While Father Mikhail spoke with his foster son, the Ecumenical Patriarch, clad in black ecclesiastical robes and flanked by a dozen clerics, paced slowly into the cathedral.
Upon seeing the Patriarch and his retinue of priests and bishops, the Kislevites present began to cross themselves in reverence. For most, the chance to see the living representative of God on Earth was a rare, once-in-a-lifetime event. Even Mikhail was no exception, bowing his head in prayer.
But Perturabo simply stood tall. He did not bow, nor did he offer any sign of religious greeting. To him, the glorious achievements he possessed today were the products of his own staggering intellect and craftsmanship; they had nothing to do with the "Divine Providence" spoken of by Mikhail and the Orthodox Church.
Today, it was the Church that needed him—this world-shaking genius—to craft their own legitimacy, not the other way around. In a few moments, he would perform a breathtaking act, one that would alter the course of Kislev forever.
"Perturabo, son of Mikhail, Lord of Perturabograd."
The venerable Ecumenical Patriarch spoke, addressing Perturabo by his full title.
Despite being a man in his eighties, a life of austere devotion had kept his body remarkably healthy. His voice was clear, and his mind remained sharp.
"You rose from the lowest depths to achieve great works. You have crushed every enemy in your path, annihilated the Kingdom of Lehlia that threatened our lands, and avenged the ancient Tsardom of Kislev. You have united all of Kislev under your iron fist, recreating the greatness of antiquity."
"Now, come forward, child. Kneel before me and swear your oath. Vow to the omniscient and almighty Lord of Mercy that you shall shepherd His lost flock and guard His kingdom upon this earth."
As he spoke, the Patriarch received an ancient artifact from an attendant: the Crown of the Kislevite Tsars. Tradition held that after the death of the last legitimate Tsar, this crown had passed into the custody of the Church.
The Orthodox Church had guarded this crown for centuries, waiting for the arrival of a High Tsar who could end the era of strife. Now, it seemed Perturabo was the one the Church and the people had long awaited.
The aged Patriarch held the ancient crown in both hands, waiting for the giant before him to answer.
Every eye in the cathedral was fixed on Perturabo. The crowd waited in a heavy, expectant silence, trying to gauge the thoughts of the man who claimed the throne.
"No. I will not kneel to a so-called deity."
After a brief silence, Perturabo spoke. His first sentence sent a shockwave of horror through the assembly.
"Child, what do you mean? From the highest noble to the lowliest peasant, all of Kislev believes in the Lord. Why would you deny Him on this day?!"
The reaction was instantaneous. From the Patriarch to Mikhail and down to the common deacons, every face was masked in shock. The Patriarch, disregarding the potential threat to his own life, questioned the Lord of Iron with severe indignation.
"Respected Patriarch, I do not believe in your so-called God. I have never seen this 'omniscient and almighty' deity descend to perform a miracle."
"Your worship of a deity is, in my view, merely a product of a lack of rational and scientific thinking. All things in this universe follow natural laws. This is a material world; there are no 'gods' higher than humanity."
Facing the Patriarch's blunt questioning, Perturabo stared him down, enunciating every word. He was entirely unbothered by the old man's confrontation.
"However, rest assured, Mr. Patriarch. I will still swear an oath. But I shall swear it to all of Kislev and her people, not to some ethereal, nonexistent deity you believe in," Perturabo added after a pause.
Then, under the terrified gazes of the Patriarch and his clerics, Perturabo reached out and seized the ancient crown from its cushion. He turned to face the crowd. The spectators were so stunned by his rebellious behavior that the vast cathedral fell into a deathly silence.
"I, Perturabo, son of Mikhail, now swear my oath! But this time, I swear it to the whole of Kislev and her people, not to some hollow god!"
Perturabo's voice boomed, carrying his characteristic arrogance. He scanned the silent crowd before continuing.
"The crown of Kislev did not pick itself up from the dirt! It was not retrieved by a Church that knows only how to chant scriptures, nor by a class of incompetent nobles! It was I! I, Perturabo! With sword and cannon, I have eliminated every enemy and every pretender who was unworthy of this crown!"
"It was I who created these advanced machines! It was I who unified Kislev, bringing you peace and prosperity! None of this has anything to do with the Church or your God!"
"Yes, I shall be crowned the High Tsar and Dictator of all Kislev! But I refuse to let the Ecumenical Patriarch place this crown upon my head! This crown was won by my own sword; he is not worthy! The Church is not worthy to crown me!"
"Now, I crown myself! From this moment forth, I am the High Tsar and Dictator of all Kislev! Cheer! Cheer for your new Tsar!"
With these words, Perturabo raised the ancient crown with both hands and slowly placed it upon his own head. Thus, by refusing the Church's blessing and crowning himself, Perturabo became the High Tsar of all Kislev.
After the initial shock wore off, the crowd began to cheer. While many did not fully grasp the implications of Perturabo's words, they understood the core reality: after centuries of fragmentation and war, all of Kislev was once again united under a single Tsar. To them, that was enough.
As the cheers erupted, Perturabo looked down coldly at the masses. Only he knew that with his self-coronation, Kislev had entered a new age—an age of iron and progress, where the pastoral idyll was a memory of the past.
But this was exactly what he wanted. Deep in his subconscious, he sensed that his "Father" and creator would soon arrive at this world to take him back, to involve him in a grand enterprise. He had to ensure Kislev was ready for that struggle before then.
Yes, this grand enterprise would likely drain Kislev of everything, demanding endless sacrifice and blood from its people. But he did not care.
Tens of light-years away from Kislev
The Bucephalus, flagship of the Master of Mankind
The man who could be described as the Master of Mankind, Jesus Christ, the Father of Perturabo, the Revelation, the Buddha, and a thousand other titles, stood before the massive viewport of the bridge. He stared out at the starscape. The Great Crusade had brought him to this sector, and the search for the Primarchs was well underway.
"My Lord, are you certain the Fourth Primarch is truly on that planet called Kislev?"
Malcador the Sigillite—Regent of the Imperium, Grand Master of Assassins, and administrator of a million Imperial matters—walked slowly to his master's side, his voice a soft inquiry.
"Yes. I can feel him. The Fourth is there. Now, I am going to bring him home."
The Emperor gave a slight nod in response to his old friend's question.