In Oskar's view, it was simple.
If every infantry squad in the German Army carried a light machine gun… if every platoon had grenadiers who could throw explosives over parapets without standing up… if the riflemen themselves were no longer limited to slow bolt-action fire, but equipped with semi-automatic rifles… and if sniper pairs existed not as hunters for sport, but as a systematic tool—then German infantry firepower would leap a generation.
It would reach the level of a later century.
And once that happened, Germany would stop fighting like 1870 and start fighting like the future.
A war in 1914—if it still came—would not be the same war history remembered. Even if it collapsed into trenches and wire again, the British and French would find that trenches were not "cover" anymore.
They were targets.
And if the enemy saw the German Army equipped like this—equipped like a first-class force—who would dare start such a war in the first place?
It would be madness.
That was why Oskar had pushed so hard. Why he had demanded impossible tolerances, better alloys, tighter machining—dragging Krupp's metallurgy and precision tooling forward by the throat. Why he had accepted scandal and risk and court poison, just to get the industrial leverage he needed.
There were still years before the historical outbreak date.
Years that could be used.
If re-equipment began now, it was feasible—perfectly feasible—to modernize a huge portion of the army before Europe ever lit the fuse.
Half the force, at least.
He stepped forward at the viewing platform again, snow drifting through the smoke that still hung above the torn trench lines.
"Father. Gentlemen."
His voice carried without effort.
"You have seen the performance of these weapons developed by Imperial Weapons Works in cooperation with Krupp," he said evenly. "If the German Empire is ever attacked—by Britain, France, Russia, or all of them together—then it is not enough to have brave men. We must have superior firepower."
He let his gaze sweep the benches of decorated old soldiers below.
"I am requesting that the Army begin replacing its current infantry equipment with these weapons. Not for vanity. Not for experimentation. For survival."
Oskar believed—honestly—that after what they had just witnessed, agreement would be automatic. Men could be stubborn, yes, but no commander liked being outgunned.
But sadly, he was wrong in his overenthusiastic assumptions.
Wilhelm II leaned forward in his seat. The Kaiser's expression remained cordial, but the question was real.
"Well?" Wilhelm demanded, eyes on the ranks of uniforms. "Speak. What do you think of my son's proposal?"
Even as Emperor, he could not simply force the General Staff to swallow a reform of this magnitude. Not cleanly. Not without consequences.
The wood of a bench scraped.
Erich von Falkenhayn spoke first, measured and careful—as if he were walking between landmines.
"Your Majesty. Your Highness," he began. "These weapons are excellent. There is no question of their effectiveness."
He paused—then added what everyone expected would come next.
"But an overhaul of the entire Army at once would be… sudden. If the military budget allows, we should begin replacement—gradually."
It was the perfect answer. It praised Oskar without committing to Oskar. It promised action while protecting everyone's budgets, investments, and pride.
Oskar's jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.
Falkenhayn was not an enemy. Not truly. He was positioning himself—aligning with Oskar, yes, but also keeping his hands clean, because Falkenhayn understood the Army.
Moltke's shadow lay across it.
One by one, other generals joined in. Many were impressed—genuinely impressed. They wanted trials, field exercises, doctrine debates. They wanted to study what they had seen, to learn how best to apply it.
But a block of men remained quiet.
Stone-faced.
These were Moltke's men. And behind them, the quiet gravitational pull of old suppliers—Mauser, Rheinmetall—companies that had fed the Army's teeth for decades, and knew exactly how to reward loyalty.
Oskar could see it with unpleasant clarity.
They didn't oppose the weapons because the weapons were bad. They opposed them because adopting them would reshuffle power. And power, in the German Army, was money wearing medals.
General Josias von Heeringen leaned forward next, frowning as if the problem was purely professional.
"Your Majesty… Your Highness," he said. "A large-scale re-equipment program would require a substantial sum. While the quality appears excellent, the price must be… considerable."
Oskar nodded once.
"The M1 semi-automatic rifle costs roughly twice what a Mauser 98 costs," he said, without flinching.
That admission hit the benches like cold water.
Max von Hausen followed, voice more practical than political.
"And the ammunition?" he asked. "One of your squads used more cartridges today than some battalions carried in 1870. A ten-man squad now has the firepower of one thousand men with rifles—yes—but can our industry sustain that consumption? Can our logistics?"
The question wasn't foolish. It was the first intelligent resistance of the day.
For the first time, even Wilhelm II's brow furrowed. Not because he doubted the weapons. Because he understood numbers.
Germany's standing army sat at roughly six hundred thousand in peacetime, but in war it would swell to millions. And millions of men meant stockpiles—vast stockpiles—built before the first shot was fired. Rifles. Machine guns. spare barrels. belts. grenades. mortars. ammunition by the railcar and by the warehouse.
That was not a question of courage.
It was a question of marks.
The Reich was not poor, but it was not limitless. Billions in imperial debt still clung to the state like barnacles, and the Empire was already feeding too many mouths at once: naval expansion, heavy industry, subsidies, reforms, new programs that promised greatness but demanded payment now.
And yet—beneath the strain—something had begun to change.
Oskar's industrial machine was starting to turn the nation's finances in the right direction. Tax receipts were climbing. Exports were rising. New factories were paying wages, and wages were becoming spending, and spending was becoming growth. It was early—too early for miracles—but the trend was undeniable.
Given time, Germany would become terrifyingly rich.
Given time, the Empire could surpass its rivals the way a rising tide passed the old shorelines—quietly at first, then all at once.
But time was the one currency even an emperor could not print on command.
Wilhelm's gaze drifted across the benches of generals as if measuring their appetites.
Refitting the entire army at once—millions of new rifles, thousands of machine guns, oceans of ammunition—would not be a "purchase."
It would be an economic campaign.
And even with the new growth Oskar was forcing into existence, there was only so much the treasury could swallow in one bite before it choked.
So the Kaiser frowned—not in refusal, but in worry.
Because he could see the future in both directions: Germany could become the wealthiest nation in the world, but it still needed years.
And Oskar was asking for a decade's transformation… right now.
Then Moltke, the Chief of the General Staff spoke.
"Your Majesty," Moltke said calmly, "these weapons are impressive. No one denies that."
A pause—just long enough to make it sound reasonable.
"But they are too expensive for mass adoption at present," he continued. "The Army can make small purchases for further testing. When the budget is more favorable, we can expand."
He leaned back slightly.
"In any case, the German Army is already the finest in the world. These weapons would not change that fundamental truth. They would merely reinforce it. There is no critical need to rush."
Oskar felt something inside him go cold. No critical need? That was how you spoke when you believed the future would wait politely.
Germany's finances had been strained for years due to armament and preparation. War would not improve the budget. War would devour it. And time—time was the one thing Oskar could not manufacture, no matter how many factories he built.
He had pushed Krupp into improved alloys and precision tooling that should not exist in 1908. He had risked scandal at court. He had paid social price, political price, personal price—and now Moltke wanted to slow-walk it until history arrived anyway.
Then another voice joined in, heavy with reputation. colonel-general Colmar von der Goltz, the inspector-General of the Sixth Army.
"Your Majesty," Goltz said, "the weapons are excellent. But they contain a fatal flaw."
He gestured faintly toward the torn trench lines.
"They will vastly increase ammunition consumption. That will increase logistical burden—exponentially."
A ripple ran through the benches. Heads nodded. Men who had never carried ammunition in their lives suddenly became experts on supply.
Oskar almost smiled, almost.
Von Falkenhayn spoke again, calmly supporting Oskar without sounding like he belonged to him.
"Logistical pressure can be addressed," he said. "By increasing logistics personnel. And by expanding mechanized transport—more trucks. We have already seen how trucks solve problems wagons cannot."
Another general raised his hand, seizing a new angle.
"The light machine-gun is air-cooled," he said. "It might be lighter, yes. But after sustained fire the barrels glow red. At that rate they cannot continue firing."
Gustav Krupp answered at once, voice confident.
"Spare barrels," he said. "A trained gunner can replace a barrel in seconds."
The general's mouth tightened.
"And those seconds are gaps," he countered. "Gaps the enemy can exploit. Spare barrels also add weight. And cost."
And there it was. A coordinated wall of objections—every disadvantage seized and inflated, as if adopting superior firepower would somehow weaken Germany.
Oskar watched it unfold and felt disgust rise like bile.
He knew what this was. Fear of change. Fear of losing influence. Fear of losing money. Vermin in uniform.
The thought came, sharp and uninvited: When I have power, I will purge you. Not for revenge. For Germany's survival.
Gustav Krupp glanced toward him, anxiety flickering in his eyes. He had not expected this much resistance—not so openly, not with the Kaiser present.
Even Wilhelm II seemed to register it now, yet he was unsure of what to say.
Oskar on the other hand was nearly fuming with rage, as he stared down at the benches of decorated old men.
"Gentlemen," he said, and the edge in his voice cut through the cold air, "are you blind?"
The benches stiffened.
"You have seen what these weapons do," Oskar continued, his gaze sweeping across the assembled generals. "You have seen the difference between victory and slaughter. And now you hesitate—as if this were a matter of preference, not survival."
He gestured toward the torn ground below—the shredded trenches, the wire flattened into useless coils.
"I am offering you the means to secure German superiority not for a year, not for a decade, but for the next century," he said darkly. "And you would refuse it?"
His jaw tightened.
"Yes, the cost is high. I will not insult you by pretending otherwise. That is precisely why I have spent these past years forcing the German economy forward—why industry is expanding, why exports are rising, why crime is falling, why the population is more stable and confident than it has ever been."
He leaned forward slightly.
"This nation can bear the burden," Oskar said. "And when the alternative is German sons dying by the hundreds of thousands, then yes—sacrifice is not only justified. It is necessary."
Silence answered him.
The generals had all seen his expression. They knew he was displeased—and more importantly, they knew who he was becoming. Benefits, favors, and old loyalties suddenly felt far less solid when weighed against a future emperor who remembered names.
No one rushed to speak.
Then Moltke did.
"Your Highness," he said, voice tight, "we are discussing the issue professionally. There is no need to invoke your position to pressure the Army."
Oskar turned slowly.
"Pressure?" he repeated. His voice was calm now—too calm. "I am stating facts. When did facts become coercion?"
Moltke met his gaze, unblinking.
Oskar felt something inside him settle—not anger, but certainty.
He had wanted to believe their relationship had improved. He had tried restraint, compromise, patience. He had hoped Moltke might adapt.
But this—this reflexive resistance, this instinctive need to slow, delay, deny—proved what Oskar had long suspected. Nothing had changed.
Wilhelm II intervened before the exchange could harden further.
"Enough," the Kaiser said sharply. "You are both pillars of the Empire. There is no need to turn this into a personal contest."
Oskar and Moltke fell silent at once.
But their eyes told the truth.
This was no misunderstanding.
This was a collision.
Oskar already knew what he would do once he held the authority to act. Moltke was not merely an obstacle—he was a relic whose decisions, in another life, had drowned Europe in unnecessary blood.
Moltke, for his part, understood the danger just as clearly.
He could not remove Oskar. Not openly. Not ever.
But he could delay him. Limit him. Force compromise after compromise until the Iron Prince's vision dulled under institutional weight.
Because a Crown Prince with unchecked influence—industrial, popular, military—was not merely a reformer.
He was a threat.
And Moltke believed—perhaps honestly—that no single man should ever hold that much power over Germany's fate.
Wilhelm exhaled once, controlled. Then he turned, refusing to let the room drown in personal hostility.
"Waldeck," the Kaiser said, choosing a name carefully. "Speak."
General Georg von Waldersee shifted—old discipline holding his posture straight, even as his eyes betrayed discomfort.
"Your Majesty," he began, "the weapons are… undeniably advanced. Re-equipping the entire Army would increase combat effectiveness. But to do it at full scale, at once—" he looked briefly toward the benches, where several men gave him tiny, grateful nods, "—would require an enormous sum. And the logistical burden would be… unprecedented."
He met the Kaiser's gaze.
"For that reason, I do not recommend immediate full-scale replacement."
Oskar's jaw tightened.
Krupp's expression hardened too—less political, more financial. Imperial Weapons Works had been built on a promise. Tooling, factories, manpower, capital—none of it had been cheap. A full rejection would have been a wound. A partial order would be a bandage.
Wilhelm nodded slowly, eyes narrowed.
He did not like "no."
But he understood reality.
The Empire's finances were improving—Oskar's machine was beginning to turn the numbers in Germany's favor. The Reich's debt was starting to shrink. Exports were rising. Industry was growing. It wasn't a miracle yet, but it was momentum.
And momentum, if protected, would make Germany terrifying in ten years, but refitting millions of men all at once would not be momentum. It would be a shock.
Even a rich empire could choke on too much progress swallowed too fast.
Falkenhayn stepped in, voice measured—firm enough to be useful, cautious enough not to invite Moltke's immediate knife.
"Your Majesty," he said, "even if a full replacement is impossible today, we can begin immediately with phased procurement. Each year, we replace a portion. We train. We expand ammunition production. We adjust doctrine."
He glanced briefly toward Oskar—not submissive, not defiant.
"Step by step… but without losing time."
Wilhelm's eyes sharpened.
Then, finally, he nodded.
"Yes," he said. "That is what we will do."
It was not Oskar's victory, but it was not defeat.
Moltke's faction did not look pleased, but they held their tongues. To keep objecting now would not weaken Oskar.
It would offend Wilhelm.
And none of them were suicidal.
Besides—sitting in winter stands, talking politics with frozen feet and cold breath, had limits even for proud men.
Wilhelm II rose, his decision made.
His presence had already been a favor. His schedule would not bend around an argument forever.
He gave a final look toward the benches as if warning them not to turn this into a circus, then departed, surrounded by guards.
Only once the Kaiser was gone did the real negotiating begin.
Krupp and Waldersee withdrew slightly, speaking in low tones—numbers, procurement schedules, "test battalions," "training cadres," delivery dates.
It did not take long.
When Krupp returned, his face was controlled, but the tightness around his mouth revealed the truth: this was smaller than they had wanted.
"Your Highness," Krupp said, "the Army will purchase: two thousand MG09 general-purpose machine guns, five thousand MG10-E light machine guns, five thousand sniper rifles, and twenty thousand M1 semi-automatic rifles. Additionally: two thousand mortars of various types, and three thousand grenade launchers."
Oskar nodded, it was far from enough, but it was enough to keep the factory's alive. Enough to get these weapons into German hands, into German training, into German doctrine—where they could begin to grow roots.
"This volume is nowhere near what I wanted," Oskar said quietly. "But it keeps the line running."
His eyes lifted, focus returning—cold, relentless.
"We'll find other ways," he added. "We always do."
Krupp nodded, relief and frustration mixed. He knew the same truth Oskar did: A small order today was a foothold.
And footholds became cliffs if you had time to climb.
Only when the final papers were signed and the last officials began to disperse did Oskar exhale.
He stepped down from the viewing platform and walked across the frozen mud toward his men.
The Eternal Guard stood in disciplined ranks, armor dull beneath falling snow, faces hidden, posture perfect—waiting for nothing but orders.
Oskar stopped before them.
"Well done," he said simply.
Then he turned away from the range and toward the waiting horses.
Shadowmane was already there—massive, black, stamping impatiently in the cold, mane dusted with snow like ash on coal.
Oskar mounted in one smooth motion that made the animal's muscles tense beneath him, and for a moment the Iron Prince looked exactly like what the court whispered he was: A war-king from another age.
He gathered the reins, and his gaze sharpened toward the road back to Berlin.
Heddy had gone into labor that morning. Karl would be with her now. The palace would be loud with women, midwives, breath held tight.
A child would be arriving into the world.
Oskar clicked his tongue once.
The Eternal Guard cavalry formed up around him like a steel shadow.
And then he rode—fast—back toward the palace, toward warmth, toward life, toward the only thing in the Empire that mattered more than guns.
Family.