Several years later.
Scritch, scritch, scritch.
With the rapid movement of Perturabo's nib across the parchment, a long passage of ancient knowledge, written in the archaic script of Kislev, appeared on the copying rack before him.
This was one of Perturabo's daily tasks as a monk, and it was also the duty he enjoyed most. After finishing the day's work with Mikhail, the long hours between dinner and sleep were his to manage, and Perturabo had voluntarily taken on the mission of transcribing ancient texts.
As an old Kislevite establishment, the monastery Mikhail managed possessed many ancient volumes. Much like its grand architecture and lavish interior, these were legacies of a long and glorious history.
Legend had it that an ancient Tsar of Kislev once ordered a copy made of every volume in the imperial library to be kept in this monastery as an offering to the divine. Consequently, during the monastery's peak, hundreds of monks were dedicated solely to transcribing ancient knowledge, copying it onto exquisitely decorated parchment.
Although subsequent wars had caused the monastery to decline, the local warring princes, intimidated by its ancient reputation, had not dared to lead their soldiers in a direct pillage. Thus, the ancient texts in the library remained intact, though they had begun to vanish beneath generations of accumulated dust.
As an Academy-educated priest, Mikhail understood the importance of these manuscripts. But the decline of the monastery was so severe that, as a man alone, managing daily affairs consumed all his energy. He could only watch helplessly as the ancient volumes gathered dust.
Now, however, the ancient monastery had received "new blood." Although this so-called "blood" was merely a mysterious boy who had sought refuge on a blizzard-stricken day, that no longer mattered to Mikhail.
What mattered was that he had a companion; he no longer had to maintain the monastery in solitude. More importantly, the monastery now had a successor, freeing him from worrying about its fate after his death.
To Mikhail's further delight, Perturabo showed an immense interest in the ancient volumes. This made the old man realize that these books finally had someone to care for them.
When Perturabo requested to manage the collection, Mikhail allowed it without hesitation, putting him in charge of the transcription and maintenance of the ancient manuscripts. Preserving these records became Perturabo's daily routine.
"Abo, it's late. Are you still transcribing? Aren't you tired?"
Mikhail entered slowly, holding a candle for light, and asked with concern, using the nickname he had given Perturabo.
Initially, Mikhail had been wary of the mysterious boy. But after years of deep interaction, he became convinced that Perturabo was truly just a boy who had lost his memory and had no idea where he came from.
Once he was certain of Perturabo's identity, Mikhail's heart softened, and he chose to let the boy stay as a novice monk. He was getting old and needed a successor for the ancient monastery; the boy's arrival felt like a sign from above.
Over years of living together, Mikhail discovered something startling: despite being a youth, Perturabo possessed wisdom and knowledge far beyond his years. Occasionally, Perturabo would speak of profound concepts that even Mikhail had never heard of.
At the same time, Perturabo grew at a staggering rate. Within a few short years, the child he had rescued had grown larger and taller than a full-grown man.
This led to an awkward situation: none of the monk robes stored in the monastery could fit him. Eventually, Mikhail had to use his connections in the nearby village to ask tailors to come to the monastery and custom-make robes for his apprentice and foster son.
Naturally, Perturabo's massive stature left a deep impression on the villagers who had been tailors for decades. Through their word of mouth, news of a giant new monk at the monastery spread for miles around.
Mikhail didn't know whether to laugh or cry, as many curious villagers used the excuse of prayer to come and catch a glimpse of Perturabo. He often had to comfort the boy, who felt insulted by the villagers' inquisitive stares.
But that was a side matter.
"No, Father. I am not tired."
Perturabo didn't look up from the parchment on his desk. He responded briefly and continued his work, which occupied his entire focus.
To Mikhail's surprise, he noticed that Perturabo wasn't transcribing a manuscript this time, but was drawing a diagram. The old priest leaned in to see what his apprentice was working on.
"Abo, what are you doing? What are you drawing?"
When Mikhail saw the contents of the paper, his confusion deepened. It wasn't a sketch of an icon as he had imagined. Instead, it was something outlined with various technical lines—to Mikhail, it looked like a schematic for some kind of machine.
"Father, I am... sketching the blueprint for an agricultural machine. I call it a 'tractor.' This machine can be powered by burning wood or coal. When I build it, the oxen in the village will be out of work, because this machine will be stronger than any beast of burden."
"Just one. With one such tractor, all the land in the village could be plowed in a single day."
The young monk explained slowly to his foster father, his voice carrying a trace of pride.
"But... but how do you know how to build such a machine? I don't recall any mention of such things in the monastery's books. How did you come up with this?"
Mikhail looked at the blueprint again, his shock growing at Perturabo's confident words.
"Heh. I told you before. The knowledge is simply there in my mind. I just know how these things should be made."
Perturabo let out a huff and replied with even greater arrogance.
"Then, Abo, how will you build it? I see on your diagram that you need so many components to make this machine. The village blacksmiths can't forge parts like these."
Mikhail looked at the drawing again, a look of worry crossing his face.
"Heh, Mikhail. When did I ever say I needed the help of those villagers?"
"Don't worry. I can handle all of this by myself."