Bruckner, Chief Engineer of the Naval Technical Committee, adjusted his spectacles with the slow irritation of a man about to crush someone's dreams. He rose stiffly, cleared his throat, and spoke with authority that smelled like mothballs and old textbooks.
"Your Highness," he said, "I must emphasize, while research into oil-fired boilers and steam turbines has begun, it has produced nothing of value. All of our capital ships rely on coal-fired boilers and tried-and-true triple-expansion engines. To leap recklessly into new systems—systems we do not understand—is to gamble with the fate of the fleet."
It was the eternal engineer's argument, "If it is new, it is dangerous. If it is unfamiliar, it is wrong."
Oskar, however, didn't blink.
He opened Tanya's notebook—his secret weapon, and spoke.
"Excellency," Oskar said calmly, "dismissing turbines because they are new will not stop the future from arriving. The British are already testing turbines on large ships. Successfully. That alone proves turbines surpass triple-expansion engines. The question is not whether we will use them—only when."
He let the words hang.
"And if Britain is already ahead… we must not widen the gap."
Several old engineers shifted uncomfortably, like children caught lying by a schoolmaster. They hated being corrected by a teenager. They hated even more that he was right.
Before Bruckner could recover, another voice cut in, a smooth, cold voice sharpened like a dagger.
Crown Prince Wilhelm.
"Little brother Oskar," Wilhelm said slowly, "if we use oil-fired boilers, do we not require enormous amounts of heavy oil? The Empire lacks such fuel. If war begins and our supply routes are cut, our ships will become floating coffins. Coal fits our national conditions. Coal is reliable."
A few committee members nodded—more out of fear of Wilhelm's rank than agreement.
But Oskar did not falter.
He saw the trap the moment the Crown Prince opened his mouth—and he stepped over it without breaking stride.
"Your Highness the Crown Prince," Oskar said smoothly, "Germany can stockpile large quantities of heavy fuel oil before war begins. We cannot do the same with coal—coal storage is massive, slow, and inefficient. Oil is compact, powerful, and gives us speed."
He closed the notebook.
"And if our navy breaks the British blockade, then our supply problem ends on day one."
It was brutally simple.
The room fell silent.
Prince Heinrich's eyebrow rose in approval.
Even Tirpitz allowed himself a small, satisfied nod.
This was no longer the foolish Fifth Prince who called the Naval Academy "garbage." This was a young man who could argue strategy with admirals.
Tirpitz turned toward the commander of the High Seas Fleet.
"Your Highness," he asked, "your impression of the design?"
Prince Heinrich stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"This," he said, "is an outstanding warship. If the Fleet possessed such a vessel, our strength would increase significantly."
High praise—from the man who would command it.
Tirpitz's eyes gleamed.
Germany could not hope to defeat Britain by copying their ships.
To win, they needed something Britain did not yet understand.
Oskar's ship was exactly that.
Prince Heinrich leaned forward.
"Admiral, is it possible to overcome the technical challenges?"
Tirpitz considered.
"There will be obstacles," he admitted. "But none insurmountable. With proper resources… and pressure… the shipyards and Krupp will find solutions."
He meant, "If we push them hard enough, they will obey."
Prince Heinrich nodded.
"Then it is up to this Committee."
Count von Warren straightened in his seat.
"Experts," he said, "any remaining doubts before we conclude?"
Brigadier General Gussard raised a hand.
"Your Highness, one final matter. You propose 305mm guns. Our current 305mm models are obsolete—slow, inaccurate, weak. The Krupp 280mm/45 is far superior. Should we not arm your ship with these instead?"
Oskar didn't even need Tanya's notes.
"Excellency," he said, "the Krupp 280mm is an excellent gun—but its shells lack the armor penetration needed to defeat heavily armored British ships. And the British are already using 305mm guns widely."
He paused.
"And the British next design will use 343mm guns."
The room gasped.
Even Crown Prince Wilhelm froze.
This was not general knowledge.
"Excellency," Oskar continued, "if we remain with 280mm guns, we fall behind permanently. Krupp can develop a modern 305mm gun easily. What we need is range and penetration, not comfort."
He let the silence settle.
For a moment, even the old engineers looked shaken.
Crown Prince Wilhelm sensed the shift—and panicked. If the committee approved Oskar's design…
His own influence over the military would weaken.
So he struck fast.
He stood, smile sharp as a razor.
"Gentlemen," he said, "Prince Oskar has answered your questions. Time is nearly up. Let us hear the Committee's conclusion."
He intended a forced ending, a sort of cut-off before Oskar could win any more ground.
The old men folded their arms, exchanged glances, and delivered the verdict Wilhelm wanted.
Sir Dietrich spoke first.
"Your Highness… bold, but too speculative. Caution is required."
Bruckner nodded.
"Too many new technologies at once. No proof. We must delay."
Brigadier Gussard. Dawson. Count von Warren.
Every one of them echoed a variation of the same theme, rejection, not because Oskar was wrong, but because his design threatened their careers, his youth threatened their pride, his vision threatened their authority, and admitting he was right meant admitting they had fallen behind
Count von Warren gave the official conclusion, "Your Highness, your design may one day be correct. But not now. We must take careful steps forward, not reckless leaps. Battleships are too costly, too vital, and too dangerous to rush. Therefore, the Committee cannot approve your proposal… at this time."
Crown Prince Wilhelm's smile spread, as he tried to fake being sympathetic.
"Oskar," he said lightly, "do not be discouraged. You are young. You will have other opportunities."
Oskar didn't say anything.
But he didn't miss the Crown Prince's expression—the joy of someone who had tripped his brother and watched him fall.
A Schadenfreude smile.
The smile of a man who enjoyed other people's misfortune.
In another life, Oskar would have gone full gamer-rage and flipped the table.
But not this time.
He inhaled slowly.
Because instead of defeat, he felt something else rising, quiet determination. Even if they rejected his design, he would build it anyway.
He would gather the money himself, he would build the factories if need be, and the whole thing.
And soon, the Imperial Navy would be calling him "Our Saviour."
Because the war was coming and if Oskar didn't act, history would repeat itself.
This time?
He refused to let it.
Looking at Crown Prince Wilhelm's smug, hypocritical face, Oskar felt a sudden, vivid urge to grab that brother of his by the collar, lift him bodily, and hurl him straight into a snowbank. Or a lake. Or possibly both.
He didn't, of course.
He kept repeating to himself, don't rage. Don't lunge. Think, adapt, overcome…
He had once raged at games and thrown controllers, but those were childish days.
Now?
He had learned to examine a situation, not explode at it.
Yet the desire to do something violent was very much there, burning hot.
Clearly, spiritually, he still had a long way to go, but it was impossible not to feel anger.
He had known Wilhelm was jealous, petty, and insecure.
He had known Wilhelm saw everyone—brothers included—as threats to eliminate.
But seeing that pleased little smirk, that glint of satisfaction at sabotaging his own brother even when the Empire's survival was at stake…
Something dark curled inside Oskar's chest. Doesn't this bastard even care of his own blood.
Wilhelm didn't see Oskar. He saw competition, a rival, a threat to his throne.
It was all about Wilhelm.
If Germany burned because of his pride? If millions died? That wasn't Wilhelm's problem.
Oskar wanted to move against this big brother of his, but he understood reality, that plotting against Wilhelm would be suicidal. Well… a "horse-fall accident" did briefly cross his mind, but no—too risky.
But whatever the case, he had to somehow stop Germany from being obliterated. Save millions of lives—by preventing the war, or shortening it. Reduce child mortality through inventions. Change the world for the better, even if just a little.
And if Germany won?
A stable, victorious empire would be a safe place for him to live out his life with Tanya, Karl, Luise, Mister Ice Bear, and a small army of factory-produced diapers.
Oskar inhaled deeply and calmed himself, he had expected rejection, but he had underestimated the density of these old men's skulls.
No wonder Germany lost historically, he thought bitterly.
Half of these fossils would rather sink with tradition than swim with innovation.
He raised his head.
"I understand," Oskar said, "and I respect the Committee's decision. But…" He let the word hang like a blade, "…I fear you will soon realize how wrong you are."
Several engineers stiffened.
Oskar continued, "Your choices today will leave the German Navy far behind Britain—again. If Germany loses the next war, it will be because of you."
Silence.
He pressed forward.
"When the blockade clamps around our throat…
when German trade lanes choke…
when our people starve…
What will you say then?"
The room sucked in a collective breath.
Sir Dietrich nearly choked on air.
Bruckner froze mid-scowl.
Dawson's eye twitched violently.
Oskar had just slapped all of them at once.
Count von Warren's face darkened like a thundercloud.
Sir Dietrich exploded, "Your Highness! You may be of noble birth, but you have no right to insult us! We serve the Empire—not the tantrums of an inexperienced child!"
His voice boomed through the hall.
"Battleships are not toys! They require proven methods, careful design—NOT piles of untested theories! You are too young! Your Highness, with respect, you should be in the Naval Academy studying, not lecturing men with a lifetime full of experience!"
Laughter—quiet, malicious—rippled from the back row.
Oskar's jaw clenched.
Count von Warren slammed his palm on the table.
"Enough! Opinions differ, but decorum must be maintained."
But the coldness in his tone made it clear, he agreed with Dietrich and Wilhelm saw his chance.
He rose smoothly, voice dripping with sanctimonious righteousness.
"Oskar, apologize," he said.
"You cannot speak to imperial experts in such a reckless manner. Even if your design was rejected, you must behave with dignity. These men are the pillars of the Empire."
Oskar could practically hear Wilhelm's inner laughter.
Perfect, another stain on the Fifth Prince, another reason to discredit him.
If Oskar looked irrational—good.
If he looked arrogant—better.
If he alienated the Navy—excellent.
Oskar raised his chin and spoke with a voice that was like controlled steel.
"I refuse."
Wilhelm blinked, then reddened like an hot iron.
"…Excuse me?"
"I said I refuse," Oskar repeated calmly, "And I stand by my design. You will all see how wrong you are."
Wilhelm's mask cracked.
"You—! You insolent—! I will report this to Father immediately!" he sputtered.
His nostrils flared. He trembled with rage.
Just a moment ago, he had reveled in humiliating Oskar.
Now?
The humiliation was his.
Prince Heinrich chuckled.
Tirpitz hid a smile in his beard.
But the Committee, the old guard, had closed ranks, they would not back down. Not now. Not after being insulted. Not after being challenged by a teenage prince who made their life's work look obsolete.
They clung to pride like drowning men cling to driftwood.
Oskar looked at each of them in turn and smiled a cold smile.
"You are mistaken," he said softly.
"My design does not need your approval."
That got their attention.
"This ship is not the Navy's project. It is my project. My gift. My investment."
He raised a hand and flicked his fingers dismissively.
"Your decision means nothing."
The entire committee froze.
Oskar continued, "I will build this battleship regardless, with my own money, in my own shipyards."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And when you see it on the water," he said, voice low but carrying, "when you witness real firepower… real armor… real speed—"
His eyes swept across them.
"Then you will understand the size of the mistake you made today."
He straightened.
"Money talks, after all," Oskar added, almost casually. "Especially in times like these."
Silence.
Sir Dietrich's mouth opened, then closed without sound. Bruckner looked as though he had swallowed something sharp and regretted it instantly. Dawson found sudden, intense interest in the ceiling. Count von Warren flinched—only slightly, but enough.
Prince Heinrich burst into uproarious laughter.
"Hah! Bold indeed! Money makes you fearless, eh? You are a menace, Oskar!"
Tirpitz did not laugh, but his eyes gleamed. Because this was not recklessness, this was leverage.
Oskar had not pleaded. He had simply stepped over them.
He had walked into their chamber, dismissed their authority—and replaced it with his own.
Crown Prince Wilhelm felt it instantly.
The shift.
The change.
Oskar was no longer the awkward fifth son, no longer the fool who could be mocked and contained.
He was quickly becoming something else, something that could not be overlooked so easily.
In Wilhelm's mind, something cracked—small, almost imperceptible.
But cracks spread.
And Oskar, standing there at the center of it all, felt the moment settle into something solid inside his chest.
Resolve.
If they refused him, then he would simply rise beyond them.
Beyond their committees.
Beyond their permission.
Beyond their control.
He slipped Tanya's notebook back into his pocket with quiet care.
Then he turned, without giving them any acknowledgment.
He gave them nothing.
A collective breath caught in the room as he walked away.
The sound of his boots echoed—slow, heavy, deliberate—each step striking the floor like a statement carved in iron.
He did not look back.
He walked like a man who had already left them behind.
Behind him, the silence deepened.
The old men sat frozen, their faces stiff with outrage and disbelief, too proud to speak, too shaken to recover, but not all of them were offended.
At the far end of the table, half-shadowed and nearly forgotten, Prince Heinrich watched him go and smiled.
He leaned back, fingers brushing through his beard, eyes following Oskar's retreating form.
"Interesting…" he murmured softly. "Very interesting."
Heinrich was not a man impressed by titles, but by results.
By boldness.
By men who could change the outcome of wars—not just talk about them.
And within Oskar he did not see a mere prince, he saw opportunity. A force capable of breaking the old order.
And the thought lingered in Heinrich's mind long after Oskar's footsteps faded, "This boy may be the storm that blows the entire German Empire into a new age… whether we are ready or not."