Oskar stepped out of Wilhelm II's study and closed the heavy oak door behind him. Its quiet thunk seemed to seal away the last echoes of his father's voice.
The corridor was almost empty. Oil lamps burned low in their brass brackets, their flames trembling in the draft, while moonlight slanted through the tall arched windows and spread across the marble floor in patches of silver and shadow.
Only the guards remained at their posts. Leather belts creaked when they shifted their weight, and several wore the glassy expressions of men fighting sleep with every scrap of discipline they possessed. As Oskar approached, they straightened and brought their heels together against the stone.
He glanced along the line, the corners of his mouth twitching.
In my world, half of you would be sitting in a warm room watching cameras and drinking coffee instead of freezing your balls off in a corridor at two in the morning.
Here, there were no surveillance cameras or monitors. Security meant actual men standing in actual cold, waiting through the night. If someone came up the stairs carrying a knife, these unfortunate bastards would be the only things between the household and a massacre.
I should do something about heating the guard posts. Or at least get them warmer boots. That might be another project for Hans.
He continued down the corridor. Through a half-open door, he glimpsed servants clearing the last remnants of Christmas from the banquet hall. Silver platters were being carried away, candles had burned low in the great candelabras, and the wreaths and garlands seemed to droop with exhaustion. His family had departed, leaving behind overturned napkins, empty glasses, and the lingering impression of conversation.
His stomach growled.
He had eaten nothing since dinner. For an ordinary man, those carefully arranged portions might have been sufficient. For nearly two meters of muscle and nerves, they had amounted to an appetizer.
As he turned back into the main corridor, fate took pity on him.
A maid hurried around the corner carrying a heavy silver tray piled with pastries: squares of Bienenstich beneath caramelized almond crusts, neatly curved Vanillekipferl, and small slices of Stollen dusted with sugar. Each delicate piece cost more than many workers earned in a day. The tray represented several hundred marks' worth of butter, flour, sugar, marzipan, and painstaking kitchen labor.
She noticed him too late.
"Ah—!"
The tray tilted, and Oskar reacted before he had time to think. He caught its edge with one hand while slipping the other around the maid's waist, steadying her before she could tumble onto the marble floor.
For a startled moment, she found herself pressed against a very solid prince.
She appeared a few years older than him, perhaps in her mid-twenties, with thick brown hair pinned beneath a starched cap. Long lashes framed her soft brown eyes, while her full lips remained parted in alarm. Her hands, though delicate in appearance, had been roughened by years of work. Around her neck hung a thin gold chain bearing a wedding ring, which rested just above her generous bosom.
Perhaps she was a widow, wearing the ring as a keepsake. Oskar's imagination conjured up three children waiting for her in the servants' quarters or a cramped Berlin tenement, their father perhaps having died from a lung infection, an accident in a railway yard, or some ordinary illness that antibiotics from his former world could easily have treated.
He knew nothing of her circumstances, of course. It was merely the sort of tragic story this world seemed capable of producing without much effort.
"Y-Your Highness, I am so—"
"Yes, woman," he interrupted gently, an amused smile appearing on his face. "You are so… beautiful."
The apology disappeared.
Color rose from her throat to her cheeks, and she stared at him as though the compliment had arrived in a language she had forgotten she understood.
Keeping the tray level, Oskar helped her regain her footing. His other hand remained briefly at her back before he withdrew it and held the pastries where she could reach them.
"Take one. My treat."
She looked from the tray to his face.
"But, Your Highness, these are for—"
"You carried them all this way," he said. "That deserves a reward, yes?"
After a moment's hesitation, she selected a small square of Bienenstich, its almond topping glistening beneath the lamplight.
Oskar gave her a gentle pat on the head.
"There. Eat well, and have a good night, beautiful lady."
Then he turned and walked away with the tray balanced in one hand, apparently satisfied that the matter had been resolved.
The maid watched him go.
"Your Highness," she called after him, "will you not be saying goodnight to your family?"
He waved with the hand already holding a pastry.
"Tell them Merry Christmas from me."
The words emerged around a mouthful of cake, but their meaning was clear enough.
She remained in the corridor after he disappeared. Slowly, she lifted the pastry to her lips, cradling it with both hands as though it were something precious.
Honey, cream, butter, and sugar filled her mouth. To her considerable embarrassment, tears gathered in her eyes.
"He called me beautiful," she whispered. "He held me."
Her knees weakened, and she sank to the floor beneath the weight of an emotion she could scarcely explain. A small, disbelieving laugh escaped her.
She knew she was being foolish, but that did not stop her from smiling.
Oskar, entirely unaware of what he had left behind, continued through the palace with his stolen provisions.
His boots echoed across the marble. Above him, generations of Hohenzollerns watched from their portraits: armored men, powdered wigs, stiff uniforms, and faces carrying various combinations of arrogance, determination, and exhaustion.
He remembered the significance of 1415 from his history reading: Emperor Sigismund granting Brandenburg to Friedrich of Nuremberg, a bargain that helped turn a Franconian noble family into a rising political power.
Afterward had come roughly five hundred years of marriages, campaigns, negotiations, and patient accumulation. Five centuries of climbing from comparatively minor nobles to the rulers of a united German Empire.
And in my world, it ends with exile on a Dutch estate and a mustached corporal who used to paint postcards.
He chewed thoughtfully, shedding crumbs onto the front of his uniform.
"I am not letting five hundred years of save-file progress get deleted because a few idiots misclick war," he muttered. "Not this time."
Tapestries stirred in the draft, and pine needles lay scattered beneath the Christmas garlands. The blueprint tube tucked beneath his arm shifted against his side, reminding him of everything that had changed during his conversation with the Kaiser.
The Nassau class.
Even the name seemed determined to survive his interference.
"No matter what I do, Nassau still happens. Timeline has inertia, apparently." He took another bite. "But this time, my Nassau will be so good the British will poop themselves."
His voice traveled a little farther down the corridor than he intended.
He thought of everything that might follow: submarines, carriers, synthetic fuel, radar, tanks, safer factories, gyms full of enthusiastic iron freaks, diapers that made mothers' lives easier, and cat sand that preserved the carpets.
Some ideas would take years. Others might prove beyond him altogether. But they belonged to the world he remembered, and he wanted to bring across the useful parts before this one found another reason to set itself on fire.
"Just keep going," he told himself.
The palace offered only the sound of his footsteps in reply. For all its gold, marble, and centuries of accumulated importance, it could feel extraordinarily empty.
Then lighter footsteps approached from beyond the next corner.
He recognized their hurried rhythm and smiled before she appeared.
"Tanya."
She rounded the corner so quickly that she nearly repeated the other maid's collision. Her skirts swished around her ankles, several strands of blond hair had escaped her cap, and her cheeks were flushed from running.
She caught his arm in both hands.
"Your Highness—Oskar, my love…"
The last words escaped before she could stop them, bringing fresh color to her face.
"How did it go? Was His Majesty angry? Did he punish you? Did he shout?"
Oskar laughed softly. Before she could add another question, he bent and kissed her.
Her fingers tightened around his sleeve, and for a moment her anxious questions were forgotten. When he drew back, she was still looking up at him, waiting for the answer he had not yet given.
He slipped his free arm around her waist, and they began walking together.
"Everything went very well, my love."
She glanced away with an embarrassed smile at the unfamiliar way he addressed her.
"Believe it or not," he continued, "we may actually go to sleep tonight with both our heads still attached."
"Sleep?" she repeated softly. "Together?"
"That would be nice." He lowered his voice, allowing a little of his usual mischief to return. "Although a long, hot bath first would be even better. Very relaxing. Good for stress. Excellent for tired muscles."
Tanya gave a small, embarrassed laugh, and some of the tension finally eased from her shoulders.
"I think I would like the bath," she admitted.
"Then a bath it is, my love."
For a little while, the shipyard, the debt, and the gathering storms of European politics seemed distant. Five centuries of Hohenzollern ambition could wait until morning. For once, Oskar was beside someone who had spent the evening worrying about him rather than calculating his worth. All he wanted now was the quiet of the corridor, the pastries in his hand, and the promise of a little rest.
As they walked, his hand slipped from Tanya's waist and settled almost absentmindedly over her belly. He seemed scarcely aware of the gesture, but her steps faltered for a moment.
She had grown increasingly certain that she was carrying his child, although she had yet to find the courage to tell him. It remained a precious secret, one she scarcely dared put into words, and the unexpected tenderness of his touch brought tears to her eyes.
To Oskar, it was merely a natural, comfortable way of holding her close. To Tanya, however, it felt like reassurance—a silent promise that whatever awaited for them, he would not leave her or their little one to face it alone.
Unfortunately, the universe chose that very moment to punish him.
A sudden flurry of footsteps shattered the peaceful silence, small boots striking the marble in rapid succession like a miniature infantry charge.
Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap!
Oskar's head snapped toward the sound, while Tanya froze beside him, clutching his arm in alarm.
A heartbeat later, a small whirlwind of frills and blonde hair came charging down the corridor and practically exploded between them.
"LET GO OF MY BROTHER!"
Princess Viktoria Luise, barely 130 centimeters tall and seemingly composed entirely of silk, indignation, and royal fury, threw out her arms as though shielding a fortress from enemy artillery. With surprising strength for someone so small, she shoved Tanya aside, forcing the maid to stumble backward with a startled gasp and nearly trip over her own skirts.
Oskar, who had been carrying the entire tray of pastries in one hand as though it weighed nothing, nearly dropped it from sheer astonishment.
"Luise! What—"
"NO!" she screeched, hugging his waist fiercely—her tiny arms barely reaching around a quarter of him. "You cannot have him! He's mine! You're just a maid! A MAID!"
Tanya looked like she'd been stabbed straight through the soul.
Oskar closed his eyes and rubbed his temple.
"Okay… hold on—"
"I saw you!" Luise snapped, spinning to point at Tanya like a miniature prosecutor. Then she whirled back to Oskar with a scandalized glare. "I SAW YOU TOUCH HER BUTT, YOU PERVERT!"
Oskar almost choked on air.
Tanya squeaked loudly, face bursting into flame.
"I—Your Highness!! I did no such thing! It was just—my—his—my—UM!!"
Oskar slapped a large hand over his own face.
"Oh my GOD—Luise, I did NOT—"
"LIAR!" Luise bellowed, her little voice echoing like church bells. "I heard everything! You asked her to sleep with you! In your bed! And something about a BATH!" She stomped her tiny foot. "Why would a prince sleep with a maid?! Tell me or I'm telling Mama!"
Oskar froze like a deer caught in headlights. For one dreadful moment, he almost wished he could die and be reincarnated again, preferably somewhere far away from this particular disaster.
Beside him, Tanya looked ready to faint from sheer embarrassment, her face burning scarlet as she struggled to find anything to say.
Oskar carefully set down the pastry tray before kneeling in front of Luise. Even on one knee, he remained taller than his little sister. He gently placed his enormous hands on her small shoulders and cleared his throat.
"Luise… listen carefully," he said gently. "Remember the night after the banquet, when I was very drunk and you slept in my bed because I was lonely?"
She blinked, her anger pausing.
"Yes…"
"And remember how hugging Mister Ice Bear makes you feel safe?"
"Yes…"
"Well," Oskar said, dying internally, "your big brother gets lonely too. So I asked Tanya to be like Mister Ice Bear. Just… someone warm to hug. Nothing bad. No bottoms. No funny business. Just comfort."
Tanya nodded so fast she looked like she might launch into orbit.
Luise narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
"Really?"
"Yes," Oskar said.
"REALLY really?"
"Yes!"
A long pause followed until her expression softened.
"Oh…" she whispered. "I didn't know you were so stressed…"
She hugged him tighter—her cheek pressed against his stomach because she wasn't tall enough to reach anywhere else.
"I'm sorry, brother…"
Oskar exhaled in deep relief, until she added with bright innocence, "But if you're lonely… instead of hugging only her… why don't you hug me too? Two is better than one!"
Oskar choked.
"W-wait—Luise—"
"No buts!" she declared. "We're having a sleepover! And you can't tell Mama! I ran away from my maid and everything."
Tanya looked horrified, cheeks blazing.
Oskar looked like his soul was leaving his body.
But Princess Luise—only a little shorter than Tanya and infinitely more stubborn—grabbed both their hands in her tiny fists and dragged them down the corridor like a miniature field marshal towing two prisoners of war.
Five minutes later, the Fifth Prince of the German Empire found himself lying awake in his enormous four-poster bed, the covers rumpled and his heart still pounding.
To his left lay Tanya, small and warm, curled against his arm with her cheeks flushed pink and one hand resting shyly on his chest. On his right was Viktoria Luise, hugging Mister Ice Bear with the sacred devotion one might reserve for a holy relic while casting protective glares at Tanya every few seconds.
Between them lay Oskar, his enormous frame occupying most of the bed as he stared at the ceiling like a man seriously reconsidering every decision that had brought him to this moment.
"…Being a prince is weird," he whispered.
Luise snuggled closer and patted his chest with the solemn concern of a nurse tending a wounded soldier.
"Shh, brother. No talking. You're stressed."
Tanya, not to be outdone, edged closer until her shoulder brushed against his bicep.
"Yes… rest, Your Highness," she murmured softly, her fingers tapping nervously against his shirt.
The two girls exchanged suspicious glares across Oskar's enormous torso, each gradually inching closer in a silent but deadly struggle for the most comfortable snuggling position.
Oskar closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting between future dreadnoughts, doomed naval committees, imperial politics, and the increasingly absurd reality of maid-princess cuddle warfare. With a quiet sigh, he gently tightened his arms around the tiny princess and the equally tiny maid.
Somehow, he decided, this had become one of the strangest and nicest nights of either of his lives.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow would be even stranger.
He could feel it.
Time slipped by, and when morning finally arrived after the strangest Christmas night of his life, Oskar scarcely had a chance to collect his thoughts.
He awoke wedged between one tiny princess, one tiny maid, and a very large stuffed polar bear named Mister Ice Bear.
Unfortunately, the universe, in all its cruelty, chose that precise moment to introduce Karl into the scene.
The bedroom door flew open without warning.
"Your Highness, we need to prepare—OH, SWEET GOD, NO!"
Karl stopped dead in the doorway, his eyes bulging and his jaw dropping so far that it nearly reached the floor.
There, sprawled across the enormous bed, lay a half-naked giant of a prince, with a blushing maid curled beneath one arm and a little princess clutching a stuffed bear beneath the other. Oskar himself blinked groggily at the unexpected visitor, resembling a confused lion that had just been awakened from hibernation.
Karl's soul promptly departed his body.
He began backing out of the room, whispering desperately to himself.
"Nope. No, absolutely not. I saw nothing. That was not real. I am erasing it from my mind."
He closed the door with such extraordinary gentleness that the gesture was almost reverent. The moment the latch clicked into place, Oskar groaned and buried his face in his hands.
Tanya turned beet-red and hid her face against his chest, while Luise merely yawned before announcing, with complete innocence, "Brother, you snore like a horse."
To Karl's credit, he never asked any questions about the incident afterward.
When Oskar finally found him that afternoon and apologized for his earlier panic in the car during the Christmas banquet, Karl merely patted him on the shoulder.
"Your Highness," he sighed wearily, "at this point, I am simply grateful that you no longer smell like the inside of a swamp."
Which, translated from Karl's particular brand of dwarven diplomacy, was practically a warm embrace.
With the New Year only days away, most wealthy families were still recovering from their Christmas feasts and excessive drinking. Potsdam, however, was about to awaken to something entirely unexpected: the grand opening of the world's first Pump World gym.
Nobody had the faintest idea what Pump World was supposed to be. The newspapers had merely announced that Prince Oskar himself would attend the opening, and apparently, that was enough.
Crowds began gathering outside the building before sunrise, drawn by curiosity and the prospect of seeing the Empire's increasingly famous Fifth Prince.
And what a building it was.
Standing proudly near the Brandenburg Gate in Potsdam, the three-story structure was a remarkable combination of glass and brick, with enormous windows revealing strange metallic machines arranged throughout the interior. Banners hung from its balconies, while one entire exterior wall had been transformed into a gigantic painted advertisement.
The mural depicted a cartoonishly muscular Prince Oskar, shirtless and flexing like some ancient demigod, with two beautiful women hanging adoringly from his enormous arms. Above them, a speech bubble proclaimed:
WANT TO BE A REAL MAN?
COME TO PUMP WORLD!
P.S. WOMEN ALSO WELCOME.
It was ridiculous, gaudy, and utterly shameless.
In other words, it was perfect.
People stood staring at the advertisement for minutes at a time, uncertain whether they ought to laugh, pray, or immediately purchase a membership.
The real chaos, however, began when Oskar himself came jogging toward the building.
For once, the prince was not wearing his usual military uniform. Instead, he had dressed in a simple worker's athletic outfit consisting of a white sleeveless undershirt, rolled-up trousers, and sturdy leather shoes. His blond hair was tied back, sweat glistened beneath the cold winter sunlight, and his enormous muscles shifted beneath his skin like coils of steel rope.
He had decided to jog all the way from the palace through the streets of Potsdam, casually eating a pastry along the way while greeting startled civilians at the top of his lungs.
"GOOD MORNING, MY MAN!"
A baker leaned out of his shop doorway, nearly dropping the bread in his hands.
"WHAT IS THE OCCASION?!"
"A GOOD GYM DAY BEGINS WITH CARDIO!" Oskar shouted back without breaking stride. "COME JOIN ME AT PUMP WORLD! LET'S GET BIG AND STRONG TOGETHER!"
People stared after him, exchanging bewildered looks. Then, almost inevitably, a few began following.
At first, it was merely a handful of curious children who thought chasing an enormous jogging prince sounded like excellent entertainment. Several workers joined them, followed by nearly thirty teenagers who had apparently decided that whatever the Fifth Prince was doing, they wanted to be part of it.
Before long, the little procession had grown into a steadily expanding crowd jogging through Potsdam behind Oskar.
Women laughed breathlessly as they struggled to keep pace, while workers cheered from the pavements. A group of university students enthusiastically began chanting, "PUMP! PUMP! PUMP!" as they ran.
An elderly priest, watching the spectacle approach, made the sign of the cross and muttered beneath his breath, "That boy is trouble, Lord…"
Unfortunately for the priest, Oskar noticed him.
Slowing beside the old man, the prince flashed an enormous grin.
"MY MAN! COME ON! LET'S BUILD STRONG BODIES AND STRONG SPIRITS FOR THE GOOD OF GERMANY!"
The priest hesitated, visibly uncertain whether this was a genuine invitation or some peculiar new form of royal madness.
Several children immediately seized the opportunity, tugging excitedly at his sleeves.
"Father! Father, come with us! The prince is so COOL!"
The old priest looked toward the heavens and released a long, resigned sigh.
"…Very well. Perhaps this is God's will."
And with that, he joined the jog.
By the time Oskar finally arrived at Pump World at approximately eleven o'clock, nearly two thousand people were following him through the streets in what had become a bizarre, enthusiastic, and increasingly sweaty parade.
Karl, Tanya, and Hans were already waiting outside the building, accompanied by the newly recruited Pump World staff. Half were men and half were women, and all wore matching black-and-white Pump World hoodies, athletic trousers, newly designed running shoes, and baseball caps bearing the company's emblem: a stylized dumbbell shaped like an imperial eagle.
The entire color scheme was unmistakably Prussian, its black and white chosen to honor the Teutonic Order, the traditions of Prussian discipline, and the House of Hohenzollern.
The overall effect was rather extraordinary.
They looked like the world's first gym cult.
Karl surveyed the approaching crowd, adjusted his cap, and shook his head with an expression caught somewhere between professional pride and profound concern.
"Your Highness," he muttered, "this is either the greatest success in German fitness history… or the beginning of a revolution."
Oskar merely grinned.
Then, standing before the enormous building with nearly two thousand excited spectators gathered around him, he raised both arms toward the sky and bellowed with all the strength his considerable lungs could muster.
"MY MEN AND MY WOMEN! WELCOME TO PUMP WORLD!"
The crowd erupted into cheers.
History had just been rewritten.