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.
"Fine, I surrender," he said, tone earnest. "Complete surrender."
Tanya's eyebrow lifted.
Oskar hurried on before she could sharpen the knife.
"But just wait and listen for a moment, ok," 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:
"So please let me enter my own room, and let us talk inside before I am executed in the hallway by my own toddlers."
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, about feelings.
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, and he would stay true to it.
After that, his contact with Gundelinda became what it was always supposed to be at this stage: Letters written with careful, yet sweet words, 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, even little muscles, 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, because 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 complete 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, before the palace had properly woken, Oskar decided to ride into town.
Karl was already waiting to be dragged to Pump World, no doubt regretting whatever sin in a previous life had earned him such friendship. So Oskar dressed only halfway, threw on trousers, put on a classic white button-down shirt, ignored shoes entirely, and padded barefoot through the quiet corridors toward the stables.
The guards saw him pass, and none asked questions. By now, a half-dressed giant prince wandering through the palace before sunrise counted as normal.
He had made it outside and within the stables, and nearly reached Shadowmane's stall when he heard it then, "laughter."
Young, breathless, badly suppressed laughter.
Oskar stopped.
The stables were dim and golden with early light, smelling of hay, leather, horse warmth, and sleep. Shadowmane shifted somewhere nearby, snorting softly, but the laughter came from another stall—one with its door left slightly open.
Oskar narrowed his eyes with suspicioun. He crouched lower, moving with surprising quiet for a man of his size, and crept toward the gap. Then, with all the dignity of an Acting Crown Prince spying like a burglar in his own stable, he leaned just enough to look inside.
What he saw made his brain briefly stop working. For his sister Louise and Gustav Schwarzenegger were on the hay-strewn floor. Not in danger or hurt, but wrestling.
Gustav—no longer a little boy, but not yet fully a man—was broad-shouldered, sun-browned, and strong from stable work, discipline, and Pump World training. He had clearly managed to pin Louise down at some point, one arm braced beside her shoulder, his expression caught somewhere between victory and absolute panic.
Louise, however, looked far from defeated.
Her cheeks were flushed. Her hair had come loose. There were still faint traces of earlier sadness near her eyes, but now she was laughing up at him with the wild brightness of a girl who had discovered that being miserable was much less entertaining than being trouble.
"Will you surrender, my lady?" Gustav whispered, breathless.
Louise went very still, then like a little royal wolf she growled, she actually growled.
Gustav froze. "Uh…"
That was his mistake, as in the next moment Louise struck.
Not with a punch, not with a slap, but with a lightning-fast peck to his mouth that landed with the precision of a cavalry raid. Gustav's eyes went wide. Before he could recover, she grabbed his collar between her teeth, bit down on the fabric like some feral little beast, and wrapped herself around him in triumph.
"Ah—what in God's name—Louise!"
He although did not push her away. That, Oskar noticed at once. Gustav simply looked shocked, helpless, and utterly conquered.
Louise released him from the bite, and made another small victorious sound whispering something into his ear, half growl, half giggle.
Oskar stared for one second longer than he should have. Then he slowly leaned back from the gap.
Nope, absolutely not.
He had fought assassins, argued with admirals, faced ministers, priests, industrialists, and the entire machinery of European politics.
But whatever this was, he was not prepared for it before breakfast.
He retreated silently, one careful step at a time, leaving the two young fools to their hay, their laughter, and Louise's apparently predatory theory of courtship.
Only when he was safely out of sight did he straighten, rub both hands over his face, and whisper:
"Oh, man… what the hell did I just witness?"
Shadowmane snorted from his stall, as if judging him.
Oskar glanced toward the horse.
"Don't look at me like that. I'm not getting involved."
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. The boy would learn cavalry warfare now, Armoured warfare later.
When tanks came—and they would—men who understood machines and movement would be needed.
Louise of course 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, named Aureliel.
While Anna gave birth to another daughter, named Sereniel.
Both children were healthy, strong, and marked by the now-familiar platinum-blonde hair like silver and deep violet 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.
The birth of 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. And 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 and 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, and not only in Germany, but internationally. They strengthened German pride at home, but they also softened divisions in quieter ways between people's from all across the world. People no matter their background found themselves waiting for the same next release, arguing over the same characters, repeating the same lines, and discussing the same stories in public and at home.
More importantly, many chose to read the books in their original language, which was German.
Without anyone forcing them, they learned its words because the stories made them want to. And in that way, page by page, Oskar's books did something speeches and laws could never quite achieve.
They made German feel like the language of wonder, but sadly, books would never be enough.
And Oskar had been resting long enough, and now it was time to look at guns, and methods of war again. To ensure that none would dare ever face the might of Germany in war.
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 of a gun. And 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 and entering testing.
Oskar allowed himself one rare moment of satisfaction. There were still quite some 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. To Oskar's private study, where the air smelled of paper, ink, and the quiet pressure of decisions.
Krupp arrived like a man carrying good news wrapped in unpleasant reality.
After the proper greetings, he placed a folder on Oskar's desk and rested one hand over it.
"Your Highness," he said, "development on the weapons you requested is complete. The final prototypes are entering their last round of testing. I have spoken with the engineers and specialists personally. So far, there appear to be no major technical obstacles. If nothing unexpected occurs, the testing phase should be finished within a month."
He paused. Then came the real question.
"What do we do next?"
Oskar leaned back slightly, hands clasped, his mind already moving beyond the room.
"My man, Herr Krupp," he said, half amused and half deadly serious, "if the tests go smoothly, then we do the obvious thing."
He tapped the folder.
"We build dedicated factories. One production line for each weapon. Separate lines for ammunition. Proper tooling. Proper inspection. Proper secrecy. Then we put the weapons in the armies hands and begin modernizing the whole system."
Krupp's mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile. The expression although did not last.
"Your Highness," he said carefully, "I agree that the weapons are advanced. In some areas, extraordinarily so. But that does not mean the Army will immediately purchase them in quantities large enough to equip the whole force."
Oskar's eyes sharpened.
"Why not?"
Krupp did not enjoy being the man who dragged enthusiasm back down to earth, but he was too experienced to avoid the truth.
"Cost," he said simply. "Not only the cost of the weapons themselves, but the ammunition. These designs consume bullets at a rate that will frighten every accountant in the War Ministry. A traditional rifle is cheaper. Simpler. Familiar. Procurement officers like familiar things."
He opened the folder and turned one page.
"Then there is the matter of production. These weapons require precision tooling, consistent parts, trained inspectors, and workers who understand tolerances far tighter than most arms factories are used to. We can do it, yes. But only because your factories have already developed machines and methods that most of the industry does not possess."
His voice lowered.
"And that creates another problem. These weapons are not ordinary commercial goods. They are state secrets in everything but name. We cannot sell them abroad to recover costs. We cannot offer them to minor states, colonial armies, or private buyers. If we allow samples to leave German control, every rival power will begin copying them."
Oskar said nothing.
Krupp continued.
"So we have only one true customer: the German Army. If the Army buys, production expands naturally. If the Army hesitates, then we will be building expensive weapons with no market beyond Your Highness's own pocket."
He looked directly at Oskar.
"And Mauser and Rheinmetall will not sit quietly while we threaten their position. They have friends in the Army, in procurement offices, in committees, in the Reichstag. They will whisper that our weapons are too costly, too complex, too new, too hungry for ammunition. They will offer cheaper rifles. They will praise tradition. They will call caution wisdom."
Oskar exhaled slowly as he realised the truth of the matter. A better weapon did not win merely because it was better. It's production had to be cheap and simple enough, that anyone would even allow it to exist.
If Imperial Weapons Works captured the Army's future contracts, old companies would bleed influence, money, and prestige. Mauser and Rheinmetall would not see innovation. They would see invasion.
Oskar's status would not silence them. Krupp's name would not frighten them enough.
When money and pride were threatened together, resistance became religion.
For a moment, Oskar looked down at the folder. Then his expression settled into calm as he said, "Then we prepare for two wars."
Krupp raised an eyebrow. "Two?"
"One against the enemy," Oskar said. "And one against German stupidity."
Krupp gave the smallest possible smile.
Oskar leaned forward.
"We do not stop. We do not wait politely for committees to discover the future by accident. Everything we are doing is for Germany's survival. If procurement games delay this, then the price will not be paid in Marks later. It will be paid in German blood."
The room went quiet. Then Oskar began to speak as if laying down an order of battle.
"First, before Christmas, we hold a demonstration. A large one. Not a private firing test. A full military display."
Krupp listened closely.
"I will invite His Majesty," Oskar said. "The General Staff. The War Ministry. Moltke. Falkenhayn. Every man whose opinion can open or close the Army's purse. They will see the weapons with their own eyes."
He tapped the table once. "And the Eternal Guard will operate them."
Krupp nodded slowly, that was wise. The Eternal Guard would not fumble. They would not gossip. They would not misunderstand orders. They would make every drill look clean, disciplined, and inevitable.
Oskar continued.
"Let the generals watch skilled men use these weapons properly. Let them see the rate of fire. The accuracy. The effect of coordinated squads. Let them understand what one trained unit can do with modern tools."
His voice lowered.
"If they praise the weapons in front of the Kaiser, then Mauser and Rheinmetall can complain all they want. Their complaints will sound like fear."
Krupp's eyes darkened with approval.
"That may win the first contract," he said. "But perhaps not the scale you want."
"I know," Oskar replied. "But it doesn't matter, we must build more factories anyway."
Krupp stilled.
"I want the current factory expanded," Oskar said. "Then I want new ones. At minimum: dedicated facilities for the rifles, the machine guns, the mortars and launchers, the ammunition, and the supporting equipment. Holsters, cases, belts, parts, maintenance kits—everything. A weapon is useless if the Army cannot feed, repair, and carry it."
"Your Highness," Krupp said slowly, "that will require enormous investment before the contracts are secure."
"Yes."
"And if the Army does not purchase enough?"
"Then I purchase them."
Krupp stared at him.
Oskar did not blink.
"If the Army refuses to buy the future today, then I will buy it for Germany and store it until Germany becomes wise enough to ask for it. I want secure storage prepared," he said. "Deep, guarded, dry, and hidden. Bunker magazines. Ammunition vaults. Reserve depots behind walls no journalist will ever see. We will build weapons, pack them, oil them, seal them, and wait."
He looked determined now.
"When the day comes, and everyone suddenly discovers that yesterday's rifles are not enough, we will not be starting from nothing. We will open the doors."
Krupp's face was grave now. He understood the scale of what Oskar was proposing. A shadow arsenal of his own, a second army sleeping underground.
Krupp studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"I will use Krupp's influence where it helps," he said. "The demonstration will be prepared. The factories will be planned. The storage requirements will be drawn up."
Oskar held out his hand, "Good, then it is decided."
Krupp took it.
Their handshake was businesslike, decisive, almost cold—the agreement of two men who understood that steel had no patience for hesitation.
Neither of them mentioned Bertha or the children Gustav was raising under his own name. And history, as usual, ignored the private wound and watched only the steel.
After the meeting 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 to the Army and the Navy. And thus the coming weapons demonstration began to take shape.