In a country, near a village, in a tiny wood, there was a tree. It was surrounded by many of its own kind, but this one tree in particular was special.
As the village grew and the people tried to expand the road and construct more buildings, they cut down the edges of the wood to clear the land and make more building materials. However, the people in the village ran into a problem.
The tree could not be cut down.
The sturdy trunks all around it were felled easily, but for whatever reason, this one tree was not. It wasn’t special; its trunk was small enough that a child could wrap their arms around it. The bark flecked away like any other tree and its leaves fell as nature dictated.
Yet, it could not be moved.
Eventually, a hero came to that village. It was said he had the sharpest sword in the land. Everyone, including the hero himself, was sure it would be an easy task to cut down the tree.
A hush fell over the gathered villagers as the hero drew his sword back. There was a distinct swoosh as the blade cut through the air, and then—