Impossible Events in a World of Prayer
In this world of the Lord's Prayer, there are things called "impossible events." An impossible event is, quite literally, something so absurd it defies words. The term comes from those rare moments when people experience a miracle and blurt out, "Impossible!" in awe. So, in a world teeming with countless souls, what are the odds of stumbling into one of these impossibilities? Say, winning the lottery jackpot, getting struck by lightning, or hooking up with a stunning babe you met by chance only to find out she's transgender. These are the odds-defying intrusions that crash into your life. When they hit, humans either feel reverence or turn away in denial, escaping reality. Faced with situations beyond the processing capacity of their brains, they simply format themselves. Not out of deliberate choice, but instinct—knowing it'll preserve their mental health. Fortunately for Jacob, he wasn't the type to format his brain and flee reality.
The door, unsecured by any lock, swung open on its own, and the protective sigil etched into it melted away like ice cream under scorching heat. A door that should stay shut had opened. A space that should be guarded was breached. The sealed interior and exterior forcibly connected, and the stable air began to shift into something alien. The moment Jacob sensed the entity slipping through the opening—not opening the door, but entering via the door that opened itself—he instinctively sealed his lips. He had to guard his "tongue." No reckless words before that thing. The mouth isn't just for communication, eating, or breathing. It's a tool for enacting will. The soul harbors intent, the brain sends electrical signals, and the mouth projects that will outward. At its core, the tongue is the symbol. Lose the symbol, and you lose; defile it, and you're shamed; destroy it, and meaning vanishes. So keep the mouth shut. Guard the tongue. Never wag it vulgarly like that thing.
My Guide, my Lamp, my Shepherd, protect your servant Jacob, one of your eleven disciples. I know you hear my calling. This faithful disciple who serves you faithfully now beseeches you.
Thud!That thing strode boldly into the center of the dining hall, slamming a massive cross onto the floor before rummaging in its coat and pulling out a small wooden box.
"!"
Inside the box was the very item Jacob had sent to that thing. A replica of the "holy nail" that pinned Jesus Christ to the cross—rusted, fed with blood to perpetually emit iron poison. In simple terms, a desecration turning the holy nail into an unholy one. Viciously, poisonously, cunningly, slyly, he'd transformed the sacred into the profane and provoked the recipient into accepting it. If the target was a devout believer in God, they wouldn't easily discard something that looked just like a holy nail—and even if they did, a single touch would let the venom seep in. Yet here it was, casually tucked in that thing's pocket. Prolonged exposure should have driven anyone mad—hammering nails into their own heart or suffering necrosis in hands and feet from the excess poison. But no sign of it showed on that thing. It was as casual as a student pulling out prepared notes because they needed them now.
Not content with smashing through the maze of spells in this sprawling mansion, it crushed the protective sigil by force and invaded my domain. The Prophet warned me it was no ordinary foe, but this much?
Counter-spell? Nothing so neat. Massive sacrifices to brute-force the sigil? Impossible. Bodies would litter the outside by now, but the sigil stemmed from the deserts linking ancient Egypt and the Middle East. Only a pharaoh's seal or enacting the "death of the firstborn"—which even pharaohs couldn't stop—could break it. The problem? That thing had made it possible. Now Jacob recalled his twelfth finger, already bent before the fight even began. Was the future he'd seen not ending with one finger, but eleven?
No way! The 'right of the firstborn' I claimed overrides all fates! Who can supersede the firstborn? Who can infringe on its right? Who can steal it?!
He was Jacob, granted the firstborn's right from his elder brother. He was Israel, boldly demanding infinite grace and blessing through that right. The firstborn is such a being. This house was the family home where the firstborn resided to inherit the legacy. He was Jacob, residing here to claim that inheritance. To trample in with muddy feet was insult enough; to mock the firstborn's right demanded fitting retribution. Who was the firstborn? He was—the perfect 12/10 firstborn!
Finally, Jacob stopped holding his breath and stepped forward squarely. Fearless, he opened his mouth, wielding the authority of one of the eleven disciples, moving his tongue.
The right of the firstborn. It doesn't just assert and enforce the firstborn's claim—it imposes and compels it on others, earning the title "right of rights." The first, the most entitled, the inviolable sacred domain. Claiming it is enacting its stipulations.
As expected, at Jacob's assertion, that thing—still holding the profane box—began twisting backward, neck first. Then upper and lower body followed. A reminder: your place is outside this door, not here.
Crack! The resisting neck vertebrae snapped fully, and with the spine twisting out of alignment, upper and lower halves lost balance, wobbling.
Ordinary humans, the moment the firstborn's right activates, turn themselves around and walk out of the sanctuary—whether fleeing or expelled, the form doesn't matter. It's the law: no unpermitted presence where Jacob stands. Forced error correction. Can't resist, can't endure. Like darkness retreating from light. Such is the law of the Almighty.
The right only commands retreat from the sanctuary—no killing. Strictly expulsion...
But that thing resisted the force pushing it outside, refusing to move its grotesquely twisted body. Did it think immobility excused walking out?
Not refusing to leave or endure—purely breaking and twisting its own body to halt the expulsion? Impossible! The world's laws aren't that flimsy!
Jacob pointed at the grotesque statue-like thing and cried out. Tried to.
"De.. moun.. th.. mou.."
Crunch!
"Arghhhhhhh!!"
The moment his fingertip burst like a water balloon, Jacob endured pain far greater than when the Almighty first branded his forehead. Raising his head, tears of blood streaming, he saw beyond the open door: another man, not yet stepped inside, aiming a small cross at him.
A man possessed by long-held grudges and vicious emotions, transformed into a freak exhaling deadly yin energy. The white vapor rising from him was colder than Siberian tundra, and the deep darkness in his eyes marked him beyond redemption as human.
That thing travels with such a monster? Commands this anti-heavenly abomination—with not a shred of yang energy despite male form—with a mere word?
"I used to be a Tetris master back in the day."
Crack, crunch, snap, grind.That thing, piecing its shattered, twisted, unbalanced bones back by hand, returned to normal as if nothing happened.
"The... firstborn's... right...!"
"Firstborn means the first child. But even firstborns don't hold absolute superiority. Not when that right failed to manifest at times."
Impossible. The firstborn's right never failed...
"The firstborn, meant only for grace and blessing, nailed to the cross, swallowing the world's original sin like a lonely jar. The one instance in your beloved Bible where the firstborn's right wasn't upheld."
"......!"
Firstborn. First child. The foremost among the first. None dare utter the word but Him. By the Father's will, He bore the cross up Golgotha, nailed and groaning as the firstborn.
"Occult's core is 'interpretation' warping perspective. Your boasted religion, rituals, customs—they can shift anytime. If you have the will."
"You claim the will to 'interpret' the world's laws to your taste and alter outcomes...?"
"If necessary."
Declaring itself such a being before Jacob made the profanities in its grasp rattle.
"Now, the one phrase you'll utter as firstborn."
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani.