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@ ODILI ONUOHA
2025-06-10 07:00:00In a land where the sun burned bright over golden deserts and whispering dunes, there lived a fierce warrior named Mark. He had never lost a battle. His armor was scarred, his sword legendary. People feared him more than they respected him.
Mark believed power ruled the world. Mercy, to him, was weakness. “If you don’t strike first,” he often said, “you’ll never stand.”
One day, the king tasked him with a quest:
“There is a creature in the northern cliffs, a lion with a mane of fire and claws like blades. It has attacked caravans. Find it. End it.”
Mark journeyed across mountains and dust storms until he reached the cliffs. One night, as he prepared for the hunt, he spotted something strange: a small, flickering light deeper in the canyon.
He followed it and found a child, no more than ten, holding a lantern and standing before the lion.
Mark reached for his sword.
But the child said, “Stop. She’s not a monster. She’s wounded.”
And indeed, the lion massive and regal was limping, a steel trap biting into her hind leg. Blood stained the stones.
Mark was frozen. Every instinct in him screamed to strike. But something in the child’s calm gaze stilled him.
Instead of attacking, Mark sheathed his sword.
The child stepped forward. “Help me.”
They approached the lion. It growled, but didn’t attack. Gently, together, they freed her. The lion roared once not in anger, but in pain then bounded off into the night.
When Mark returned to the king and told the truth, many laughed.
But months later, when bandits attacked the kingdom, it was that same lion who appeared at the city gates, scattering the attackers with primal fury.
From that day, Mark no longer feared he was honored. Not for his strength, but for the moment he chose not to use it.
Moral:
The strongest hand is the one that chooses to heal instead of harm. True strength is not in striking, but in sparring.