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.
Certainly! Here's the full professional English translation of your narrative passage:
Amid all the agony, within the merciless violence, the ogre was waiting for something specific—a scream, a plea, a desperate cry. He longed to hear the sound of surrender, to feel the tremor of fear coursing through the body he was crushing. But he heard nothing. The scream he anticipated never came, nor did the pleas he had grown used to. Instead, something entirely unexpected happened.
At first, it was just a faint sensation, barely noticeable. His thumb, which had been pressing down relentlessly, started to move… against his will. For a moment, he thought it was a hallucination, a trick played by his dazed mind amid the euphoria of dominance and the effects of poison. But within seconds, he realized the sensation was growing stronger. His grip wasn't weakening—this wasn't due to fatigue. No, the young man himself was pushing back.
With all the strength he could muster, with every ounce of will in his body, the young man was forcing the ogre's massive fingers away. Those thick digits began to retreat slowly, as if unseen forces had intervened to shift the balance. The ogre's eye widened, his face contorted in utter shock. How could such a small, fragile creature resist him without any physical enhancement? It defied all logic. It challenged everything he had believed his entire life.
Yet there it was—clear, undeniable. In his chest, for the first time in a long while, the ogre felt something unfamiliar… a feeling he was not prepared to confront. His shock quickly gave way to rage. His eye burned with merciless fury; muscles swelled beneath his thick skin, like stones ready to burst. He tightened his massive fingers around the young man's body with even more force, intent on crushing him. But the young man refused to yield.
The ogre realized that his grip alone wouldn't end this farce. He raised his other hand, ready to close his second fist and finish it. The young man saw the hand approaching. He knew he had mere seconds before he would be utterly crushed. Pain was tearing through him, exhaustion eating at his muscles, but his spirit refused to break. Then and there, he summoned what strength remained—and moved.
At the exact moment the ogre's second hand was about to clamp down, the young man leapt free. For an instant, he seemed to soar, as if the air itself lifted him from death's grasp. The ogre's hands closed on nothing, joints cracking with a sharp pop that echoed through the air. The young man landed heavily on the ground, staggering, breath ragged, his body groaning under the weight of suffering. But he had no luxury of rest. He rose, eyes scanning through the chaos for something.
His gaze fixed on a small bag scattered among his belongings. He stumbled toward it, reached out with a trembling hand, and snatched it up. He opened it quickly and pulled out a small metallic sphere. Pressing a tiny button at its center, a screen lit up with a countdown starting from 60 seconds.
Time, however, was not on his side. He pressed the button again, shortening the count to 30. Another press—15. One final press—five seconds. He looked up to see the ogre behind him, advancing with slow, earth-shaking steps. His fury burned like a blazing inferno. There was no time to think, no option left but to strike. Gripping the sphere tightly, the young man channeled all his remaining strength into his arm and hurled the metallic ball toward the ogre's massive head.
The ball soared through the air, cutting through the space with incredible speed before striking the ogre's forehead with a resonant metallic clang, like a bell tolling in a dust-choked horizon. The ogre's head tilted back slightly—not from pain, but from surprise. He hadn't expected the young man to possess the strength to throw anything with such force and precision.
Before his eye, the sphere spun in the air after bouncing off his brow. In that moment, he smirked—a mocking grin curling at the edge of his mouth. He prepared to spit out his venomous words, "Is that all you've got?" But those words never came. In a split second, a brilliant flash flared before his eye. The ball transformed into a glowing core, then into a star-like blaze, until it seemed the world itself had gone dark—except for its mounting glow… and then came the explosion.
The blast roared like a thunderstorm. Tongues of fire tangled with smoke, engulfing the upper half of the ogre's body like a ravenous beast of flame. The ground quaked beneath the force of the eruption. The ogre staggered backward, his heavy steps losing their rhythm, his massive form suddenly fragile—like a puppet teetering on the brink of collapse. He tried to steady himself, but his knees buckled. He crashed to the ground, groaning, his pained roar echoing through the air.
Although the young man hadn't expected such a colossal explosion, he didn't let the shock paralyze him. He knew the monster wasn't dead, and a moment's hesitation could prove fatal. He moved quickly, his hand diving into a small bag amid his scattered gear. He grabbed a few items at random, not caring what he took, then sprinted with all the speed he could muster, passing the unmoving ogre. Along the way, he retrieved his black dagger, still embedded in the earth, and continued running, stumbling, until he reached the other side of the clearing—where his path had to continue.
There, he finally allowed himself to stop and catch his breath. One hand braced against a nearby tree trunk, his breathing was wild, his chest trembling as if his body were about to give out, his bones aching from the strain, his left hand throbbing with sharp pain. He turned back, eyes settling on the ogre still kneeling on the ground. The beast's massive hand covered his burned face, as if trying to block out the searing agony. Slowly, the black smoke began to clear, revealing the damage done.
The ogre stirred at last. He turned slowly to face the young man. Through the dark clouds of smoke, their eyes locked. The ogre's single eye, filled with rage and malevolence, met the gaze of the young man watching from afar. When the beast moved his hand away from his face, he revealed a horrific sight—his facial flesh shredded and peeled back, bone exposed and gleaming with hot blood. His expression was a blend of anguish and fury, as if the screams he could not utter had been channeled through his gaze, screaming for him—dripping with hatred and threat.
The young man was startled. Despite the ruin visited upon the ogre's face, his eye remained intact—worse, it became even more terrifying. Blood had streamed into it, turning its white into a deep crimson. There was no time to process it. He noticed the ogre's other hand lying still on the ground. Then his eyes widened. The hand was gone—completely! Only a scorched, jagged stump remained.
The young man formed a theory. Perhaps the ogre had used his hand at the last moment to shield his face from the explosion. Or maybe he had tried to catch the metallic sphere before it detonated. He couldn't be sure—he hadn't had a clear view. Whatever the reason, it was likely the only thing that had saved the ogre's head from disintegrating entirely. At least, that's what the young man believed.
The two stared at each other in silence. A heavy stillness blanketed the space. Nothing could be heard but the young man's ragged breathing, the whistling wind threading through trees, and the distant, labored exhale of the ogre. Then, amid the charged quiet, the young man finally spoke—a whisper, yet burdened with unbearable weight:
"I'm sorry... but you left me no choice."
His words lingered in the air. He expected no response—there was none to give. The ogre didn't move, didn't shout, didn't charge. He just remained where he was, watching—like a broken shadow. Then, the young man turned and ran, his legs heavy with fatigue, vanishing into the forest's darkness, which seemed to swallow him whole, leaving behind an enemy not yet fully defeated.