Tsardom of Kislev.
Father Mikhail silently lit a candle.
"Another old friend gone. Times have been truly hard lately..."
Looking at the flickering flame before him, the monastery abbot, now over fifty years old, couldn't help but sigh softly and shake his head. He looked up, gazing with lingering affection at the monastery where he had lived for decades.
"Is this monastery destined to reach its absolute end at my hands?"
Surveying the dilapidated rooms around him, Mikhail shook his head in despair and began to question his own soul.
The recent chaos of war and poor harvests had claimed the lives of many friends and relatives he had known since childhood. The monks of the monastery had either passed away before him or had returned to secular life for various reasons, leaving the halls they had inhabited for most of their lives.
Now, as the current abbot and priest, Father Mikhail remained the last one standing. He survived by presiding over prayers, funerals, weddings, and various life milestones and holidays for the nearby villagers. Because of his steadfastness in this declining monastery, the local people held him in great respect.
Having studied at the Academy, Mikhail possessed a modest knowledge of medicinal formulas. This led villagers to seek his help when they fell ill, and he frequently took on the role of a doctor to treat the local folk.
"God, please look upon us. Your believers, and this entire world—when will they finally see salvation?"
"All-knowing and almighty God, have You closed Your eyes at a time like this?"
The old priest turned to the high-hanging icon, staring at the sacred image that recorded the face of the deity they worshipped. He spoke with a hint of resentment, half-questioning and half-muttering to himself. Tears streamed down his face, and his expression was one of indignant grief.
Mikhail had summoned the courage to utter words of sacrilege that a devout believer—especially a priest responsible for serving the divine—should never speak.
However, the icon was a lifeless object; it would not actively respond to the priest. The Messiah depicted on the icon, meant to redeem the world, merely gazed down at his follower in silence.
"Lord, I repent. I repent to You for my sacrilege just now."
Once his emotions stabilized, Father Mikhail quickly made the sign of the cross over his chest and offered his confession. As a priest, he was well aware of how disrespectful his outburst had been.
Yet, throughout his decades of life, the human tragedies he had witnessed and the confessions he had heard often made him doubt—did an omniscient, omnipotent God who judges all evil truly exist in this world?
In his youth, he had been cynical and had semi-publicly denied the existence of God. Naturally, his stern teacher had seen to it that he tasted the wooden paddle, and he was forbidden from eating or drinking for three whole days, forced to recite scriptures to atone for his sins.
But now, as a weather-beaten priest guiding the illiterate and ignorant villagers who flocked from all directions on Sundays and holidays, the sheer devotion on their faces made him, an intellectual, reluctant to shatter their illusions.
Recalling the past, he shook his head again and sighed. For as long as he could remember, this world called "Kislev" had been a fractured land plagued by war. The local princes fought incessantly over the remains of the Kislev Empire that once ruled the entire world—a conflict that had persisted for thousands of years.
Of course, war was not the eternal theme. Sometimes, these split duchies would coexist in peace for their own needs, allowing the land to recover. Those were rare periods of prosperity, and Mikhail had come of age during such a time—an era of academic and intellectual growth.
But after Mikhail graduated, that rare peace and prosperity were shattered once again by the ambition of a certain prince. The wars between the princes, who called themselves "Boyars," tore Kislev apart once more, lasting until the present day.
It was like a cycle: peace and war alternating over this cold world of black soil and dense forests.
Reflecting on this, Mikhail remembered a book he had read at the Academy in his youth—an ancient text that recorded the origins of Kislev.
Legend had it that the people of Kislev originated from Terra, the legendary homeworld of humanity. A long, long time ago, humans were a race as powerful as gods. They possessed boundless knowledge and strength, and traveling between planets was as common as daily chores.
Civilizing a desolate world was a simple task for them; they drove mechanical suits taller than mountains to clear forests and create farmland. Such immense power was, to them, merely civilian technology.
Mikhail shook his head with a bitter smile. How could that be possible? How could humanity have ever possessed such power? It was nothing more than a daydream of an idealist, the old priest thought.
Knock, knock, knock.
At that moment, a heavy, rhythmic knocking came from the monastery's main gate. Though the height of the sound made it seem like a child was knocking, Mikhail was surprised by the sustained strength and consistency of the sound—it didn't seem like something any child could manage.
"I'm coming, friend at the door! I'm coming."
Hearing the knock, Mikhail didn't dare delay. If it was a local villager braving such snow, there must be an emergency at home. If it was a stranger, they were likely stranded in the blizzard and in need of refuge. In either case, Mikhail could not refuse.
He hurried to the door and prepared to welcome the visitor.
When the old priest opened the gate, he was startled. Standing outside was a child who looked no more than ten years old—a boy, to be precise. The boy was covered in snow, looking as though he had traveled a long distance.
"Was it you knocking?"
Mikhail looked at the boy with surprise and asked.
"Yes, it was I," the boy replied.
The mysterious boy showed no fear; he responded to Mikhail with a tone of extreme calm. Mikhail noticed the boy wasn't wearing standard clothes—at least, not the Kislev style. Instead, he wore crude garments made of brown bear hide, seemingly used for both modesty and warmth.
"Did you... come here alone? Where are your parents?"
Hearing the boy's reply, Mikhail grew even more astonished. He quickly scanned the area behind the boy to see if anyone else was hiding, but he saw no one in the swirling snow.
"Yes, sir. Only me. For as long as I can remember, I have been in the nearby forest. I hunted a brown bear and made my clothes from its skin."
To Mikhail's surprise, the boy showed no signs of anxiety or trauma. On the contrary, he possessed a rigorous logic and a chilling composure.
"Then, do you know your name? So I know what to call you. I am Mikhail, the priest here."
After hearing the boy's words, Father Mikhail calmed himself and asked carefully. Having just spoken out against his God in a fit of emotion, the arrival of this mysterious boy made the old priest wary. He wondered if this child, braving a blizzard, was an envoy of the divine—or perhaps a god in human form.
The boy fell silent for a moment, appearing to search his memory. After a short while, he finally spoke slowly.
"Perturabo. My name is Perturabo. It is the name I was born knowing."