slightly, listening closely.
"I will invite His Majesty," Oskar said. "And the General Staff. All of them. Let the generals see the weapons with their own eyes. Let them watch what these rifles and machine guns do in skilled hands."
He paused, then added, almost casually:
"And we'll use the Eternal Guard as operators."
Krupp gave a faint, approving nod.
The Guard didn't just follow orders.
They performed them.
They made efficiency look like religion, and they kept their mouths shut.
"As long as the weapons perform exceptionally," Oskar said, "the generals will not be able to lie to themselves. And if they agree publicly—if they praise it in front of the Kaiser—then even if Mauser and Rheinmetall scream, they'll have nothing they can legally do."
Krupp's expression turned grim with satisfaction.
"That is one way," he said. "And I will leverage our connections as well. We will break through the obstruction. Nothing will stop us."
They clasped hands—businesslike, decisive—
like two men who most certainly did not discuss the fact that one of them was raising another man's children under his own name.
History, as usual, ignored the personal tragedy and watched only the steel.
Oskar moved immediately.
He crossed the palace corridors with purpose, found his father in an office surrounded by maps and models—ships, guns, little wooden symbols of the empire's appetite—and made his request without hesitation.
"Father," Oskar said. "Imperial Weapons Works will hold a demonstration of our new weapons before Christmas. I want you there."
Wilhelm II looked up.
For a brief moment he was simply curious.
Then he heard the words new weapons and his interest sharpened the way it always did.
"Very well," the Kaiser said at once. "I will attend."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes almost gleaming.
"I want to see what you've made this time."
Wilhelm had always loved big guns—loved the feeling of power made mechanical and undeniable. And after the navy's transformation under Oskar's pressure, his expectations had grown dangerously high.
If the Army could be dragged forward the same way…
Then Germany's odds in the coming storm improved.
Invitations went out next.
The Army General Staff, including its highest officials and generals, would attend.
Moltke the Younger.
General Waldersee.
War Minister von Falkenhayn.
And, inevitably, Tirpitz—because wherever Oskar moved, the Navy followed like a shadow that benefited from his momentum.
They were men of enormous rank.
But even they understood the rules of the new court:
When Oskar summoned, you showed respect.
And in Essen, Gustav Krupp did what he always did when the stakes were high.
He turned toward his engineers and made his demand simple.
"Everything must be perfect."
No excuses.
No failures.
No embarrassment.
Because this Christmas, the empire would be watching.
And the future—once again—would be decided not by speeches…
but by what the steel could do.