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Chapter 157.....
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Long ago, men told a story about a conqueror who called himself a prophet.
He and his followers had just finished destroying another settlement. They had killed its men, taken its women, stripped its homes and dragged away everything worth carrying. By nightfall they were camped beyond the ruins, laughing around their fires, drinking, boasting and trading jokes about the people they had slaughtered and the women they had claimed.
Their hands still smelled of blood and smoke.
Then a Jewish woman approached them.
She came alone, carrying nothing, her face calm despite the men surrounding her. She bowed before the prophet and offered to prepare a whole roasted lamb for him and his companions.
Before leaving, she asked him which part of the animal he preferred.
The men around him hesitated. The woman had come from the settlement they had just ravaged. Her family might have been among the dead. Her home might still have been burning behind them. Only a fool would have trusted such an offer.
But their prophet could not show doubt.
He had built himself into something greater than a man. He spoke for God. He commanded armies. He could not appear frightened of a lone woman whose people he had just crushed beneath his heel.
So he told her which portion he wanted.
The woman bowed again and disappeared into the darkness.
Hours later, she returned carrying the lamb. It had been roasted whole. Its skin was crisp, its flesh rich with fat and spices. She placed the prophet's chosen portion before him and served the rest to his followers.
He ate first.
And that was all the reassurance they needed. They tore into the meat with their hands, laughing and chewing, trusting him because he appeared to trust himself.
Then the prophet stopped.
The taste was wrong. The poison had already spread across his tongue and slipped down his throat, but he could not admit that the woman had deceived him. He could not admit that he had been careless, arrogant or afraid. A prophet could not be tricked by a grieving widow.
So he straightened and announced that God had warned him. The lamb itself, he claimed, had spoken and revealed the poison.
His followers froze with meat still in their mouths. But the warning had come too late.
One of them had eaten eagerly because he had watched his prophet eat without fear. He collapsed beside the fire, his body twisting violently in the dirt. His fingers clawed at his throat. His heels hammered against the ground. Foam ran from his mouth as his insides seized and tore themselves apart.
When they demanded to know why he had swallowed so much, the dying man gave them the simplest answer imaginable.
He had eaten because the prophet had eaten.
Then he died screaming.
Afterwards the dead man's relatives seized the woman. They did not grant her a clean death. They tore her apart in their rage, cutting and crushing her body until there was scarcely enough left to resemble the person who had walked calmly into their camp.
The prophet survived, for a time.
He walked away claiming that God had protected him, and his followers repeated the story until his humiliation became another miracle. But poison did not care what men believed.
Years later, it finished its work.
The prophet began suffering pains so savage that he described himself as being torn apart from within. It felt as though hooks had been buried inside his organs and invisible hands were slowly ripping them loose. He weakened. He burned with fever. He twisted beneath blankets while healers, prayers and commands failed one after another.
The man who had ordered armies into battle could not command his own body to live.
At last, he died.
Even then, his followers refused to accept what lay before them. They left his corpse unburied, waiting for warmth to return to it. They waited for him to breathe, to rise and prove that death itself could not hold the man they had worshipped.
Instead, the body bloated. The flesh darkened. The stench filled the room, and he never rose. He had not conquered death. He had merely eaten poison. He had been nothing more than a man.
To Oskar, the lesson was not about mercy. It was about arrogance.
A man could spend his life robbing, killing and terrorizing others, but he should not expect his victims to love him. He should not expect obedience to become loyalty simply because enough generations had passed. Sooner or later, someone would place poison before him.
The Ottoman Empire had made the same mistake.
For centuries, Ottoman armies had forced their way into Europe. They had conquered Christian kingdoms, seized cities, taken children, imposed tribute and carried their banners deep into lands that had never invited them.
They had called it victory. They had called it law. They had called it the rightful advance of faith and empire.
Then the centuries turned against them.
The Ottoman state weakened. Its armies lost ground. Its treasury filled with foreign debt, while peoples once held beneath its authority rose one after another and demanded freedom.
Suddenly Constantinople spoke of international law.
It appealed to European balance, Christian restraint and the friendship of the very powers its predecessors had once dreamed of conquering. It asked Britain, France, Russia, Germany and Austria-Hungary to protect Ottoman territory from Italian aggression.
It expected assistance from nations whose peoples still remembered Ottoman armies outside their walls.
That expectation was the poison, for no one came. And the empire found itself abandoned, not through one dramatic betrayal, but through the slow closing of every door.
Oskar had helped close them.
He did not enjoy the reports arriving from Libya. He did not celebrate burned villages, mutilated prisoners or children caught beneath artillery fire. He understood exactly what war did to people who had never chosen it.
But pity did not change his conclusion.
To him, preserving the Ottoman Empire would have been like feeding blood into a tumour because removing it caused pain.
A stronger Ottoman state would not remain permanently grateful to Germany. Gratitude did not govern empires. Interest did.
If German money, officers and weapons restored Ottoman strength, then sooner or later that strength would be directed toward purposes of its own. The old imperial justifications had never truly vanished. Faith, conquest and political authority remained bound together strongly enough that a future ruler could once again present expansion as sacred duty.
Oskar had no intention of creating that danger himself.
He was no longer Zhang Ge, an obscure man watching history unfold from a safe distance. He was the Crown Prince of Germany, responsible for millions of lives that could be ruined by a single disastrous decision.
He had wives and children. He had cities, churches and an entire nation to protect. Foreign conquest ceased to be an academic question once he possessed something that conquest might one day reach.
And so Oskar had made his choice.
To him, the destruction of Ottoman power was a kind of surgery. The blade was bloody, the patient screamed and innocent flesh would inevitably be cut, but leaving the tumour untouched would only allow it to spread. Better to endure the horror of the operation now than face something far worse later.
So he allowed the surgery to continue.
Back in Potsdam, Oskar sat in his office with reports spread across the desk before him. One pile concerned Libya.
The Balkans filled another. Montenegro had moved first. Bulgaria, Serbia and Greece had followed, their armies crossing the Ottoman frontiers with the fury of peoples who had waited generations for such an opportunity. Border towns changed hands, Ottoman formations retreated and telegrams arrived faster than ministers could understand them.
The empire was beginning to collapse like a house whose beams had rotted long before the walls finally began to fall.
Oskar read the reports without pleasure, but he did not mourn what was happening.
Again and again, his attention returned to a single name.
Constantinople, the great prize.
The city every Balkan ruler desired and every Ottoman officer knew could never be surrendered.
Oskar doubted the Christian armies would reach it. Even a dying empire defended its heart with desperate strength. If Bulgaria threatened the city directly, the Ottomans would throw every surviving regiment into the line.
Men would fight without food. Fortifications would be held until the ammunition disappeared. Constantinople would not fall easily.
Yet Oskar permitted himself to wonder.
What if it did?
What if, in this history, a Christian army crossed the final defences and returned the city to the civilization from which it had been taken?
When Oskar thought of Constantinople, he did not first imagine the Ottoman capital.
He imagined the older city beneath it.
The city of emperors, councils and churches.
The city whose walls had protected Europe for centuries.
He pictured the Hagia Sophia before its crosses were removed and its mosaics hidden beneath plaster. He imagined the sanctuaries, libraries, columns and archives that had once gathered the inheritance of Greece, Rome and the Christian East beneath one skyline.
The Ottomans had taken that inheritance and placed their own symbols over it.
Even the crescent they carried had belonged to the city in older ages, long before Turkish banners rose above its walls.
To Oskar, Ottoman architecture did not excuse the conquest. Magnificent mosques built in the shadow of Hagia Sophia did not erase where their forms had come from. Domes, arches and proportions could be adapted, decorated and renamed, but adaptation was not creation from nothing.
The empire had inherited the bones of civilizations it had defeated.
Whatever beauty it later produced did not balance what it had erased.
That was what Oskar despised most. Not the blood of Ottoman subjects. Not every ordinary Turk, Arab, Kurd, Greek, Armenian or Jew forced to live beneath the same government.
He despised the imperial certainty that conquest granted the right to overwrite whatever had existed before.
History, to Oskar, was sacred. Not because it was always noble. Much of it was vicious, stupid and shameful.
But it was true.
History was memory. It was a scar showing where the blade had entered. Destroy the record, and the next generation could be convinced that there had never been a wound at all.
The Ottoman conquest of Constantinople had not merely changed governments.
It had buried a world.
If some Christian power reached the city again—if the old mosaics were uncovered, the churches restored and the Hagia Sophia returned to the faith for which it had been raised—Oskar would not regard it as another conquest.
He would call it restoration. Perhaps that was dishonest. Perhaps every conqueror believed he was restoring something.
Oskar understood the danger of such thoughts. Yet understanding did not make the desire disappear.
He looked again at the reports from the Balkans and allowed himself to imagine the Ottoman banner coming down from Constantinople. He imagined bells ringing again above the Bosporus and Christian ceremonies filling the great sanctuary after centuries of silence.
He felt no sorrow for the empire that might lose it. The Ottoman state had spent centuries taking from others. Now others were coming to collect.
Oskar folded the newspaper and pushed it aside.
Beyond the windows, laughter carried across the palace grounds. His children were playing in the snow.
Some could barely remain upright inside their oversized coats. Others chased one another between the trees, throwing snowballs with terrible aim and screaming in triumph whenever they struck anything at all.
For a moment, the Balkans, Libya and Constantinople disappeared.
Oskar stood and crossed to the window.
This was why he made such decisions. Not for maps. Not for churches already lost centuries before his birth. Not even for Germany's future power.
He acted because those children trusted that the world outside their home would remain safe enough for them to grow old.
He hoped they would someday live in an age where newspapers carried foolish scandals, romantic disasters and arguments over sport instead of casualty lists and collapsing empires.
Perhaps it was a foolish hope, but hope without preparation was merely another poisoned meal.
Oskar would hope. And he would keep his hand upon the knife.
That afternoon, the calm shattered into ceremony.
In the Imperial Palace at Potsdam, in the study of Wilhelm II, a royal council assembled—generals, ministers, admirals, all drawn by the same word whispered through the corridors:
Oil.
The mood was unmistakably lighter than usual.
"Your Highness, congratulations," Admiral Tirpitz, State Secretary of the Navy, said as he took his seat, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice. "I've received reports confirming that the oil fields in Cyrenaica—those under your Oskar Industrial Group's management—are… extraordinary."
He allowed himself a rare grin.
"With the rapid expansion of the fleet, nearly all of our newest warships now run on oil-fired boilers. Consumption has increased dramatically. While the Navy has built substantial reserves, even millions of tons may prove insufficient under blockade conditions. And frankly—our budget cannot support much more."
He spread his hands.
"This discovery changes everything."
Oskar inclined his head, measured and calm.
"Marshal," he replied, "I admit I did not expect the reserves to be quite this large. But the decision has been made. German Energy is accelerating extraction immediately. I have already ordered preparations to begin shipping crude north within three months."
A low murmur passed through the room.
"Increasing domestic stockpiles," Oskar continued, "reduces our exposure to foreign supply chains. It also lowers long-term costs. Oil extracted under our own control is far cheaper than oil bought under someone else's permission."
Several ministers exchanged glances, visibly pleased. This was not merely profit, this was security.
"This can only be God's blessing upon the German Empire," Moltke the Younger declared, voice rich with conviction. "With fuel secured, the machines of modern war—aircraft, trucks, motorcycles, armored units—will not falter. In the next great war, Britain and France will not be able to outlast us."
A few heads nodded. A few murmured agreement.
Oskar said nothing. For inside, his thoughts were far less charitable.
God's blessing? he thought dryly.
If that were true, history would have found this oil decades ago.
This was not divine favor. It was foresight. But Moltke knew exactly what he was doing—wrapping the discovery in providence, praising the Empire while quietly diverting credit away from Oskar himself. Flattery for the Kaiser. Distance from the Crown Prince.
Two birds, one sermon.
Around the table, however, the men leaned toward Moltke's explanation. Few could imagine how Oskar might have known where to drill unless some higher power whispered it to him. The idea that this young prince simply understood the future was more unsettling than theology.
Wilhelm II nodded, clearly pleased.
"God's blessing indeed," the Kaiser said warmly. "My boy, you continue to astonish me. Truly—what would Germany do without you?"
He paused, his expression hardening.
"And those Italians," he added with a scoff. "They have misjudged this affair terribly. Perhaps this is God's punishment for their arrogance."
Oskar held his expression neutral.
"Your Majesty," Bernhard von Bülow added smoothly, "Rome must be regretting its decision deeply. Forty percent of the revenue is generous, but imagine—had they known the truth, they could have claimed everything."
He chuckled softly.
"Instead, Germany will emerge as a central power in the future oil market. The financial implications alone are staggering."
Laughter rippled through the room—controlled, satisfied, the sound of men who believed fortune had chosen them.
Oskar let it pass, then he spoke.
"Gentlemen," he said evenly, "I appreciate the enthusiasm. But let us not confuse opportunity with safety."
The mood shifted at once.
"The oil fields," Oskar continued, "are far from our homeland. We cannot defend them directly. If war breaks out, the British and French will not hesitate to strike—either by naval action, by landing troops, or by encouraging the Italians to seize the fields for themselves."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Even worse," he added, "the Italians may decide—quite rationally—that forty percent is no longer enough."
The smiles vanished, for everyone in the room understood the danger immediately. Libya was not Prussia. It was not Bavaria. It was not even Alsace. It was exposed—reachable by hostile fleets, dependent on goodwill that could evaporate overnight.
Silence stretched.
"At present," Tirpitz said slowly, "there is nothing we can do about that reality. If war begins, Britain will deploy its fleet to blockade our coastline immediately. Even if we possess oil, we may be unable to transport it home."
He straightened slightly.
"However," he continued, "if the Imperial Navy defeats the British fleet—if we break the blockade—then every other problem becomes… manageable."
Wilhelm II leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest.
"So it seems," the Kaiser said, "that the Navy's task has once again become more demanding."
His gaze locked onto Tirpitz.
"Admiral," Wilhelm II asked, voice calm but sharp beneath it, "does the Imperial Navy truly have the confidence to defeat the British fleet and face the French—and then, if necessary, reclaim our oil fields in Libya?"
The question hung in the air. Britain alone was formidable. Britain and France together had broken empires before.
Wilhelm II felt the unease settle into his chest like a cold weight. Spain. The Dutch Republic. Napoleonic France. History was littered with powers that had tried—and failed—to challenge British sea supremacy.
Was Germany next?
Tirpitz did not hesitate.
"Your Majesty," he said firmly, "after going over our future naval plans with his Highness Oskar, I can now say that the Imperial Navy has full confidence in its ability to meet both the British and French fleets. Our ships are modern. Our crews are trained. Our doctrine is sound."
Wilhelm II studied him for a long moment.
"Very well," the Kaiser said at last. "Then we continue as planned."
He rose slightly in his chair, voice gaining authority.
"The Empire must continue preparing—not only militarily, but technologically. If the day comes when we are forced to act, Germany will not be found wanting."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the council replied in unison.
Thus the meeting moved on.
Meanwhile, across the Channel, in London, there was no laughter at all.
"Damn it!" Winston Churchill snapped, slamming a hand against the table. "How can the Germans be this lucky? We squeeze their oil supply, we manipulate prices, we restrict access—and suddenly they stumble onto one of the largest oil fields in Africa!"
His face was flushed with anger.
"All our work—wasted."
Prime Minister Asquith said nothing at first, his expression tight. British intelligence reports lay open before him, numbers and diagrams underlined in red.
Nearly all German warships now ran on oil.
The Royal Navy had counted on that dependence. They had believed they could starve it.
"It appears," Asquith said finally, "that we must consider alternatives."
"We could act immediately," Navy Secretary McKenna suggested. "The Mediterranean Fleet could strike the oil facilities directly—destroy the ports, sabotage the wells, land troops if necessary."
"No," Sir Edward Grey cut in at once. "Absolutely not."
He turned toward McKenna, eyes hard.
"That would be a declaration of war—without justification. And do not forget that a substantial share of the oil profits belongs to Italy. Such an action would alienate them completely."
Grey folded his hands.
"We are attempting to draw Italy closer—not drive them away."
Churchill leaned back, thinking, then smiled thinly.
"Then we do it properly," he said. "We let the Italians take everything."
The room stilled.
"When war comes," Churchill continued, "we encourage Italy to seize the fields outright. The Germans get nothing. If Italy proves… uncooperative, then the wells can be destroyed later."
Asquith nodded slowly.
"Yes," he said. "That will suffice."
He closed the folder in front of him.
"For now, we allow the Germans their oil. Once war begins, the situation will resolve itself."
The ministers murmured assent.
Then Asquith straightened.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice firm, "the international situation is deteriorating rapidly. Germany is preparing for war—this much is clear. That means our time is limited."
He looked around the table.
"From this moment forward, all efforts must be directed toward preparation. We must be ready to defeat Germany when the moment arrives."
He paused.
"And we must strengthen every pressure point available to us."
His gaze lingered.
"France will continue extending loans to Serbia. If necessary, Britain will support those loans indirectly. A stronger Serbia weakens Austria-Hungary—and a weakened Austria weakens Germany."
No one objected.
"If a Balkan war gives us leverage," Asquith continued, "we will use it. If it gives us opportunity, we will not hesitate."
He stood.
"The British Empire must remain the leading power in the world."
A brief silence followed.
Then, solemnly: "God bless the British Empire."
Outside, London moved as usual.
Inside its councils, the future was being sharpened into a weapon.
And far away, in Potsdam, a German Crown Prince stared at maps and knew—without doubt—that the age of hesitation was coming to an end.