"Fa... Father? Is it... truly You?"
Gazing up at the Master of Mankind, who stood even taller than himself, Perturabo was struck dumb. He had envisioned the moment of meeting his genetic father countless times, in countless scenarios, but he had never imagined that the Master of Mankind would come seeking him under these circumstances.
Seeing their Tsar frozen in shock, the Streltsi surrounding the Emperor exchanged uncertain glances. They remained rooted in place, rifles still aimed at the golden figure, waiting for an order from Perturabo that did not come.
For a time, the atmosphere inside the cathedral was deathly silent. Finally, someone could no longer bear the tension.
"Your Majesty, what are your orders? Should we withdraw?" A Streltsi officer finally gathered his courage, asking his master in a cautious, hushed tone.
"Yes... yes! Lower your weapons and get out! All of you, leave! Now is my private time!" Jolted from his trance by the officer's query, Perturabo barked the command with sudden, sharp intensity.
As Perturabo's voice rang out, the officers and soldiers surrounding the Emperor felt a collective wave of relief. Even the dullest among them could sense that the golden warrior standing before them—a titan even larger than their own towering Tsar—was a being they could never hope to defeat, even if they attacked all at once.
Perturabo's order provided these men a much-needed exit from a terrifying task. One by one, the soldiers holstered their weapons and retreated from the cathedral in silence, leaving the space to Perturabo and the Emperor.
However, Mikhail did not leave with them. The aged priest remained at Perturabo's side, his gaze fixed serenely upon the Emperor.
"Lord, You have finally descended."
"I am honored, for I can proudly announce to You that I have successfully raised the messenger You sent. I have personally witnessed him complete the great work of unifying Kislev. Lord, only You could forge such a miracle!"
"Lord, I can tell You now: I have not failed Your expectations or Your trust." The old priest spoke slowly, his voice carrying a sense of profound liberation—the kind of peace found only when one finally attains a lifelong pursuit.
"Mr. Mikhail, I am no god." The Master of Mankind shook his head slightly, denying the priest's pious assertion. "Nevertheless, I thank you for raising Perturabo," He continued.
The Emperor then turned his gaze back to Perturabo. Even after dismissing the Streltsi, Perturabo remained immersed in the shock of the Emperor's presence, unable to find his voice.
"Perturabo Rurik Kislovsky. Is this the name this world gave to you, my child?" Looking at Perturabo, the Emperor asked gently, his voice filled with a sense of concern.
"Yes... yes! Father! That is my name. I am Perturabo of Kislev! 'Kislovsky' is the surname I took for myself, to prove that I am a Tsar who carries all of Kislev in his heart, not merely one who belongs to a single principality!"
Hearing his father's concerned inquiry, Perturabo felt his spirit stir once more. He introduced his name with an expression of intense pride.
"Very well. Like your brothers, you have completed your journey on this world." The Master of Mankind nodded slightly and answered slowly.
The Emperor stepped toward Perturabo. After observing his son, who was dressed in the traditional finery of Kislev, He reached out and placed a hand on the youth's shoulder.
"You are as brave and fearless as I imagined, and you have achieved much." The Emperor allowed a smile to touch his lips—a smile of genuine satisfaction. "I see a world at peace, filled with magnificent fortresses and ingenious devices. Though there is some lingering chaos, I can sense that Kislev is a vibrant world. We have much to discuss. I can teach you many things, for I sense your hunger for knowledge. I believe you would be willing to devote much time to speaking with me."
"Indeed!" At that moment, the coldness and calculated idealism of the Iron Tsar vanished, replaced by a child's yearning for a parent. "I implore You!" Perturabo spoke with such agitation he could barely form the words.
"Then, are you willing to swear fealty to me? Are you willing to serve the cause of humanity at my side?" The Emperor nodded slightly and asked.
A flash of joy crossed Perturabo's features, but it was quickly replaced by hesitation. He turned his head slowly to look at Mikhail—the old priest who had raised and guided him. Although Perturabo was now entirely capable of doing as he pleased regardless of the old man's opinion, he felt a deep, instinctive need to seek the counsel of "Mr. Mikhail."
Recognizing Perturabo's intent, Father Mikhail nodded slowly and spoke.
"Go, Abo. This is your destiny. You have finished your journey in Kislev. Now the Lord Himself has descended to lead you, to have you fight by His side. This is a supreme honor. Go." As he spoke, Mikhail took the cross hanging from his neck and began to pray for his foster son.
With his foster father's encouragement, the Iron Tsar's last lingering doubts vanished. He looked back at the Emperor and slowly sank to one knee.
"I ask for nothing else. I swear to You that I will remain eternally loyal, a servant at Your side. This I vow!" Perturabo spoke with a voice like clashing iron.
The Emperor looked down at the kneeling Perturabo in silence. Deep within His eyes lurked an infinite sorrow—a sadness like that of the Christ in the murals looking upon the suffering of the world, the sorrow that drives one to bear the sins of humanity.
"Rise then, my son," the Emperor finally said.
The sadness in His eyes was masked once more, so quickly that Perturabo wondered if he had truly seen it at all, feeling a flicker of shame for attributing such an emotion to a being so perfect.
"Your path will be a hard one, but few are worthy of it," the Emperor said. "I have prepared many trials for you. You shall be tireless, unyielding, and unstoppable. You shall be my Lord of Iron."