The German Imperial Navy Department had been bustling with activity lately.
The reason was simple: Emperor Wilhelm II and Admiral Tirpitz had abruptly unveiled a plan for something called the "Dreadnought-class battleship."
At first, the Navy's top brass were puzzled by this unheard-of warship. But it didn't take long for them to grasp its potential, and excitement quickly spread.
Whether for offense, defense, or even maneuverability, the Dreadnought was a game-changer.
Overwhelming—that was the word for it. A truly dominant warship.
Many admirals cheered for the Dreadnought, urging immediate construction.
But not everyone was convinced. Some seasoned officers acknowledged its revolutionary design but worried about its untested nature.
If everything worked as well in practice as it did on paper, why did real-world problems always seem to crop up?
The Dreadnought introduced complex new systems, like centralized fire control and coordinated defense, which added to the uncertainty.
Then there was the cost. Building Dreadnoughts meant scrapping plans for other modern warships, like the Brunswick and Deutschland classes, sparking heated debate.
Shipyards like Germaniawerft, Schichau, and Vulkan Stettin, whose contracts were canceled overnight, were left pleading with Emperor Wilhelm II.
But the Emperor stood firm, unmoved by their appeals.
As he told Chancellor Bülow, the German Imperial Navy needed to take a bold gamble.
Still, Wilhelm wasn't entirely heartless toward the affected shipyards.
He promised fair compensation and reassigned their canceled contracts to Dreadnought production, soothing their concerns.
In the end, the admirals, seeing no point in resisting the Emperor and Tirpitz's resolve, reluctantly agreed.
Besides, the Dreadnought's allure was undeniable.
If the Emperor's gamble paid off, the German Navy might finally close the gap with Britain's Royal Navy.
With the Dreadnought approved amid enthusiastic cheers, Wilhelm watched with a satisfied smile.
"Bringing that Hans kid back was a smart move," he thought.
True, he'd been furious when Hans openly defied him at the banquet.
But that snap judgment had been hasty. The kid had a vision.
The Dreadnought—a ship that is an overwhelming maritime power, befitting him and the German Empire.
What man wouldn't feel his blood surge at the thought?
Hans was a lucky charm, though his reckless attitude needed some work.
"Speaking of which, doesn't Schlieffen like Hans too?"
Wilhelm mused. "Like" wasn't even the half of it—Chief of Staff Schlieffen wanted to recruit Hans into the military.
The German Army, including its Prussian roots, had never had a non-white officer. Yet Wilhelm thought Hans might be an exception.
After all, hadn't the distant Russian Empire elevated a Black man named Hannibal from slavery to nobility and generalship under Peter the Great?
If even the lowly Slavs could manage that, surely the superior Germans could do better.
"By the way, didn't Hans say he was going somewhere with Wilhelm today?"
The Emperor recalled they were off to watch some "football" match, a pastime his eldest son was obsessed with.
"Tch, the Crown Prince of the German Empire should have more refined tastes. Why's he caught up in that commoner's game?"
Wilhelm muttered, displeased.
He was a strict father to his sons, but when it came to his youngest daughter, Victoria Louise, he couldn't help but dote.
A "daughter's fool," as they say.
"They'll grow out of it," he told himself, his focus drifting back to the Dreadnought.
-----------------
"Woooah!"
"Prussia! Prussia! BFC Prussia!"
In Charlottenburg, just outside Berlin, the Kurfürstendamm Athletic Stadium roared with life.
The year before, in 1899, this stadium—Germany's first dedicated football field—had hosted the country's inaugural international match against England. (Germany lost 2-13, but who's counting?)
Though spring was still a ways off, the crowd's fervor made the place feel like midsummer.
"This way, Your Highness," a staff member said, guiding Hans and Crown Prince Wilhelm through the sea of passionate fans, who weren't much different from the crowds of later eras.
The Crown Prince's face lit up with excitement, clearly caught up in the atmosphere.
Football was a working-class sport in Germany, but Wilhelm, a noble, was a rare and ardent early supporter.
Historically, he'd even helped launch Germany's first football cup in 1908, the "Crown Prince Cup," later renamed the Regional Cup, which remains one of Germany's oldest competitions.
Hans and Wilhelm soon reached the best seats in the house—the VIP section, filled with men in silk top hats and tailored suits.
A figure like the Crown Prince couldn't exactly mingle with the common folk, for both prestige and security reasons.
"Your Highness, you made it!" someone called out.
"Ha, miss a match like this? Not a chance," Wilhelm replied, grinning.
"Absolutely, have a seat."
The crowd recognized the Crown Prince instantly, greeting him warmly.
He was clearly a regular here.
"And who's this young gentleman?" someone asked, eyeing Hans.
"Hans Jo, pleasure to meet you," Hans said, introducing himself.
"Oh! The one from the headlines!"
The group buzzed with excitement, hands extended for shakes.
Hans was indeed something of a celebrity, having made the papers.
Whether that was good or bad remained to be seen.
"Just brought him along for the fun. My brothers aren't into football, sadly,"
Wilhelm said, clearly thrilled to have a fellow enthusiast in Hans.
Football was still a niche sport, a working-class pastime that hadn't yet exploded globally.
Wilhelm's passion for it was unusual for his status.
"So, Your Highness, who're we rooting for today?" Hans asked.
"BFC Prussia, the home team and league champions," Wilhelm replied.
"A fan of theirs?"
"Not just a fan—it's personal. They were originally called BFC Friedrich Wilhelm, named after me."
No wonder he was so attached.
"But don't underestimate their opponents," a gentleman beside them chimed in.
"FC Bayern Munich. They've been tearing through the southern leagues."
Bayern Munich? That Bayern Munich?
Hans nearly gasped.
Unlike the unfamiliar BFC Prussia, Bayern was a global football giant in the 21st century, one of the world's top clubs.
They probably weren't that dominant yet, but still.
"It's a friendly, but we've got to win," Wilhelm said, his eyes glinting.
"Absolutely, can't let those southerners show us up," the gentleman added, chuckling.
Regional rivalries were alive and well—
Berlin's north versus Munich's south, not to mention the tensions between the Rhineland and Prussia.
Flash!
Hans blinked.
Did something just glint from the opposite stands? A trick of the light, maybe?
"Ladies and gentlemen, the wait is over!" the announcer boomed.
"Welcome to the friendly match between Berlin's champions, BFC Prussia, and the southern rising stars, FC Bayern Munich! Let's give a warm round of applause for both teams!"
The crowd leapt to their feet, clapping wildly as the players took the field.
The stadium thundered with cheers. Hans shook off his unease about the glint.
He was here to enjoy the game—might as well soak it in.
-----------------
Whistle!
"And that's the halftime whistle! It's 1-1, with both teams locked in a fierce battle!" the announcer called.
"BFC Prussia lived up to their champion status, but FC Bayern Munich's aggressive offense has kept them in the fight. The second half promises to be a thriller. We'll take a short break and be right back!"
"What a match," Wilhelm said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Neck and neck."
"That Müller goal was a shocker," Hans added, grinning.
"That's football for you. My brothers wouldn't get it,"
Wilhelm said, laughing.
Hans's stomach suddenly twisted.
"Uh, Your Highness, I need to hit the restroom."
"Go ahead,"
Wilhelm said, waving him off. A burly, grim-faced man stepped forward—
Prussian Secret Police, one of the Kaiser's hounds, as notorious as the Austro-Hungarian or Russian secret services.
Later, they'd evolve into the Gestapo and Stasi.
"Just in case, I'll come with you," the agent said coldly.
Hans nearly quipped, I'm not a kid, but, well, he kind of was.
He nodded and followed the agent to the restroom.
"I'll wait outside," the agent said, his voice flat and emotionless.
Hans exhaled in relief. Being around that guy was intimidating.
After washing his hands, he heard a crack, followed by a blinding flash. His vision went white.
What the hell? An attack? Who'd target me?
"Who are you?" the agent barked, storming in.
"Argh! I—I'm—"
A stranger's cry was cut off by a loud thud as the agent tackled someone to the ground.
Hans's vision cleared. The agent had pinned a scrawny man, twisting his arm.
Nearby, a familiar object lay on the floor.
"A camera?" Hans muttered.
It was an old model, with a small bulb for flashing—likely the source of the light and sound.
The man groaned in pain.
Apparently, he wasn't trying to hurt Hans—just snap a photo.
"Who are you, and why'd you try to photograph me?" Hans demanded.
"I—I—"
"You'd better talk. That's a Prussian Secret Police holding you."
"Secret Police?!"
The man's face went pale.
"You know what they're capable of," Hans said coolly.
"I'm not an anarchist or a communist!" the man stammered.
"Then who are you?"
"A—a journalist, sir!"
A journalist?
Calling me sir?
"French?" Hans asked.
"Yes, yes!"
The man nodded frantically.
This was getting interesting.
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