Hans had been in Kaiser Wilhelm II's palace for a week now.
Enjoying royal life? Living a second chance at life? What a joke. Hans felt like a gorilla trapped in a zoo cage.
"Look, it's that child."
"What was His Majesty thinking, bringing an Asian into the palace…"
"..."
The whispers of the servants echoed behind him.
Seriously, if you're going to gossip about me, at least lower your voices?
Do they really think I don't understand German?
At first, Hans tried to ignore it. But after days of the same treatment, the stress was mounting.
He'd almost prefer they just call him a "damn yellow monkey" to his face.
"I'm already racking my brain over how to act. This just makes it worse."
There were 13 years and 4 months until the outbreak of World War I.
Even if he started preparing now, time was painfully tight. And here Hans was, stuck in this damn kid's body.
"No one will take a child seriously."
In his past life, he'd wished to be "ten years younger." Now he'd beg the heavens to age him a decade.
The irony was maddening.
"Maybe I should play the madman and pull a Rasputin?"
The idea tempted him for a moment, but Hans quickly shook his head.
Wilhelm II wasn't a naive fool like his cousin Nicholas II.
And Germany falling under the sway of some mysterious Eastern prophet?
No way. The Junker nobility would shoot him dead before he could blink.
"Hey, Hans!"
Just as Hans was stewing over his bleak future, a familiar voice called out.
It was Joachim, Kaiser Wilhelm II's sixth son. Behind him trailed Victoria Louise, the Kaiser's only daughter and youngest of the seven siblings.
"Prince Joachim, Princess Victoria Louise."
Upon seeing the pair, Hans immediately bowed his head slightly.
These two siblings, like the kind-hearted Empress Augusta Victoria, were among the few who treated Hans with genuine warmth.
Unlike their thick-skulled older brothers, who either ignored Hans or treated him like air.
Close in age to Hans, the siblings seemed more curious than wary of this strange foreigner—a novelty among peers.
"For me, this is a blessing."
Even as a child, building connections with the royal family remained crucial.
At this stage, the only people Hans could rely on were Wilhelm II and his family.
"Look at this, Hans! You're in the newspaper!"
"Hans?"
Joachim had somehow procured a newspaper larger than his own torso and unfurled it for Hans to see.
Truthfully, Hans had corrected his name multiple times—it was supposed to be Hansi, not Hans. But by now, even he was getting confused.
"See here? 'Mysterious Eastern Boy Takes Bullet for Kaiser: Who Is He?' This article, right here!"
"Wow, it's really you!"
The photo showed Hans collapsed on the ground after being shot. Even that had been published.
It seemed that as the chaos from the assassination attempt on Wilhelm II subsided, press restrictions were loosening.
"There's more over here."
Louise flipped to the next page.
A quick scan revealed endless speculation about Hans' relationship with the Kaiser, or why Wilhelm II had brought him into the palace.
Of course, there were also trashy pieces like "Wilhelm II's New Pet? The Yellow-Skinned Boy in the Palace."
Could I sue them for this?
"You're famous now!"
"The incident was sensational, after all."
Hans' race played no small role, too.
In Qing China, this would be akin to a Black youth saving the emperor's life.
Of course it would dominate the gossip.
Hans skimmed for other notable articles but found little of interest: the death of 23rd U.S. President Benjamin Harrison, or the Boer-British peace negotiations collapsing.
Louise, already bored with the newspaper, pouted.
"Brother, let's go play ball!"
"No—don't you remember the banquet tonight? Mother will scold us if we dirty our clothes."
"Wait… banquet?"
And it's tonight?
No one told me!
"Ah, you didn't know?"
"No one mentioned it."
"Well, I just heard too. Mother said the Chancellor, the Army Chief of Staff, and some other… naval bigwig are coming to the palace. Hence the dinner."
The Chancellor must be Bernhard von Bülow, the man I met on my first day in Potsdam. The Chief of Staff? That'd be Schlieffen—the same Schlieffen drafting Germany's invasion plan for France. And the naval officer…
"Your Highness, is the naval figure Grand Admiral Alfred von Tirpitz?"
"Yes, that's the name!"
Of course. In this era, no other naval officer would rate a dinner invitation from Wilhelm II.
But the real problem—I'm expected to attend?
Sitting through meals with the princes' glares is bad enough. Now add Bülow, Schlieffen, and Tirpitz?
…No way in hell I'm going. I'd rather starve.
——
…Why do the worst premonitions always come true?
Hans inwardly wept as he shook hands with the elderly military legend standing before him.
"So this is the young Eastern lad who saved His Majesty's life. Charmed."
"A pleasure. I am Count Alfred von Schlieffen, currently serving as Chief of the General Staff—though I'm just an overpromoted old man."
"The honor is mine, Your Excellency. I am Hansi Jo."
"And this is Admiral Tirpitz. As you can see, he's an insufferable seal."
"Quiet, Count Schlieffen."
Admiral Tirpitz's stocky frame and brusque demeanor made him seem almost dwarf-blooded. He clasped Hans' hand with a calloused sailor's grip.
"Alfred von Tirpitz, State Secretary of the Imperial Navy."
"Your reputation precedes you, Admiral."
"Skinny little thing, aren't you? Or do all Asians look half-starved?"
Hahaha!
Tirpitz clapped Hans' back with a force that nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.
How is this old man so strong?
After exchanging stiff pleasantries with Chancellor Bernhard von Bülow, Hans was ushered into the banquet hall.
Screech!
The moment he sat, the glowering princes' stares seemed to demand: What are YOU doing here?
Their gazes turned him into a mouse cornered by lions—royal, gilded lions.
Trust me, I'd rather not be here either.
But since escape was impossible, Hans resolved to use this nightmare to his advantage.
However suffocating the atmosphere, impressing Bülow, Schlieffen, and Tirpitz—the trifecta of German power—could only help.
"Let us dine, gentlemen."
"As you command, Your Majesty."
After a brief prayer, Wilhelm II signaled the start of the meal.
Hans cautiously tasted the soup before him.
How ironic—once fumbling with noble etiquette, now I move through it instinctively.
"Quite delicious."
He meant it. The meat had a unique richness—was it beef? Chicken?
"Ah! Haven't had turtle meat in ages!"
"Pfft—?!"
What the hell?
Turtle meat?!
"Hans? Are you unwell?"
Empress Augusta Victoria's concerned voice snapped him alert. Hans straightened, offering a reassuring smile.
"Ahem—nothing, Your Majesty. The soup is exquisite."
"Ah, your first time trying turtle soup, then."
The Empress nodded knowingly. Hans vaguely recalled a historical comic mentioning turtle soup's popularity in Victorian Britain.
Guess Germany's no different.
"Reminds me of my youth," Bülow mused. **"Even commoners could afford turtle dishes back then."
"Now finding a turtle's like plucking stars from the sky,"** Schlieffen grumbled.
Because we ate them all, you fools.
Sorry, turtles. Humanity's the worst.
"Tirpitz—how fare the Braunschweig-class battleships?"
"Progressing flawlessly, Your Majesty."
Wilhelm II, swirling his wine, had posed the question almost casually. Tirpitz's reply brimmed with confidence.
The Braunschweig-class—Germany's pre-dreadnought battleships, authorized under the Second Naval Law of 1900. Yet these ships would be rendered obsolete within two years by the revolutionary HMS Dreadnought. A fact Hans alone seemed to grasp.
"SMS Elsass will launch from Schichau Shipyard next May. The lead ship, Braunschweig, begins construction at Germaniawerft this October once the dockyard clears."
"Good. But do not grow complacent, Admiral. The Braunschweig-class is merely a stepping stone."
The Kaiser's gaze burned into Tirpitz, feverish with obsession.
"Naturally, Your Majesty. The Kaiserliche Marine will surpass the Royal Navy. I, Tirpitz, have never wavered in this vision!"
"Ha! Surpass the British! Yes—magnificent!"
Their booming laughter filled the hall.
Hans stifled a bitter laugh.
Surpass the Royal Navy?
Delusional.
History had proven this ambition a pipe dream. Germany's naval arms race drained its treasury only to birth the High Seas Fleet—a force that cowered in port for most of the Great War. Its sole "triumph"? A pyrrhic draw at Jutland. And its finale? The humiliating scuttle at Scapa Flow.
"Hans—your thoughts?"
"Pardon?"
"Can our navy outstrip Britain's?"
Why ask me? Am I your court jester?
"An absurd question to ask a child, no matter how you spin it."
"This is… complicated."
A placating lie—*"Of course we can!"—would satisfy the Kaiser and please the room.
But Hans' "Save the German Empire Plan" would crumble further. The Kaiser's naval obsession was a cancer devouring Germany's future.
"What if… I gamble here?"
The idea flashed like lightning. Success could elevate Hans' influence overnight—and perhaps steer Germany away from ruin.
But the stakes? Catastrophic. One misstep, and he'd be branded a traitor.
"Your Majesty."
Hans steadied his breath, weighing risk against reward.
Now or never.
"I regret to say it is absolutely impossible."