Jonah was having a perfectly good nap when God chose him.
One moment he was dreaming about bread that buttered itself, and the next, he was falling through a tunnel of light at terminal velocity, screaming like a goat on fire.
He landed—hard—on cracked, dry ground in the middle of absolute nowhere.
His face hit the dirt with a soft thwump, followed by an undignified groan.
He lay there for a moment, face-first in gravel, then mumbled into the dust, "Okay. Either I'm dead, or I'm having the weirdest food poisoning episode in history."
A voice like a thunderclap echoed across the sky:
"JONAH, SON OF MAN."
Jonah lifted his head and squinted into the blinding sunlight. "Ugh. That better not be the landlord."
"YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN."
He blinked. "Chosen? Like... for a prize? Because I didn't sign up for anything."
"YOU WILL BE MY WARRIOR. MY HAND ON EARTH. YOU SHALL RISE AGAINST THE DARKNESS."
Jonah groaned and pushed himself to his knees. "Okay, let me stop you right there, Sky Voice. I'm flattered. Really. But I think you've got the wrong guy. I failed out of temple school. I once got kicked out of a town for selling fake holy water."
"YOU HAVE BEEN CHOSEN FOR YOUR HUMILITY, YOUR STUBBORNNESS, AND YOUR HEART."
Jonah gave the empty horizon a slow, suspicious look. "That is… one interpretation of me."
A bright flash blinded him, and clunk—something heavy dropped in front of him. A sword.
It shimmered with holy light, etched with runes and symbols he couldn't read. It hummed faintly, like a sleeping bear snoring in Latin.
He stared at it. Then back at the sky. "Seriously? You're giving me a sword? I bruise myself trying to slice bread."
The sword stirred.
Then it spoke.
"Oh great. Another idiot."
Jonah yelped and scrambled back. "IT TALKS?!"
"Yes, I talk. I also judge. And I can already tell this is going to be a long assignment."
Jonah pointed at the sword. "Nope. Nope, nope, NOPE. Weapons should not have personalities. This is how cursed objects start wars!"
"I'm not cursed. I'm sanctified. Learn the difference, peasant."
Jonah turned back to the sky. "I want a refund on this quest."
"THERE ARE NO REFUNDS."
"GO FORTH."
The voice faded like a thunderstorm that lost interest halfway through.
Silence returned, except for the hum of the sword and Jonah's nervous breathing.
He looked around. Desert. Rocks. No signposts. No map. No water.
"Great," he muttered. "The Almighty drops me in the middle of nowhere, gives me a sarcastic butter knife, and says, 'Go save the world.'"
"I'm a divine weapon forged in holy fire."
"Yeah? I'm a guy who once mistook soap for cheese."
"God help us both."
Jonah trudged forward, sword in hand, feet sinking into sand.
After about ten minutes, he was sweating profusely, sunburnt, and deeply regretting every decision in his life.
He passed a rock shaped like a turtle. Then another. Then realized it was the same rock.
He had walked in a circle.
"Okay," he huffed, "we're off to a great start."
"You have no sense of direction. Or dignity."
Jonah stopped and turned to the sword. "Do you even have a name?"
"You may call me Valthuriel, Blade of Eternal Judgment."
He blinked. "That is way too long. I'm calling you 'Val.'"
"You will not."
"I already did."
"Blasphemy."
"Get used to it."
Eventually, Jonah saw smoke in the distance. He headed that way, hopeful for signs of life—or at least a shady rock to cry under.
As he approached, he saw a small village—really more like a cluster of mud huts and tired goats. People were gathering around something at the center.
He crept closer and heard shouting. Angry shouting.
A large man in black armor stood in the square, sword drawn, pointing it at a trembling old woman.
"TAXES!" the man barked. "YOUR VILLAGE IS THREE SHEEP BEHIND. WHERE. ARE. THE. SHEEP."
Jonah blinked. "Wow. I was expecting demons, not bad tax collectors."
He felt Val vibrate.
"This is your first test. Stand up for the weak. Strike down injustice."
Jonah gripped the hilt nervously. "Are you sure we can't just… negotiate?"
"He's threatening an old woman."
"Maybe she does owe him sheep."
"JONAH."
He took a deep breath. Stepped into the square. Raised the sword.
And immediately tripped over a chicken.
He hit the ground with a thud and groaned.
Everyone turned.
The tax man sneered. "Who in the thirteen hells are you supposed to be?"
Jonah groaned from the ground. "I'm… uh… a traveling holy warrior." He stood up, trying to brush sand off his dignity. "Chosen by God. Here to, y'know… smite evil and whatnot."
The villagers gasped.
The tax man burst out laughing.
"You?" he wheezed. "With a butter knife and a bedsheet for a cloak?"
Jonah blinked. "Wait, I don't even have a cloak—"
Val lit up in blue flame. The tax man stopped laughing.
Jonah looked down. "Oho. That wasn't me, that was the sword."
"I'll handle the intimidation. You handle not tripping over poultry."
The tax man backed away. He wasn't brave—just cruel. Bullies like that rarely stood their ground when faced with divine glowsticks.
He spat, cursed, and left, his goons shuffling after him.
The old woman hugged Jonah.
"You saved us," she whispered.
He blinked. "I… I did?"
The villagers began bowing.
"Praise the chosen one!" someone cried.
"Oh no," Jonah whispered. "Please don't—"
They started chanting. "Holy warrior! Holy warrior!"
He turned to Val. "What have you done?"
"What you were meant to."
Jonah sighed.
"I was meant to nap today."
End of Chapter 1: The Unholy Selection