I always thought if I died young, it'd be doing something heroic. Saving a kid from traffic. Taking a bullet for a friend. Maybe even choking on something dramatic like a giant turkey leg at a renaissance fair.
But nope.
I was killed by a squirrel.
And not just any squirrel. A fluffy, twitchy-tailed psychopath that fell out of a tree, screamed "FOR THE ACORNS," and drop-kicked itself directly into my face.
I tripped, hit a rock, and—boom—dead.
So yeah. Here I am. Standing in a glowing, mystical void while a woman with way too many eyes and a clipboard reads my file.
"Name... species... ah yes. Cause of death: Squirrel-related cranial trauma. How unfortunate."
She clicks her pen. I feel judged. Harshly.
"Congratulations! You've been selected for a once-in-a-afterlife opportunity: transmigration to a fantasy world."
"Wait—what?"
"You'll be fine. Probably."
Before I can say, "No thanks, I'd rather haunt the rodent," a portal opens up behind me. My brain screams. My common sense yells, "DON'T!" I fall in anyway.
---
I land face-first in a field of suspiciously soft grass. Like, unnaturally soft. Like someone enchanted a memory foam mattress and shaved it into lawn form.
My nose is full of daisies and mild regret.
"Ugh… okay, not dead anymore. Cool. Coolcoolcool," I mutter, lifting my head. "Where the hell am I?"
A butterfly the size of a toaster flaps past me. It sparkles. It winks. It explodes.
I stare blankly as flower petals rain down like confetti.
"...Common sense, I need you to hang in there, buddy."
Then I hear the sound.
Rustling. Leaves. Tiny claws. A chitter.
My entire body tenses.
"No. No, no, no, NOT AGAIN—"
A squirrel leaps out of the nearby bushes. This one's wearing a tiny cape. It lands on a rock and squeaks at me like it's issuing a royal decree.
"Behold, outsider! I am Barkthar the Brave, Keeper of the Grove! You have trespassed upon sacred dirt. Identify thyself!"
I blink. The squirrel stares. I blink again.
"...IS EVERYONE HERE THIS INSANE OR IS IT JUST YOU?!"
"PREPARE FOR TRIAL BY COMBAT!"
The squirrel unsheathes a toothpick from its belt. I swear to all twelve moons in the sky that it glows.
I do what any logical person would do: I scream, grab a stick, and start swinging wildly at the air.
---
Ten minutes later, I'm running through the forest being chased by a mob of armed woodland animals, because apparently beating Barkthar with a baguette I found nearby was considered an act of war.
So yeah. This is my life now.
I dive into a creek, drag myself out, and collapse against a mossy tree stump, praying the squirrels don't have a navy.
That's when I hear it.
A groan.
Not mine. Not the wind. Not Barkthar.
This groan is deep. Ancient. And somehow very, very disappointed.
"Ughhh... another one?"
I sit up fast. My eyes land on the stump. Correction: not just a stump.
A sword.
Stuck in it. Glowing faintly. Covered in ancient runes.
"Great. Another idiot chosen by fate. Can't wait to hear how special you are."
I blink. "Did... did you just talk?"
"Unfortunately. You wouldn't believe the things I've seen. Kingdoms rise and fall. Heroes become legends. And now I'm stuck with a muddy raccoon impersonator."
I scoot closer. "Wait… are you—are you a magic sword?"
"No, I'm a decorative butter knife. Yes, I'm a magic sword, you clod. The name's Arcanos, Blade of Eternal Judgement, Sealer of Demons, Bane of the Ancient Void, Destroyer of—"
"Okay, okay, chill. I get it. You're a big deal."
"…I was going to say 'Destroyer of Salad Bars,' but now you've ruined it."
There's a long pause.
"Well. Go on then."
"Go on what?"
"Pull me out. You're clearly The Chosen One™ or some such nonsense. Let's just get this over with before the squirrels come back."
"No pressure then."
I grip the hilt. It hums under my fingers. I swear I hear dramatic orchestral music swell in the background.
"This is it," I mutter. "I'm finally about to do something cool in this world."
I yank.
The sword doesn't budge.
"…Did you just pull? Like, with effort?"
"I think so—"
"You pulled like you were trying to open a bag of chips with wet hands."
"I panicked, okay?!"
"Put your back into it! What are you, cursed with noodle arms?"
"This stump is cursed, not me!"
"It's literally enchanted to yield to a worthy soul. So you either have to be noble, brave, or accidentally stupid enough to qualify. Guess which one you are."
I grunt, reposition, and give it one last furious yank.
With a loud shing, the blade comes loose, glowing bright green and emitting an operatic chorus of dramatic fantasy music that I'm pretty sure is just in my head.
"Huh... I did it!"
"And I feel like I've been handed off to a soggy loaf of bread. Glorious."
Before I can revel in the moment, a rustle behind me makes me spin around. A villager—robes, floppy hat, staff made of driftwood—is standing there wide-eyed.
He gasps, points, and yells, "HE'S PULLED THE BLADE! THE PROPHECY HAS AWAKENED!"
Then he faints.
Arcanos groans. "Oh great. Not this subplot."
Just then, a nearby bounty board erupts with magical sparks and reshapes itself, plastering a glowing image of my confused, mud-caked face.
WANTED: Hero or Hazard. Please report sightings immediately. May be armed. Also may be yelling at squirrels.
"That... escalated quickly."
"Yeah, welcome to your life now," Arcanos says. "Also, fun fact: pulling me makes you a legal warlord in three kingdoms. Two of them hate each other. The third is run by ducks."
My jaw drops. "WHAT?!"
"Hope you like diplomacy. And duck court."
Somewhere in the distance, a tree shifts.
A branch creaks.
Then the tree groans.
"WILL YOU TWO KEEP IT DOWN?! I'M TRYING TO NAP!"
Arcanos sighs. "That would be Trebor. Don't mind him. He's a sentient tree with a gambling problem."
I look around at the forest, my glowing sword, the unconscious prophet, and the squirrel militia probably regrouping.
"...Common sense, I'm begging you. Don't fail me now."
---
End of Chapter 1.