A moment of silence passed between them. Then, slowly, filled with force, the ghoul raised its massive arm, lifting the club high—ready to strike. The young man instinctively raised his hands, as if to block a falling mountain. It was a futile gesture, born of desperation. In a trembling voice, he cried out:
"W–Wait! Just one moment! I meant no harm!"
The words faded into the air, but they had an effect. The ghoul paused. Then, in an unexpected move, it lowered the club and rested it on its shoulder. From the depths of its throat came a gravelly, thunderous voice that shook the air:
"You're not good at lying, little human."
The young man's eyes widened—not from fear, but shock. There was a hint of mockery in the ghoul's tone, like smoke slipping through cracks.
Yet, amid the fear tightening his chest, a strange comfort emerged. Relief—like discovering the monster wasn't just a mindless beast, but a thinking being, capable of understanding and communication. It was a revelation: this nightmare had understood his words. How? He didn't know. It was as if his mind had simply decided to understand in that moment.
He swallowed hard and said, voice quivering with a fragile hope:
"So… you can understand me? That's… good! I…"
The words hesitated, fearful to leave his lips. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady his voice, and added:
"As I said… I meant no harm. I was just passing through… looking for a way out of the forest. When I saw you… fear drove me to hide. But I had no ill intent."
He watched the ghoul's reaction. Would it understand? Would it believe him? Was its mind as wise as its body was strong—or did it see others the way humans view ants?
Then, something unexpected happened. The ghoul's eye widened—just like the young man's. The effect of the words was obvious, like a key unlocking a long-sealed memory. Silence fell. Then, a wave of calm washed over the ghoul, as if touched by a rare understanding. It leaned slightly forward, its enormous body moving slowly, as if verifying what it had just heard. The young man instinctively stepped back—a reflexive move born from an illusion of safety.
Then, the ghoul spoke in a low, earth-rumbling voice:
"Human… you can understand my speech?"
The question was strange, but despite the shock, the young man answered after a brief hesitation:
"Y–Yes… I can understand you…"
He paused, then added softly, as if trying to convince himself:
"Somehow…"
The ghoul straightened again, letting out a long sigh—not of boredom, but of something deeper. For a moment, its harsh features softened. A hint of nostalgia flickered across its face. But then, it cast a cold glance at the young man. Its voice returned—this time laced with disappointment and bitterness:
"How many decades has it been since I last spoke with a human?"
A false sense of comfort crept over the young man, as if the grip of fear had loosened. But before he could fully exhale, the ghoul added, voice low and dripping with disdain:
"What a shame… that a weak human, tainted with foul energy, is the first I speak to after all these years."
The young man's eyes widened again. He almost protested—but the words froze in his throat, petrified by the murderous gaze now fixed on him. It wasn't just a threat—it was a promise of annihilation.
Then, without warning, the ghoul moved. With speed defying its size, it raised the club high and swung it—not as a warning, but as a blow meant to kill.
The strike came from the left—so fast, the young man had no time to think, no chance to react, no room to dodge. All he could do was raise his left arm in a desperate attempt to shield himself, bracing it with his other hand to absorb even a fraction of the force. And then—the impact.
The club struck his body with a force that echoed like a thunderclap. For a fleeting instant, he couldn't tell whether the cracking sound that rang out was the shattering of wood—or the breaking of his bones under the massive blow. He tried to dig his feet into the ground, as if rooting his soul in the earth to resist the force. But resistance was meaningless against such overwhelming strength.
His body trembled; his bones screamed under the strain. The ghoul felt a faint resistance, something in the young man's defiance that made the creature raise its non-existent brow—a flicker of mild surprise. But it was not enough to earn respect. With just a slight increase in pressure, the young man's feet lifted off the ground.
Then suddenly, as if detached from the pull of gravity, his body soared through the air like a ragdoll flung by a careless giant.
The wind slapped his face as the ground rushed toward him. The first impact felt like being struck by a colossal hammer. His body bounced once, then again—skipping across the earth like a stone skimming across water. After more than thirty meters of brutal collisions, he finally fell still.
His body lay sprawled on the ground. No groan. No gasp. Nothing but silence.
His spirit seemed to have left him long before he stopped moving.
The ghoul watched from a distance, its gaze devoid of regret or curiosity—just deadened indifference, as though it had witnessed this scene a hundred times before. It raised a massive finger and scratched the space between its eye and mouth, where a nose might have been. The movement was slow, lazy, more a gesture of boredom than anything else. With a sigh, it muttered to itself in a low, gravelly voice:
"Perhaps I shouldn't have ended it so quickly… Damn that human. He made me set a higher standard for strangers in strange clothes. Seems they're not all the same after all."
His words drifted into the dusty air. Then, with no further thought, the ghoul turned, stomping slowly back toward the cave—his ancient den, deep in the forest.
He took several heavy steps before halting abruptly. Something had changed. A strange sensation struck him—a shift in the air itself. There was no sound, no movement. Just a palpable pressure, an uncomfortable disturbance creeping into the atmosphere. He raised his head slightly. His eye scanned the void ahead. For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, he turned—slowly—his gaze fixing on the spot where he had flung the young man just moments ago. And what he saw defied belief.
On the ground, amidst the dust, the body stirred. At first, it was only a faint tremble—irregular shudders. But as the seconds passed, those tremors evolved into movement. Slow, but steady. The young man began to push himself up, palms digging into the earth, his limbs shifting as though reborn.
The ghoul's eye widened as he stared. His mind resisted the truth of what it was seeing. How? How could a mere human rise again after a blow that could crush the bones of even the fiercest warriors?
The young man finally stood. He raised his head and looked directly at the ghoul. His gaze was clear—free of fear or weakness. His eyes bore no trace of defeat. And in that moment, the ghoul felt something foreign stir inside him—an emotion he hadn't known in decades. It wasn't fear. Nor even surprise.
It was something far more complex. A tingling sensation deep within his essence.
Inside, a whisper echoed—a voice with no origin, but one he could feel pressing upon him, clinging to him like a shadow—unseen, but undeniable.
A gust of wind rose as a strange aura began to gather around the young man's body. It was no longer a faint shimmer drifting through the air. It became something real—tangible. Energy flowed outward from him. The air around him rippled, as though space itself could no longer contain what was awakening.
The aura was like a small storm, dark and ominous, swirling slowly around him. Dust rose in spirals, forming a near-invisible vortex. The ghoul did not move—but he knew. What stood before him was no ordinary man.
He had faced hundreds of powerful warriors—those who came from every corner, brandishing gleaming swords, clad in plated armor, their banners fluttering as if boasting of their blind confidence. They came from all kinds of backgrounds and races: noble knights, daring adventurers, and formidable sorcerers. Though so different, they all shared one purpose—his annihilation. Yet, they all fell. They shattered beneath the weight of his invincibility. They screamed, vanished, and became nothing but a faded memory in the long chronicles of his battles.
This time, however, something was different. A strange feeling crept into the depths of his being—a sensation he hadn't felt in ages, not since he was a small creature struggling to survive, hiding in the forest shadows, fleeing from human eyes that held nothing but contempt and fear.
He had always seen a harsh verdict in their eyes—as if his very existence was a sin that needed erasing. And now, as he looked at the young man standing before him, he saw something familiar in his eyes. It wasn't just hatred. It wasn't fear. It was something deeper, something that cut sharper—a silent disdain.
The ogre's features ignited with rage. His savage fangs quivered, and the claws of his feet dug firmly into the ground. The young man, by contrast, stood calmly, provokingly so. He pulled a broken watch from his wrist, examined it for a moment, then tucked it into his pants pocket. Slowly, he reached toward the sheath of his military dagger. The black blade slid out with a sharp hiss.
Then, the young man walked forward—deliberately, without hesitation, without fear—looking at the ogre as if he were no more than an obstacle to be removed. A fiery red gleam intensified in the ogre's eyes. His hot breath rose into the air, turning into clouds of thick vapor. Then, with a guttural voice reverberating with suppressed fury, he asked:
"Who are you, boy?!"
The young man did not answer. He didn't even seem to hear the question, as if the words lacked the weight to warrant his attention. He continued forward—unshaken, unwavering—while the ogre roared, shaking the earth beneath his feet. In a flash, he bent his knees and launched forward with tremendous force. Each step crushed the soil, creating deep craters and trembling the ground. The wind exploded around him—his charge was like an oncoming catastrophe, unstoppable.
Yet, the young man did not retreat. He ran too. His steps were light but firm, like the rhythm of a calm melody amid a storm. His body seemed small compared to the monstrous wave surging toward him, but his spirit was immense.
The dread that had once threatened to consume him vanished, like fog under the first rays of the sun. In its place, something else emerged—something pulsing inside him with intensity. A flickering light of contradictory hues danced in his pupils. It wasn't hesitation, nor recklessness. It was something far deeper. The ogre could feel that rhythm rising—a will that refused to break. He saw it clearly, as one sees a beacon in darkness.
The ogre had grown used to watching humans when cornered, when no escape or hope remained—that defining moment when hearts act on their final instinct, when their souls ignite in rebellion against a fated end. He had seen their bodies tremble, their fists clutch the fading thread of life. But he knew... all such efforts were in vain. Rage, determination, defiance—they all crumbled beneath his overwhelming power.
And yet... this time was different. Completely different. The young man's eyes held no panic, no desperate lunge fueled by hopelessness. There was something else... a calm, measured fury. As though this wasn't a battle to him, but simply a task that needed completion.
Suddenly, both moved at once. The ogre first—his massive form surged with even greater speed, death glinting in his gaze. He rapidly closed the distance, ready to strike. The young man anticipated it. He had noticed the tightening of the ogre's muscles before the leap. He didn't need to think—his body reacted before his mind could command it. As the deadly club came crashing down, the young man leapt away in time.
The club struck the earth with thunderous force. Soil erupted into the air, and the resulting shockwave slammed into the young man midair, nearly knocking him off balance. But he wouldn't let the moment slip away. He couldn't allow the ogre to catch his breath.
As soon as his feet touched the ground, he dashed forward. Swift as an arrow, he moved like an extension of the wind the strike had created. He gave the ogre no time to recover, not even a second to regain footing.
The ogre swung his club again, sending a compressed blast of air, but the young man slid across the damp grass in a blur. He felt the cold of the earth mix with the searing heat above him. For a few seconds, time slowed. Everything moved sluggishly—everything except him. His breath was fast, his heartbeat roared in his ears, but he didn't stop.
He regained balance and leapt with grace, using his momentum to land a precise blow to the ogre's waist. It wasn't random—it was calculated. He aimed for what he believed to be a weak spot beneath the thick, muscular hide. The small dagger in his hand was like a needle against steel, but it wasn't just any dagger, and the strike wasn't a desperate attempt.
When the blade touched the ogre's flesh, the young man felt strong resistance, but the knife sliced—if only slightly—drawing a faint trace of dark blood. He passed behind the ogre after the strike, panting heavily. For a moment, everything was still. Then, the silence split with a booming laugh—deep, mocking. It wasn't just derision—it was a declaration of undeniable superiority.
From within the cloud of dust stirred by the clash, the ogre rose. His bones creaked like grinding stones. He raised his massive hand, pointing a thick finger at the small black dagger. His eye narrowed, and a sly smile curved his lips as he said in a heavy, scornful voice:
"What is this? Is this really your weapon? I expected a sword, a spear—something with value. But this! Are you serious?"
He laughed again, louder this time, as if the mere idea that the dagger could harm him was a ludicrous joke. In response to the mockery, the young man gripped the dagger tightly, raised it before his face, and said calmly, with unwavering certainty:
"This... is no ordinary dagger."
He paused, letting the words sink into the ogre's mind, like planting a seed of doubt in solid ground. Then he continued:
"The blade wasn't always black. It spent over seventy years soaked in the deadliest poisons... until it absorbed them entirely... to the core."
For a fleeting moment, the ogre's eye flickered. A chill passed through his body, his muscles tensed, then relaxed. But he quickly regained his composure. His smile returned—arrogant and cold. He raised his chin and spoke with a sneer:
"Boy, do you really think that will affect me? My body is immune to poisons. Only a few rare types have any effect."
No sooner had he uttered those confident words than he felt something stir inside him—an obscure sensation, a slight disorientation, as if the air around him had lost its balance. It wasn't a clear pain, but something subtler—a disruption in the rhythm of his pulse.
He tried to ignore it, but something unsettling crept into his chest. His heartbeats were off—irregular. His skull throbbed with a strange weight. The air felt heavier, thicker, as if he were breathing through invisible liquid.
He slowly raised a hand to his forehead. His breathing deepened, labored, as if his lungs resisted the air. Then, amid the swirling vortex forming around him, he realized the truth he had tried to deny... This wasn't an ordinary poisoned dagger. It was something else—something more lethal than he'd imagined. Something that could bypass his immunity.
Rage flared in his eye—not blind fury, but one laced with bitter realization and seething frustration. He had made a grave mistake—one born of arrogant pride. How had he allowed himself to think, even for a second, that the young man was weak? That he posed no threat?
Now, the young man stood before him—resolute, defiant, holding his small weapon. The battle had shifted from a trivial skirmish into a real struggle—a fight that could seal his fate. His body was solid, a living armor no traditional weapon could pierce. But that small wound from the dagger concealed a deeper threat—one working its way inside, unseen, yet capable of destruction.
He understood now that prolonging the fight would not be in his favor. That underestimating a technique he had never encountered before might prove deadlier than any force he had ever faced.
And yet, amid that realization, something else stirred in his chest—a forgotten feeling buried under centuries of easy victories. The thrill of true combat—the exhilaration of a fight that mattered. Of a danger that was real. A worthy opponent.
He lunged at the young man again, wasting no time. But his steps were not as before. There was a subtle difference—discernible to any keen eye. A slight imbalance. A falter in his stride. His massive body, once a perfect engine of destruction, was now betraying him for the first time. The young man saw it—the poison was working.
He charged forward too, every step purposeful, eyes locked in unwavering focus. His grip tightened around the black dagger. The ogre raised his club again and swung—but this time, something was different. Just before the young man dodged, the club veered suddenly, striking the ground in a deliberate feint.
This wasn't a contest of strength—it was a test of cunning. And experience favors the clever.
The young man hadn't expected it. Shock struck his mind before his body could react. The moment the club hit the ground, the laws of reality around him shifted. The earth beneath him rippled violently, like a stormy sea of rubber. He lost control of his body—gravity itself seemed to abandon him.
A muffled scream burst in his chest, unheard. He clung to his dagger, tried to maintain his grip, but the pain tearing through his left hand weakened him. The blade slipped away—lost. His large backpack, lying far behind, also rose into the air, spinning like a shredded doll. Its contents scattered—clothes, food, tools—all danced briefly before falling apart.
Amid the chaos, the young man struggled to regain control, to process what was happening. But he was too late. A massive shadow closed in fast. He had no time to react. No escape.
Suddenly, pain consumed him—a crushing force that left him gasping. A steel cage seemed to wrap around him. He didn't need to look—he knew. He was in the ogre's grip.
The ogre's colossal hand encircled his body. Fingers pressed against his ribs until he could hear the creaking of bones. The air fled from his lungs. He let out a muffled gasp, reduced to a helpless figure clutched in merciless fingers. He tried to resist, to break free, but the pain was faster, harsher. Then came the ogre's voice—final, inescapable:
"I've got you now."
A sinister smile spread across his face. His lips curled back, revealing stained teeth. His glowing eye never left the young man. He reveled in watching him writhe. The grip tightened—like prison walls closing in. Pain erupted across the young man's body. Breathing grew harder. Then, in a whisper like a dark secret, the ogre said:
"You know, boy... if it weren't for this damned numbness in my limbs, I would've turned you into a pile of meat and blood the moment I grabbed you."
He spoke slowly, each word dripping with arrogance, savoring the moment like a fine wine. His eye studied the worn-out figure before him, flexing his fingers as if testing how fragile the young man was. He smiled coldly.
"But don't worry—my weakness works in your favor... You get to live a little longer."
He paused, narrowing his eyes as if rethinking his words. Tilting his head slightly, a more amusing idea occurred to him:
"Or maybe... it's not in your favor at all. I'll enjoy watching you suffer to death."
His voice carried a sadistic tone. The pain he inflicted wasn't punishment—it was pleasure. A luxurious experience he didn't want to end. He increased the pressure slowly—so slowly that his fingers cracked. The young man trembled, but he didn't scream. Only ragged breaths escaped him, clinging to the last threads of strength.
"What's wrong?" the ogre shouted, arrogance thick in his voice. "Beg... plead for mercy."
He leaned closer, his hot breath brushing the young man's face, and whispered:
"You know... I'm starting to think about keeping you alive."
He paused. There was no rush. Pleasure lay in the waiting, in toying with the victim's emotions. He continued, savoring his own words:
"Most humans break in their final moments... but you're different."
He stared into the young man's eyes, as if they were mirrors reflecting a defiance he hadn't expected. Despite the torment, despite everything, that spark still burned. The ogre continued:
"Even now, after all this, you still look at me with that stubborn gaze. I like that. You're not like that coward who ran off with the elf girl."
His words seeped into the young man's mind, but he couldn't process them fully. The pain was a dense fog, choking him, clouding thought. His breath faltered, but still—still—he managed to speak. The words emerged like shards from a broken soul:
"All I wanted... was to get out of this place... I wasn't... looking for trouble."
The ogre laughed—a hollow, harsh sound. He said, savoring each word:
"You humans... always say the same things."
Then, his eye narrowed, glowing with deep-seated hatred. An old flame of fury reignited. He curled his lips and spoke in a low, venomous tone, like delivering a curse born of pain:
"You always say you don't want trouble. That you seek peace."
He shook his head slowly, sarcasm dripping from every feature. Then he spat his words like venom:
"But you're the bloodiest of all races. You killed my kind without reason. Hunted them. Tore them apart like they had no soul. How do you expect me to believe a single word from a human mouth?"
His voice shifted with each sentence—growing deeper, darker—as though the echoes of thousands of tormented souls were speaking through him. This was no fleeting rage. It was an ancient wound that had never healed. A pain inherited through generations, burning in him like an eternal fire.
Slowly, he raised his massive thumb, bringing it to the young man's forehead. He touched it—then began to press. It felt like his skull was being shoved into his spine. A slow crush. Waves of agony surged from the young man's neck. Vertebrae screamed under the pressure.