The Imperial German Navy Office was currently experiencing an exceptionally busy period.
The reason was none other than Emperor Wilhelm II and Admiral Tirpitz abruptly proposing a revolutionary plan for a new class of battleship called the "Dreadnought."
Initially, the officers of the Imperial German Navy were bewildered by this unprecedented warship concept. However, they soon grasped the Dreadnought's immense value and grew exhilarated.
Whether in offense, defense, or even mobility—it held overwhelming superiority.
Overwhelming—this was truly the overwhelming ultimate battleship.
Many officers cheered for the Dreadnought, demanding immediate construction. Yet others voiced concerns.
Seasoned commanders acknowledged the Dreadnought's revolutionary nature but remained uneasy about its lack of practical testing.
"If everything works perfectly in theory, why would reality pose issues?" they reasoned.
Moreover, the Dreadnought introduced complex new systems, such as centralized fire control and integrated defense mechanisms. Its adoption required careful deliberation.
Adding to the controversy was the need to cancel existing battleship projects like the Braunschweig-class and Deutschland-class to fund the Dreadnought program.
Shipyards such as Germaniawerft, Schichau-Werke, and Vulcan Stettin—suddenly stripped of their orders—pleaded with Emperor Wilhelm II for reconsideration.
Wilhelm II, however, remained resolute.
As he confided to Chancellor Bülow, the Imperial German Navy now required a bold gamble.
Still, he did not wholly disregard the shipyards' plight. Offering reasonable compensation, he redirected their canceled contracts to Dreadnought construction, appeasing their grievances.
Ultimately, the naval commanders reluctantly acquiesced.
With both the Emperor and Tirpitz, the Navy's highest authority, unwavering in their resolve, opposition seemed futile.
Besides, the Dreadnought's allure was undeniable. If the Emperor's gamble succeeded, the dream of the Imperial German Navy rivaling the British Royal Navy might no longer be a fantasy.
Amidst the officers' fervent cheers, the Dreadnought project was approved. Wilhelm II watched with satisfaction.
"Bringing back that boy Hans was indeed a wise decision," he mused.
Of course, when the young man had openly defied him at the banquet, the Emperor had been incensed. Yet such impulses were rash—the boy had a vision.
The Dreadnought: a naval titan worthy of himself and the German Empire.
As a man, how could one not feel his blood surging with passion?
That boy Hans truly was a stroke of luck.
Of course, his brash and impudent behavior still needed correction.
"Come to think of it, doesn't Schlieffen also take a liking to Hans?"
No—liking was an understatement. Chief of Staff Schlieffen even sought to recruit Hans into the military.
Though the German Imperial Army, including its Prussian predecessors, had never commissioned an officer of color, Wilhelm II considered Hans a potential exception.
"Even if not a German story, didn't the distant Russian Empire have a Black general like 'Hannibal'?"
Hannibal, once an enslaved Black man, had been elevated by Peter the Great to become a Russian noble and military commander.
If even those lowly Slavs could achieve this, why couldn't the superior Germans? (For narrative purposes.)
"Speaking of which, didn't Hans mention going somewhere with Wilhelm today?"
Apparently, they were attending a "football" match—one of the Crown Prince's lifelong obsessions.
"Tch. The heir to the German Empire should favor more refined pursuits, not wallow in such plebeian pastimes," Wilhelm II grumbled disapprovingly.
The Emperor had always been a strict father to his sons. Yet toward his youngest daughter, Viktoria Luise, he remained endlessly doting. Even emperors couldn't resist becoming a daughter's devoted slave.
"He'll grow wiser with age."
Wilhelm II's focus returned to the Dreadnought plans.
...
"Woooooah!!"
"Prussia! Prussia! BFC Prussia!"
In Charlottenburg, a suburb of Berlin, the Kurfürstendamm Athletics Stadium roared with cheers.
The year prior, in 1899, this very stadium—Germany's first dedicated football ground—had hosted the inaugural international football match between Germany and England. (Though Germany suffered a humiliating 2-13 defeat.)
The stadium, though still in the waning days of winter, pulsed with feverish energy from the roaring crowd.
"Your Highness, this way, please."
"Yes, let's go, Hans."
Guided by what appeared to be stadium staff, Hans and the Crown Prince navigated through the throngs of football enthusiasts—their passion and fervor no different from modern-day spectators.
Crown Prince Wilhelm's face glowed with exhilaration, seemingly swept up by the fervor.
In Germany, football was historically a working-class sport, yet the Crown Prince, as a noble, had become an unusually ardent early supporter. Historically, he would later play a role in founding Germany's first football tournament, the Kronprinzenpokal (Crown Prince Cup) in 1908. Renamed the Verbandspokal, it remains one of Germany's oldest cup competitions.
Hans and the Crown Prince soon arrived at the stadium's prime viewing seats.
The area brimmed with men in silk top hats and tailored suits—the so-called "VIP section." After all, a figure like the Crown Prince could hardly mingle with ordinary citizens, both for propriety and security.
"Your Highness, welcome."
"Haha! How could I miss such an entertaining match?"
"Indeed. Please, take your seat."
Those nearby immediately recognized the Crown Prince, greeting him warmly. It seemed the football-obsessed prince frequented these matches often.
"Hmm? And this young gentleman beside you…"
"I am Hans Jo. A pleasure to meet you."
"Ah! The legendary…"
The crowd gasped as if spotting a celebrity, eagerly extending hands to shake Hans'.
Truthfully, Hans was a minor celebrity—he had, after all, made newspaper headlines. Whether this fame was a blessing or a curse, however, remained to be seen.
"I brought him along to pass the time. My brothers, regrettably, have no interest in football."
The Crown Prince's delight in Hans' enthusiasm for the sport suddenly made sense.
Truthfully, it was the Crown Prince's own passion for football that stood out as unusual.
In this era, football remained a working-class pastime—a sport of the common people. Its evolution into a global phenomenon would take decades.
"By the way, Your Highness, which team are we supporting today?"
"BFC Prussia—the home team and current league champions."
"Are you a fan?"
"Less a fan, more… sentimentally invested. They were originally founded as BFC Friedrich Wilhelm, named after me."
Ah, that explained the attachment.
"Still, today's opponents shouldn't be underestimated," murmured the gentleman seated beside Hans and the Crown Prince.
The rival team, it seemed, was formidable.
"FC Bayern Munich—a rising force dominating the southern leagues lately."
Wait—Bayern Munich? As in the Munich?
Good grief, this wasn't just any team. Unlike the obscure BFC Prussia, FC Bayern Munich would, in the 21st century, become one of the Bundesliga's most iconic clubs—a global football powerhouse.
Of course, at this stage, they might not yet wield such dominance.
"Even as a friendly match, victory today is non-negotiable," declared the Crown Prince.
"Absolutely. We can't lose to those southern upstarts," the gentleman agreed, their competitive fire igniting.
Regional rivalry, it seemed, was universal.
The tension between Berlin-centric northerners and Munich-led southerners—alongside the friction between western Rhinelanders and eastern Prussians—had long been a hallmark of German identity.
Snap—!
"Hmm…?"
A glint of light flickered from the opposite stands—or was it just his imagination?
"Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for your patience—!"
"Woooooah!!"
"The friendly match between Berlin's reigning champions, BFC Prussia, and the southern rising stars, FC Bayern Munich, begins now! Let's welcome the players with thunderous applause—!"
As the announcer's voice faded, the crowd leapt to their feet in unison, clapping wildly. Deafening cheers reverberated across the stadium as the teams marched onto the pitch.
Though the earlier glint lingered in his mind, Hans brushed it off. Might as well enjoy the match while I'm here.
...
Toot—!
"And there's the whistle! The first half ends 1-1, with neither side backing down in this fierce battle!"
"Today's BFC Prussia lives up to their champion status, while FC Bayern Munich's aggressive offense has been equally impressive. The second half promises more fireworks!"
"Ah~ What a thrilling spectacle! We'll return shortly after the break!"
"Phew~ What a nail-biter!"
"Indeed! Especially when Müller scored that strike—I nearly jumped out of my seat!"
"This is football's magic. Those brats wouldn't understand," Crown Prince Wilhelm chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow, his face alight with exhilaration.
It had been an edge-of-the-seat spectacle.
Ah, this calls for popcorn! Maybe I'll ask the palace chefs to whip some up later… Hmm?
A sudden, violent cramp twisted Hans' face as his stomach lurched.
His intestines had chosen the worst possible moment to rebel.
"Your Highness, I… need to visit the restroom."
"Hm? Very well."
The Crown Prince nodded and gestured. A burly, grim-faced man approached Hans—Prussian Secret Police.
Infamous as the Kaiser's hounds, tasked with crushing revolutionaries and radicals, they were precursors to the Gestapo and Stasi, rivaling Austria-Hungary's Staatspolizei and Russia's Okhrana in notoriety.
"For security, I'll accompany you."
Hans nearly retorted, I'm not a child!—but technically, he was. Swallowing his pride, he nodded and followed the agent toward the restrooms.
"I'll wait outside," the officer stated flatly, his voice as emotionless as a machine.
Hans shuddered. If this man weren't his protector, he'd have struggled to breathe under that icy gaze.
Whoosh—!
The flush echoed crisply.
Thank God for modern plumbing, Hans thought, relieved. Medieval times… ugh, don't even imagine.
Snap!
"Huh?"
As Hans washed his hands, a sharp crack rang out. Blinding light flooded the restroom, searing his vision.
An attack? But who'd target me?!
"Hey! Who's there?!"
"W-wait! I'm just— Aaaah!!"
Crash—!
Before Hans could recover his vision, the secret police officer stormed in at the commotion.
With a slam and a stranger's yelp, the assailant was swiftly pinned—a scrawny man now writhing under the agent's iron grip, his arm twisted painfully behind his back.
"Ugh…"
"Are you unharmed?"
"For now, yes."
Hans' vision cleared enough to spot a familiar-looking object rolling nearby.
"A… camera?"
Primitive by modern standards, but unmistakable—a boxy device attached to a small bulb. The source of the crack and flash, no doubt.
"Gah… please!" The man whimpered, his face pressed to the floor.
This wasn't an attack—just a reckless attempt to snap Hans' photo. Unauthorized, invasive… but harmless?
"Who are you? Why take my photo?" Hans demanded.
"I-I…"
"Answer truthfully. You're in the hands of the Prussian Secret Police."
"S-Secret Police?!" The man paled, trembling violently. Clearly, he hadn't known.
"I trust you're aware what the Secret Police do to troublemakers."
"N-no! I'm not an anarchist or communist! I swear!"
"Then who are you?"
"A-a journalist! Sir!"
A journalist?
And he called me "sir"?
"French?"
"Y-yes! Exactly!" The man nodded frantically.
Hans stifled a laugh. Well, this just got intriguing.