One year after the London Conference, Christian stood at the window of the committee's headquarters, looking out at the distant haze of construction rising from the new National Steel Foundry. It was a city of cranes and scaffolding, a testament to a year of relentless work. Behind him, his two key allies took their seats.
"The Prime Minister sends his compliments," Baron Fievé began, a wry smile on his face as he set down his report. "And another request for funds to expand the Royal Library. I politely informed him that our royal mandate was for cannons, not books. He was not pleased."
Admiral Løvenskiold chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Let him be displeased. His Majesty's faith is with this committee. He asks only for our continued success."
The exchange was telling. In the year since the war, Christian, now nineteen, had cemented his position. The formal government could make requests; the true power to build, to spend, and to shape the nation's future now resided in this room.
Fievé continued with his report. "Production of the conversion kits is exceeding all targets, and with the profits from last year's harvest at Eskildsgård—which were, I must add, astonishing—your personal finances are more than robust."
"The Naval Design Board has selected a final blueprint for our first ironclad, the Panserskib Jylland," the Admiral added with satisfaction. "A true warship for a new age."
Christian turned from the window. The stability they had achieved was not an end. It was merely a stable platform from which to build. He unrolled a massive document onto the table, covering it with charts, timelines, and financial projections.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice quiet but intense. "We did not go through all of this simply to return to the way things were. We have saved Denmark. Now we must make it strong. Truly strong. I present to you a comprehensive Five-Year Plan for the complete economic and military reconstruction of the kingdom."
The two older men stared at the document, their expressions shifting from satisfaction to shock. It was a plan of breathtaking audacity.
Its first pillar was a total economic overhaul. Christian proposed land reforms to consolidate small, inefficient farms, a new national bank to direct capital towards industrial ventures, and massive state subsidies for shipbuilding, machine tool manufacturing, and chemical production. "We must shift our nation's backbone from agriculture to industry," he stated.
Its second pillar was naval dominance. The plan laid out not just the construction of the Jylland, but a fleet of six ironclads and a dozen fast, long-range cruisers. "A navy for coastal defense is a prison," he declared. "We will build a navy for power projection."
And then came the third, most shocking pillar. The plan called for the establishment of a new ministry: The Royal Colonial Office.
"Colonies?" Løvenskiold balked. "Count, we are a small nation still recovering from a devastating war. The great powers have already carved up the world. Colonial ventures are a drain on the treasury we cannot afford."
"The world is not as claimed as you think, Admiral," Christian countered, tapping on a map of Africa. "There is a vast, resource-rich basin here, around the Congo River, that is currently a tangle of competing claims. And there are islands in the East Indies, rich with spices and rubber, that the Dutch have neglected." He used his future knowledge to point to specific, immensely valuable locations that were, in 1865, still geopolitical backwaters.
"This plan… the cost will be astronomical," Fievé said, his practical mind reeling from the numbers. "The political opposition from the landowners you intend to reform will be immense. You are proposing to remake the entire country from the ground up."
"I am," Christian confirmed, his gaze hardening. He looked at his two allies, the men who had helped him save the nation. "Gentlemen, we live in a world of wolves. In fifty years, any nation that is not an industrial, colonial empire will be a vassal state or a meal for a larger power. We either become a wolf, or we remain a well-armed sheep waiting for the next slaughter. This Five-Year Plan is not a choice. It is the only path to survival."
The force of his logic, the sheer scale of his vision, was overwhelming. Fievé and Løvenskiold looked at each other, then back at the young man before them. They had signed on to save Denmark. They now understood that Christian's definition of salvation was vastly different, and far grander, than their own.
With their reluctant, awestruck agreement, the Five-Year Plan was formally adopted by the committee.
That night, Christian stood before a massive world map in his study. He had just set his nation on a new, aggressive, and perilous course. Saving Denmark was never his end goal; it was merely the necessary first step. He looked at the vast, green swathes of Africa and the scattered islands of the Pacific, and for the first time, he allowed himself a thin, cold smile. The game was no longer about defending a border. It was about painting the map of the world in the color of a new Danish Empire.