Pierre Martin, a journalist for France's prominent daily newspaper Le Petit Parisien, was in low spirits.
Fluent in German, he had been assigned to Berlin as a correspondent. Yet Pierre struggled to adapt to the country's gloomy atmosphere—rivaling even England's—and yearned for Bordeaux's warm climate and rich red wines.
The only way to return home was to earn a promotion through a career-defining scoop. For a journalist, that meant uncovering world-shaking news.
But Germany, paradoxically peaceful for a nation with a warlike reputation, offered nothing. To Pierre, these were the worst of times—until the incident.
[Attempted Assassination of the Kaiser in Bremen! Anarchists Again?]
The anarchists—a journalist's best friends—had struck once more. Though Wilhelm II emerged unscathed (a slight disappointment to the French), the real story lay elsewhere: the Kaiser's savior was a yellow-skinned boy named Hans Jo.
Pierre kicked himself for being in Berlin instead of Bremen, missing the scoop of the decade. But the drama didn't end there.
Through unknown means, Wilhelm II had brought Hans into the imperial court, making the boy the media's obsession. Yet no journalist—Pierre included—could reach him.
Hans resided in the New Palace in Potsdam, the private residence of Wilhelm II and his family. Even the boldest reporter dared not intrude on the notoriously guarded German royals, lest they vanish into the clutches of the Prussian Secret Police.
But today, fortune smiled on Pierre.
Seeking respite, he attended a football match—and stumbled upon a miracle. There, sitting with Crown Prince Wilhelm, was the unmistakable figure of Hans Jo.
While the Crown Prince's football enthusiasm was old news in France, Hans' presence transformed the mundane into the extraordinary. For Pierre, this was the break he'd been waiting for.
The "Kaiser's Savior" had been shrouded in mystery—until now.
This was the bombshell Pierre needed.
Click!
From the stands, Pierre's professional instincts took over. He pulled out the camera he always carried and snapped a shot of Hans Jo seated beside the Crown Prince.
"Not enough…"
Greed stirred. Even a brief interview with Hans would seal his triumph. But breaching the VIP section was impossible for a lowly reporter.
As Pierre racked his brain, he noticed Hans leaving the exclusive seating area.
"This is my chance!"
Grabbing his gear, Pierre stealthily followed. Moments later, Hans entered a restroom. Concealing his camera, Pierre slipped in behind him, pretending to be a regular attendee.
He hadn't anticipated confronting Hans directly.
Snap!
"Huh?!"
The moment Pierre spotted Hans, journalistic reflex overpowered reason—he triggered the camera's flash.
"Agh! My eyes—!"
"Who the hell are you?!"
"Wait! I-I'm sorry! I just—"
Before Pierre could explain, the Prussian Secret Police guard outside barged in like a demon, slamming him to the floor.
"Who are you? Why take photos without permission?!"
"I… I…"
When the chaos settled, Hans Jo stood coldly over the trembling Pierre, his gaze sharp enough to pierce steel.
The boy's expression was unnervingly cold for his age.
As Pierre hesitated, Hans gestured to the secret police officer restraining him.
"Answer truthfully. This is the Prussian Secret Police."
"S-Secret Police?!"
I'm finished.
Terrified for his life, Pierre trembled and confessed everything. He had no desire to be dragged into some shadowy dungeon.
But he failed to notice the calculating gleam in Hans' eyes when he revealed his identity.
---
"How best to use this fool?"
Hans stared down at the sniveling French journalist, snot and tears streaking his face.
What was France?
A nation humiliated by Germany in the Franco-Prussian War, now sharpening its knives for revenge—the German Empire's sworn rival. Unlike its six-week collapse in World War II, in the Great War to come, France would anchor the Allied Powers, crushing German ambitions. For Hans, who sought to preserve the German Empire, France was an enemy to dismantle.
This journalist could sow chaos in France.
The current French leader was Émile Loubet, seventh president of the Third Republic. His rigid laïcité policies enshrined France's secularism, but his true legacy was the 1904 Entente Cordiale with Britain.
That pact—aligning France, Russia, and eventually Britain—would isolate Germany, leaving only the unreliable Austro-Hungarian Empire as an ally. A diplomatic noose.
Yet if chaos erupted in France, it might delay that alignment. Even failure cost him nothing.
"A journalist? Which paper?"
"L-Le Petit Parisien! A French daily!"
Perfect.
Le Petit Parisien was one of France's top four newspapers pre-World War I, politically neutral—ideal for spreading his message.
"Release him."
"But…"
"He's harmless. Let him go."
The secret police hesitated, then loosened his grip. Pierre scrambled away, gasping with relief.
"C-can I leave?"
"Not yet. Since we've met, why not grant an interview?"
"R-really?!" The journalist's excitement was palpable. Journalists, it seemed, were the same across centuries.
The secret police eyed Hans warily. "The Crown Prince awaits your return."
"This won't take long." Hans smiled faintly, dismissing the concern. The Crown Prince could tolerate a brief diversion.
They moved to a quieter corner of the stadium.
It was time to spin—and distort.
...
"I'd like to keep this brief, as the second half will start soon."
"Of course! Absolutely!" The journalist nodded eagerly, flipping open his notebook.
"Mr. Hans Jo, you shielded the Kaiser from an assassin's bullet, saving his life. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Could you share why you took such action?"
A predictable question—but even Hans didn't know the full truth. I blacked out. How should I explain?
"Does saving a life require a reason?"
"Ah… haha! Wise words! And your age?"
"Born in 1892."
By March 1901, that made him nine—a number Hans approximated by aligning himself with Viktoria Luise, born the same year.
"Nine years old… my nephew's age! Remarkable. How do you feel about being brought into the imperial court?"
"It's an immense honor."
"Haha… Naturally. Still, given your… heritage, there must be challenges here in the German Empire."
After tedious small talk, the real agenda surfaced: flattery veiling contempt, priming for a sensational "Exposé of German Royal Hypocrisy!" headline in France.
But Hans wouldn't play the pawn.
"The Kaiser, Empress, and royal family have shown me nothing but kindness. Yet baseless malice persists—much like what befell Captain Dreyfus."
"Cough—?!"
When Hans uttered "Dreyfus," the journalist's face froze in shock.
No Frenchman could feign ignorance of that name.
The Dreyfus Affair—a dark stain on France's Third Republic. Captain Alfred Dreyfus, a Jewish officer, had been falsely accused of spying for Germany, convicted without evidence, and sentenced to life imprisonment. A symbol of antisemitism and judicial corruption, the scandal had torn France apart in the late 19th century.
"I believe the Dreyfus case is closed," the journalist stammered.
"Yes, the government 'pardoned' him two years ago—a farce." Hans' voice dripped with disdain. "No retrial, no exoneration. Just a pardon to sweep the truth under the rug."
"Haha… We have men like you in France too, Mr. Hans. Though I suppose you don't know if he was truly innocent."
"Oh, Dreyfus was innocent. I heard it from a German officer connected to the case."
"Eh? W-wait—a German officer? You mean… Schwartzkoppen?"
"Shh." Hans raised a finger to his lips, silencing him. He knew exactly whom the journalist referenced: Maximilian von Schwartzkoppen, the German military attaché in Paris during the scandal. French authorities had falsely claimed Dreyfus passed secrets to Schwartzkoppen—the core of their fabricated case.
The real traitor was Ferdinand Walsin Esterhazy, a French officer. Yet even after his guilt was exposed, the French army shielded him.
"Schwartzkoppen returned to Germany," Hans added coolly. "Now serves in the Potsdam Guard."
The journalist's pen trembled. Hans had weaponized France's shame—and the unspoken collusion between its military and German figures—to corner him. Checkmate.
Of course, Hans had never met Schwartzkoppen or even seen his face.
But for the journalist before him, this was enough to believe Hans had indeed learned the truth of the Dreyfus Affair from the man.
"The gentleman prefers anonymity. As a journalist, you'll keep this confidential?"
"O-of course!"
"I overheard him at the palace: 'Dreyfus was innocent. I never knew him.'"
"Th-that's impossible…!"
These were, in fact, Schwartzkoppen's dying words in 1917.
"Then the true culprit was Esterhazy?"
"Who knows? Perhaps Esterhazy, as he claimed, was merely a double agent."
"That's even worse! If no secrets were leaked, the military deliberately framed Captain Dreyfus!"
Hans didn't know—truth hardly mattered here. What mattered was how this revelation would roil the French public.
"So the pardon was just to bury the truth…!"
"Perhaps. Now, I must go."
"Wait! Just a few more—"
The journalist begged, but the secret police blocked him. Stunned, the man stood frozen before bolting toward the exit.
Hans smirked.
Everything unfolded as planned.