Inside the ancient Kislevite fortress known as the "Kremlin."
Perturabo sat in his office, reviewing the mountains of documents piled before him. Although, as the High Tsar of Kislev, he did not strictly need to handle these tedious matters personally—his newly appointed administrative bureaucrats could shoulder the vast majority of the paperwork—the volume remained staggering. Even the simplified reports submitted for his awareness or approval required him to personally examine and sign each one to grant his formal consent.
Since his coronation as High Tsar, Perturabo found himself imprisoned behind his desk by this relentless tide of parchment, leaving him no time for his favorite pursuits of design and fabrication. From the look of things, today was destined to be another long, monotonous day in the life of the Iron Tsar.
"Your Majesty, something is wrong! Lord Mikhail... he might be in danger! You must come quickly!"
Just as Perturabo finished another document, a servant burst into the room, gasping for breath.
"What happened? What are you all doing? Did I not order you to ensure Mr. Mikhail's safety at all costs?!"
Predictably, Perturabo's pen halted mid-signature. He demanded an answer with a surge of annoyance that flared into alarm at the mention of his foster father's peril.
"That man... before Lord Mikhail began his daily prayers, we searched every corner of the cathedral to ensure no one was hiding. But somehow, he just appeared out of nowhere!"
"We urged Lord Mikhail to move to safety and wait for you and the night-watch Streltsi to arrive, but he insisted on speaking with that man!" Seeing Perturabo's expression shift from displeasure to raw anger, the servant spoke faster, his voice trembling with panic.
"What?! Preposterous! Men, pass the word: assemble the night patrol immediately. I am leading them to the cathedral to rescue Mr. Mikhail!"
Stunned and enraged, Perturabo stood up and barked his orders. He reached for his personal weapon—a warhammer he kept close at hand—and prepared for battle.
"At once, Your Majesty! I will notify them immediately!"
Inside the Cathedral.
"Neoth? That sounds... like a very ancient name. It seems the one who named you was quite learned."
Hearing the long-haired man's words, Father Mikhail nodded slightly. He did not behave as if he were conversing with a stranger of unknown origin; instead, he spoke with the same familiar tone he used when chatting with villagers about their daily lives.
"Hehe, that name was given to me by my father. One might say it was my first name. Throughout the countless ages that followed, I have held other names and titles—so many that even I cannot remember them all."
Neoth, the long-haired man, smiled and shook his head as he answered. It was evident that he, too, enjoyed the atmosphere of this encounter.
"Many names and titles. It sounds as though you are no ordinary man."
Mikhail nodded again. He relished this kind of dialogue. In the past, when receiving confessions from the common folk, he would listen in silence as they unburdened themselves of secrets they could not share with the outside world, offering his own views only at critical junctures.
At this moment, Mikhail felt as though the man before him possessed countless world-shaking secrets that he wished to voice. The priest prepared himself to receive this sudden ritual of confession—or so he believed.
"Hehe, no ordinary man. Indeed, I am truly no ordinary man." Neoth laughed softly, as if Mikhail's comment had genuinely amused him.
"I have conquered countless cities and destroyed countless nations. I have been a great king, a wise sage, and a fearless hero. I have journeyed through the long river of time to reach this present moment."
After a brief silence, the man continued. His claims were incredibly grand, yet Mikhail sensed that the man was recalling his past with absolute sincerity, without a trace of a lie.
It was then that Mikhail noticed something strange. He began to feel that the features of the long-haired man before him were remarkably similar to the depictions of Jesus Christ in the cathedral's exquisite murals.
Earlier, he might have dismissed it as a coincidence. But as the man spoke, a suspicion took root in Mikhail's heart—a guess so absurd he could hardly believe it, yet one that occupied his mind and refused to let go.
"Mr. Neoth, I feel that you bear a resemblance to the Christ depicted in the holy icons. Is it merely my imagination? Please, do not take offense; perhaps my eyes deceive me." Eventually, after a period of contemplation, Mikhail asked the question.
Neoth turned to look at the mural behind him. After gazing at the depiction of Christ and the attending angels for a time, he smiled once more.
"Your eyesight is sharp, Mr. Mikhail. At least... sharper than that of a priest named Uriah. He never recognized the connection between me and the figures in the paintings. When my armies destroyed the last church on Terra, he chose to perish with it."
"Destroyed the last church on Terra? Mr. Neoth, you have come from such a distant place?"
Mikhail was stunned by the weight of the information. Mention of Terra, the "last church," and various other implications confirmed that the man before him was someone of extraordinary status.
"Yes. I began my crusade from Terra. Before that, I spent two centuries leading my armies to eliminate the techno-barbarians and warlords who plagued the land, rebuilding civilization upon the wasteland of humanity's homeworld."
"In the new Terra and the new human civilization, there is no room for religion. Therefore, I destroyed every church on Terra." Neoth nodded slightly in response to Mikhail's astonished query.
"Mr. Neoth, who—or what—exactly are you?"