A peasant farmer boy awakens in the dead of night to the frantic baaing of his favorite sheep, Bell. He grabs only a staff with him and runs out to find wolves whose fangs drip with an instinctual craving for supple flesh. Bell is alone. The sheep's cries are desperate.

The farmer boy moves before he thinks.

Under a moonlit night, a boy, aged twelve, charges against seven wolves, larger, bigger, and stronger. When asked why, he would say, a livestock farmer, defending his flock was only natural. Bell was his favorite. Even if it were not Bell, even if it were any of the other wayward sheep, if Tutu, Clop, Mary, or Chives, even if it were the cows and the chickens, he would have done the same.

The fight is brutal and bloody. The fight is cruel and merciless. Yet, in that fight, the boy finds within himself the spirit to keep rising. The blood of giants flows through him. The tale of his ancestors spurs him. He keeps on rising. He rises, again, and again. His attacks are not strong enough. Yet, he endures.

He endures.

Victory is given not to the strongest, his father once said. It is given to those, whom at the battle's end, are still alive.

At the end, seven wolves lay dead, and a shepherd boy remained standing under the moonlight. Divine power surges through his every pore and heals his every wound.

"You are worthy."

On that day, a peasant farmer boy passed a trial of a god he knew not.

On that day, a Zealot was born.