A Strongest Warrior Of All Time

The night was over, and morning started.

After some time John wakes up and sees a beautiful morning. He is feeling so fresh because of the scars on his body. The pain he felt from long days after the fight was gone.

The sear of fire that had consumed him for weeks was gone—vanished as though it had never existed. No herb, no poultice, no healer in the entire kingdom could have done what she did.

John couldn't help but think again and again. Elsa, with her peaceful eyes and gentle hands, had leaned across him and said something on her breath. A soft flow of light had poured out of her palms, quiet and powerful, into his wounds. And then… the pain was gone. The scar was gone.

"Father," John finally broke the silence, turning to Eric, who sat at the long oak table with a thoughtful look. "How is this possible? No healer I've seen has powers like hers. Elsa… she's different. Isn't she?"

Eric leaned back in his chair, his expression serene but his eyes weighed with memory. "Yes, my son. Elsa's talent is otherworldly. What you saw today was not normal healing—it was the force of life itself. A force that few are ever born with."

John sat forward, hungry, nearly fidgety. "Then tell me. Where did she learn it? How did she become this way?

Eric's lips curled into a wry smile. "Then listen closely, John. You only catch her strength this day, but she was a child once—tumbling, stumbling, and grasping against the fences no child should be asked to face. To know Elsa's light, you must first come to know her shadows."

And so, Eric began to speak a story—a story that would redefine John's understanding of his childhood friend forever.

Elsa was no older than six when her power first became evident. It was a spring morning in the garden of the palace. There was the scented air full of birdsong, and Elsa, with the ribbons tied back in her thick hair, playing at catching butterflies among the roses.

Suddenly, a high-pitched cry rent the air. A sparrow had fallen from a tree, the wing twisted, broken. The small bird trembled helplessly on the ground. Any other child would have averted her face, but Elsa knelt by its side, tears filling her eyes.

"No… don't die," she whispered, her small hands trembling as she picked it up.

And then something strange happened. She felt heat radiate through her hands, golden and warm. A gentle shimmer, as if sunlight passed through water, came out of her fingers into the bird. In front of her, the broken wing mended itself, the trembling ceased, and the sparrow spread its wings. It flew up into the air with a contented chirp, and Elsa stood there staring after it, astounded.

Her father, King Aldred, had observed it all from the balcony above. His heart went cold—not of fear, but awe. He recognized at once this was no common gift. He called to the palace's most trusted healer, an old monk named Seraphion, a man who had devoted his decades to studying the art of life and magic.

"Child," Seraphion had told Elsa that first day they met, his voice as calm as running water, "what you carry is blessing and burden. Healing is not just mending flesh. It is touching the very threads that sew life together. Do you wish to walk this path?"

Elsa, only young, nodded simply. "If it means I can heal others, then yes."

And so her training had begun.

Seraphion taught her the Flow of Essence, the unseen current of light that passed through all living entities. He told her that wounds were not ripped flesh, but broken threads of this flow. Healing was sewing the threads back together again, restoring the energy of life.

At first, Elsa could do nothing. A tiny scratch on her own hand drained all of her strength to recover. With every attempt, she collapsed, tired, her body running with sweat. There were moments she cried, wanting to give up. But every time, Seraphion would rest his hand on her shoulder and say:

"Light is patient. So must you be."

In secret, Elsa practiced for years, hidden from all but her father and Seraphion. While other children played outside, she sat quietly within, learning to sense the flow of essence in leaves, in animals, even in the air. She learned to heal small cuts, then bruises, then more serious wounds.

The harder she healed, the more she knew it cost her. Each time she healed drained strength from her, made her weaker, made her ill sometimes for days. Once, after healing one of the palace guards' deep sword wound, she fainted and did not awaken until morning.

Even so, Elsa did not desist. "If I give up," she told Seraphion, "then what was the point of being given this gift?"

Her own greatest challenge had been when she was nine. A soldier had been brought in from the border, blood flowing from a cut across his chest. The healers had told her he would not last until dawn.

King Aldred would not give up hope. "Elsa," he said, his voice trembling, "can you save him?"

She was filled with fear. She had never seen a wound that bad before. But she saw the little girl of the soldier weeping beside him, and she couldn't help but glance.

She placed her hands on his chest. Her strength burst out, hotter and brighter than before. Agony coursed through her small body, but she clenched her teeth, pulling the threads of life together. Slowly but surely, bleeding stopped. The soldier's breathing became tranquil. By pure miracle, he lived.

In the evening, Elsa collapsed for three days, her body almost broken by the labor. But when she woke, Seraphion smiled through tears.

"You've crossed the line," he whispered. "You're not just a healer anymore. You are a light in the darkness."

Then...