"Oh man… what am I gonna do?"
The words slipped out into the cold without permission.
Oskar exhaled slowly as he pulled the last pieces of his uniform into place, fingers still stiff from the lake. The Prussian coat fit—technically—but it clung tighter than it should, stretched across his chest and shoulders like it had been made for someone smaller. The fabric resisted when he moved, the seams quietly straining under the moonlight.
It was new. Made for his birthday.
The birthday he had very deliberately avoided.
He adjusted the collar anyway and rolled his shoulders once, forcing the tightness into something wearable. The belt followed, pulled firm around his waist, then the gloves, half on, as if part of him still wasn't ready to fully step back into this role.
Behind him, the lake had already gone still again, black and flat as if he had never been there.
Ahead, the gardens stretched in perfect order. Trimmed hedges, straight paths, trees placed with deliberate precision. Beyond it all stood the palace, pale and quiet, every line controlled, every window dark.
It was beautiful, and it felt wrong.
He dragged a hand through his damp blond hair and let out a breath.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Perfect place for a prince. Not for an Asian truck driver who got famous for not getting blown up by drones."
The joke didn't land.
He started walking.
The gravel crunched under his boots as he moved toward the palace, posture loose but his eyes restless. The night was too quiet, too clean. In another life, quiet like this meant something was off.
Without thinking, he looked up.
The sky was clear, scattered with stars.
Empty.
Still, his eyes searched it.
Because once, that same empty sky had lied. Once, something had been up there watching, silent and far away, sending coordinates down to things that came fast and didn't miss. Drones, always the drones, and above them satellites that saw everything.
Standing there in a royal garden in 1904, he still found himself wondering if something was up there now, even though he knew it made no sense.
Then a sharp metallic clang cut through the night.
Somewhere off the path, a gardener cursed as a bucket hit stone.
Oskar didn't think.
"GRENADE!"
He dropped instantly, throwing himself off the path and crashing into the hedges, arms coming up over his head as his body curled in on itself.
The world snapped.
The garden was gone.
Sound hit first. Mortars screamed through the air and slammed into the ground in violent bursts, throwing dirt and burning fragments everywhere. Gunfire followed, sharp and frantic, voices yelling over it.
"DRONE! DRONE!"
He opened his eyes and he wasn't Oskar anymore.
Black gloves. Modern camouflage. Gear heavy on his body. An AK-205 in his hands.
He rolled onto his back and aimed upward, already tracking the shape in the sky. A drone buzzed low overhead, tracer fire cutting past it. He fired in controlled bursts and saw the hit, smoke spilling from its side before it spiraled down and crashed.
"Move move, now!"
The smell came next—smoke, fuel, blood.
He moved without thinking, low and fast, rifle tight in his grip. His teammate followed close behind, staying low.
Another buzz cut through everything.
He snapped his night vision down and turned.
"There!" his teammate shouted. "Nine o'clock!"
The drone came in fast.
They fired together. The drone sparked, jerked, and dropped, exploding as it hit the ground.
"Good hit! Move! We get them out now!"
He was already moving.
He slid into a crater and saw the burning wreck of a tank ahead, flames pushing out from under the turret. Beyond it was the trench where the wounded were waiting.
Then the hatch slammed open and a man crawled out, screaming, half on fire as he dragged himself across the ground.
Zhang-Ge hesitated for half a second.
"Leave him!" his teammate shouted. "He's done!"
He ran anyway.
Halfway there, the buzzing came back.
Another drone.
He looked up and saw it diving straight for the tank.
"NO—!"
He fired, hit it once, twice, but it didn't stop.
It slammed into the tank beneath the turret.
The explosion hit instantly, a violent blast of fire and heat that erased the man in front of him. The turret tore free, thrown upward like it weighed nothing, spinning before dropping straight toward him.
"Oh fuck—!"
He rolled hard to the side, then didn't stop.
His body kept moving, pure instinct taking over. He twisted out of the roll and sprang up, pushing off the ground as hard as he could, trying to create distance from something that wasn't there anymore. His boots tore through the gravel as he lunged forward, eyes locked ahead, expecting fire, expecting impact—
There was nothing.
And then he hit something.
Hard.
His face slammed straight into stone with a dull crack, pain flashing across his nose and skull as his vision went white. The force knocked the breath out of him and his legs gave out underneath him, dropping him flat onto his back.
For a second, everything went dark.
Then it snapped and the war was gone. There was no sound of fire and drones anymore, just the garden.
Cold air, gravel beneath him and silence around him.
Oskar groaned under his breath and dragged a hand up to his face, rubbing his nose as he blinked hard, trying to force his vision back into place. His head rang, but it was clear now—clear in a way it hadn't been a moment ago.
He looked up.
And froze.
Towering above him stood the statue of Kaiser Wilhelm II, chin raised, a mustache under his nose so large that it could have been a handlebar, posture perfect, carved into that same rigid, unshakable image of authority and control. The uniform was immaculate even in stone, the stance confident, absolute, as if the entire world existed exactly as it should beneath his gaze.
"…Father?" Oskar muttered, half out of instinct.
Then he blinked again.
"Oh."
Reality settled in properly this time.
He was on his stomach in the dirt, at the feet of a statue.
Leaves stuck to his coat, one glove half hanging off his hand, boots scuffed, breathing uneven like he'd just sprinted across a battlefield that didn't exist.
He turned his head quickly, scanning the garden, left and right. And luckily there was nothing, no servants or guards, meaning there was no witnesses.
Just empty paths and quiet hedges.
"…Oh my god, like what the fuck," he muttered under his breath.
He dragged himself up into a sitting position, then ran a hand through his hair and smacked the side of his own head once.
"Come on, Oskar. Focus."
Another breath, sharper this time.
"You're not Zhang-Ge anymore. You're not an Asian guy."
He exhaled slowly, forcing it down.
"You're a prince, a white man, so act like it."
His jaw tightened.
"Ten years," he muttered under his breath. "You've got ten years before the world tears itself apart. So think. Do something. Anything."
He pushed himself to his feet and brushed dirt and leaves off his uniform in quick, irritated motions, then stood there for a second, forcing his mind to settle.
"Think, Oskar… think."
And then, without drama or revelation, he simply remembered.
The diary.
His little red book, hidden within his bedroom under his pillow like a secret he didn't quite know how to use yet. A year's worth of thoughts lived in those pages—ideas, sketches, half-formed plans, written in whatever language came easiest in the moment. Mandarin when he thought fast, English when he structured things, bits of Russian, and broken German scattered through it where he had tried—badly—to learn.
It was a mess.
But it was all there.
Battleships with better armor layouts. Tank concepts decades ahead of their time. Infantry weapons, artillery improvements, logistics systems, early radio's. Improved factories with less pollution, better roads, Industrial zones. Airplanes and airports. Hospitals that actually worked, sanitation, antibiotics, Nylon, even rockets.
He also had one page where he'd sketched out something that vaguely resembled a moon landing and written under it: Germany First, or China. Depends how things go.
Another page had fast food chains. Another had clothing brands. Another had something labeled: Future Money Machine.
And somewhere in the middle was something called, Sexy Idea do Not Show Anyone.
He had ideas, some brilliant, some insane, but all of it was useless like this.
Because that was the truth of it.
He didn't lack ideas.
He lacked a way to turn them into reality.
His expression darkened slightly as he started walking again, boots crunching softly against the gravel.
"I can't even fill out a damn form…" he muttered.
That was the real problem, not his lack of knowledge or a lack of vision, but basic function.
He couldn't properly read German, couldn't write it cleanly, couldn't explain anything without sounding off. How was he supposed to build anything—companies, factories, systems—if he couldn't even handle the simplest bureaucratic nonsense without exposing himself as completely incompetent?
"Yeah," he muttered dryly. "Genius with a notebook."
He let out a short breath, irritation creeping in, but just then stopped as a thought came to him, "…Wait, why couldn't I just make my little man Karl do it?"
He stood still for a second as it settled into place, and then he smiled.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Why not, let's try that. If anyone can make my ideas into reality, then it's Karl, right?"
He reached the wall and grabbed the rope of knotted bedsheets hanging down from his window. The fabric groaned the moment he put weight on it, tightening under his grip as he set his boots against the stone.
"Don't break on me now," he muttered, and pulled himself up.
The sheets creaked and strained, the knots digging into his palms, but they held—just enough. His body moved without hesitation, arms and shoulders working together smoothly, lifting him upward with steady, controlled strength. Heavy, yes, but efficient and reliable.
He felt it again—that strange disconnect. Strength that wasn't earned, but was his anyway.
He smiled faintly as he climbed.
"Alright… not bad."
Not everything was figured out.
Not even close.
But he had something now.
A body that could carry him.
A head full of ideas.
And possibly a way to finally begin turning those ideas into something real.
"First learn German… get the money… then make something big and stop people from fighting…" he muttered under his breath as he climbed. "One step at a time."
His grip tightened slightly.
"I have to start soon… or it will be too late."
The bedsheets creaked again as he pulled himself higher, the stone wall sliding past beneath his boots as the window drew closer. By the time he reached it, his breath fogged faintly in the cold air. He hooked an arm over the sill, shifted his weight, and hauled himself inside, the frame rattling under the strain before he dropped down onto the floor.
The landing wasn't loud, but it was heavy. The floorboards flexed and gave a long, offended groan, the kind of sound that made it very clear this was not how a prince was supposed to enter his own room.
Oskar straightened—
and stopped.
He wasn't alone.
Sitting on his bed with perfect composure, legs crossed neatly and posture as straight as a ruler, was Karl, the dwarf.
His personal assistant and a very small, but professionally calm man.
A man dressed in a perfectly pressed formal suit, as if he had been sitting there for hours preparing to be taken seriously. His blond hair was immaculate, his glasses perfectly aligned, his entire presence radiating order, discipline, and quiet judgment.
And in his hands—
was the diary.
The red one.
With the black cross on the cover.
With DO NOT TOUCH written across it in aggressive, underlined German that Oskar was now painfully aware might not even have been spelled correctly.
Oskar's stomach dropped.
Karl turned a page with slow, deliberate care, then looked up at him as if this were a completely normal situation.
"Ah," Karl said mildly. "Your Highness. Back from your midnight… lake excursion."
Oskar moved immediately.
"HEY—! That's private!"
Karl responded by lifting the diary higher, clearly intending to keep it out of reach.
Unfortunately, Karl was Karl.
The book rose to about his shoulder.
Oskar simply reached forward and took it from him without resistance, like retrieving an object from a well-dressed child.
Karl's hands lingered in the air for a moment before he lowered them again, completely unfazed.
"Relax," Karl said coolly. "I only reached page forty-seven. Though I must ask—why are there pandas wearing military helmets, and why is there a drawing labeled 'bikini'? What, precisely, is a bikini?"
Oskar clutched the diary to his chest like it contained state secrets, which, in a way, it did, and at the same time realized hiding it under his pillow had been a terrible idea.
But that wasn't the real problem.
The real problem was that Karl had just spoken proper German, fast and clean, and Oskar had barely understood half of it. Most of the sentence had gone straight past him, leaving him scrambling to catch anything familiar.
One word stuck.
Bikini.
Good enough.
He nodded, buying himself a second as his brain tried to force together something that resembled German, even though every word felt out of place before he said it.
"Ah yes, my man," he said, nodding again. "Bikini, you see… very good. Swim clothes. For pretty ladies. Less cloth, more sunlight. Very… modern."
He made a vague gesture, as if that helped.
"But it not your business. Bad small man. Bad."
He gave a firm nod, as if that had been a perfectly normal sentence.
Inside, he knew it sounded like complete garbage.
Karl pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You know what's bad, Your Highness?" he snapped.
"You climbing out of your window.
Down three floors.
Bathing naked in the palace lake like a feral animal."
He gestured sharply toward the window.
"And yes, I saw all of it. From your window. As did—most likely—other servants. Because it is not subtle when a Bear-sized prince is splashing around past midnight."
He stopped. Inhaled.
Then asked, tired and precise:
"Do you even understand what I'm saying?"
Oskar considered this carefully.
"…Ah yes, my little man?"
Karl dragged a hand down his face.
No amount of sarcasm could save him from the reality now sitting in front of him:
His prince was built like a saga hero, climbed walls like a lunatic, owned a manifesto disguised as a diary—
—and barely understood the language he was ruling in.
Then suddenly Oskar jabbed the diary at him like a weapon.
"No! Bad small man! You do not read panda plans!"
Karl threw his hands up at once.
"I did not want to read about panda infantry, Your Highness! I came for business. All your ridiculous secrets are safe with me."
Oskar froze on the one word he actually understood.
"…Business?"
Karl nodded, his expression tightening, humor draining away.
"Yes. Political business."
Oskar went pale.
"…I was a good boy today, yes?" he whispered. "I didn't do anything wrong… I think?"
"Not yet," Karl said flatly. "But His Majesty is calling for you."
Oskar stopped breathing.
"Karl…" he whispered. "Why? Why would the Emperor want me?"
Karl shrugged—an economical, practiced movement that said this is above my pay grade, my prince.
"You are well past the age where one can continue doing nothing," he said calmly. "Eventually, even you must be assigned somewhere useful. The subject of education has arisen. Specifically—"
Karl hesitated, visibly bracing himself.
"…the Naval Academy, Your Highness," he said at last. "You'll be going there."
Oskar blinked.
Blank.
Karl sighed and resorted to visuals.
He pointed at a bookshelf crammed with thick, unreadable tomes.
Then at the painting of steamships and ironclads on the wall.
Then mimed sitting stiffly at a desk, writing furiously.
Oskar understood immediately.
He went pale.
"Karl… no. No, no, no," he whispered. "There's no way. I can't—I won't—the language—the exams—I'll die of shame!"
Karl reached out and patted Oskar's leg, the way one might calm a spooked horse.
"Shh. Shh," he said patiently. "Just speak with him, Your Highness. Maybe it's ceremonial. Maybe you're enrolled officially but not actually expected to study. Maybe you just show up on parade days and smile."
"No," Oskar breathed. "I will be disowned."
Karl exhaled through his nose.
"Well. Panicking won't change it. And His Majesty wants you in his study."
He paused.
"And you know how he gets."
Oskar shoved the diary deep into his uniform coat like contraband.
"Karl," he whispered urgently, "walk with me. Please."
Karl rolled his eyes.
"You're not a child anymore," he muttered. "But fine. I'll escort you. I just can't enter with you."
He turned, already heading for the door—then paused and glanced back.
"And Your Highness," Karl added, "your rope. It's still hanging out the window. If your personal maid Tanya sees it, she'll panic. And if that other maid—the one who scrubs the floors at night, Anna, I think—finds it first, she'll need half the guard to pull it all back in."
He sighed softly.
"Please… deal with it."
Oskar didn't catch every word—but he caught rope.
He turned, jogged back to the window, and grabbed the bedsheet line with one hand.
With a few smooth pulls, he hauled the entire length inside. The knots slid easily through his grip as if the rope weighed nothing at all. He flung the sheets onto the bed in a loose heap, like laundry tossed aside.
Karl watched.
Only mildly impressed.
After a year of watching his prince turn from a confused boy into something built like a living weapon, feats of raw strength had lost their novelty.
They left the room together.
The palace halls stretched long and echoing before them. Oskar's steps were uneven, breath shallow, shoulders tight. Karl walked at his side with perfect confidence, hands folded neatly behind his back, posture immaculate—the picture of a miniature Prussian officer escorting a giant into battle.
Every few steps, Karl murmured under his breath:
"You'll be fine, Your Highness."
Oskar didn't believe it, but he believed Karl believed it and somehow, that helped just a little.
They stopped before the guarded doors of the Kaiser's study.
Oskar froze.
He looked down at Karl, panic spilling out in a whisper.
"Karl, my man. What if—listen—what if we make big business? You and me. Lottery. Big bills. LOTS of money. And then—no school for me?"
Karl stared up at him.
The guards stared at him.
Karl closed his eyes, took a slow breath, then cleared his throat.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Well," Karl said calmly, "too late."
A guard knocked twice.
From inside, Wilhelm II's voice thundered:
"ENTER!"
Oskar swallowed hard.
He stepped forward.
Karl remained outside, hands clasped behind his back, small and immovable as the doors swung shut.
Softly, so only Oskar could hear it, he whispered:
"…Good luck, Your Highness."
The doors closed.
And history, patient as ever, waited on the other side.