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.