Chapter 303

The swamp was no place for anyone, or at least that's what the villagers said. They told stories of a beast that lived in the murk, a creature whose rage would destroy everything in its path. They never saw him, but the smell of the swamp made their stomachs turn, and they feared the trees that dripped with decay. His name, though never spoken aloud, was known to them all. The ogre.

He was large, covered in thick, matted fur that smelled of moss and wet stone. His eyes were yellow, his teeth jagged, and his breath like the earth itself—stale and damp. The swamp had been his home for as long as he could remember, long before the humans built their village on the edge of it. He didn't want trouble. He didn't want to hurt anyone.

But they kept coming.

Day after day, people wandered too close, either by accident or because of some strange curiosity. Children often laughed as they ran just beyond the reach of the murky water, teasing him with their calls. He would watch them from behind the thick branches of the willows, growling quietly, hoping they would leave. But they never did.

They came again, this time in a group. A man, a woman, and their two children. They walked past the swamp's edge, glancing nervously toward the water, eyes wide, knowing they shouldn't be there, yet unable to resist the pull.

They spoke in low tones, too low for the ogre to hear clearly, but he could guess what they were saying. They were mocking him. Talking about what they would do if they saw him.

The man threw a rock into the water with a splash, not caring for the sound it made. The woman laughed, a high-pitched, shrill sound. She had to have known the ogre was watching them. Her voice carried over the stillness, a taunt. He couldn't take it anymore. He slammed his fist against the tree next to him, splintering the bark. The branches swayed, but they didn't seem to notice.

Not yet.

The children wandered off, their laughter echoing through the trees. They had no idea what lay beyond the moss-covered roots, the murky depths where nothing but death lingered. He could feel his temper rising, but he had learned long ago to hold back. Violence had always come with consequences. They didn't know what it felt like to be alone, to be haunted by your own silence.

But when they threw the stones—he snapped.

The first stone hit the water, sending ripples across the swamp, and the second followed with a crash. Then came the third, and the ogre couldn't hold it back anymore. He stood, towering over the trees, his massive form crashing toward the village in a fury.

The man's face turned pale when he saw the ogre's shadow stretch over them. He took a step back, his hand clutching his family's arm. "Run," he gasped, but it was too late. The ogre was already upon them, his feet pounding the ground, his hands reaching out like a storm. He grabbed the man first, his claws digging into the soft flesh, squeezing. The man's scream was choked off as the ogre threw him into the swamp. His body sank, limbs flailing.

The woman tried to pull the children back, but they didn't run fast enough. The ogre swiped at them with brutal force, taking the girl by her leg and yanking her into the water. The boy's screams didn't stop, even when the ogre returned to the shore, his hands empty.

He stood there, panting, staring at the wreckage. His breath was ragged. The woman was sobbing, clutching the boy. He was alive, but the ogre knew it wouldn't matter. The terror was enough. The world they had known was shattered, and the villagers would never forget the sound of those screams.

The ogre turned and walked back to his swamp, head lowered. He didn't feel anything. Just the weight of the silence.

Weeks passed, and the villagers avoided the swamp, but the fear didn't fade. In every home, in every whisper, they spoke of what the ogre had done, of how they'd seen the body of the man and his wife floating in the water, their hands still reaching for their children. The boy was never found.

Some of them left the village entirely, moving to a safer place where the fear of the swamp wouldn't plague them. Others stayed, bound by their hatred of what had happened. They cursed the ogre for what he had done. But they didn't leave him alone. They never let him be.

They came again, this time with a torch.

A group of villagers stood at the edge of the swamp, huddled together. Their faces were grim, their eyes filled with hatred. They carried sharpened spears and axes, determined to end whatever evil lurked in the murky depths. They had come to destroy him.

He could hear them, their heavy steps crunching through the swamp's underbrush, their voices low, as though they were planning some great revenge. The ogre watched them from the shadows, his body stiffening. His anger boiled up again, hot and bitter, but he held back. He had learned, hadn't he? He wasn't a monster. They didn't understand.

They weren't just afraid of him anymore—they were angry.

The villagers threw the torches into the swamp, watching as the flames licked at the surface. The fire spread quickly, searing the rotting branches, the vines, the water, and the mud. The ogre could hear them chanting something, their words rising in a chant that almost seemed like prayer. It didn't matter. The flames wouldn't touch him.

He rose from his hiding place, his body crashing through the underbrush. He could smell the scent of burning wood, of desperation. He swiped his massive hand, knocking the torch out of the nearest villager's hand. The fire tumbled to the ground, and then everything was chaos.

They rushed at him, slashing with their weapons, but the ogre was too fast. His claws caught one man by the throat, crushing his windpipe. The other villagers screamed, but the ogre didn't stop. His rage spilled over, unstoppable. His arms swung like great trees, breaking bones, sending bodies flying into the swamp. The torch flames sputtered and died.

The ogre could feel the fire inside him. He wasn't just angry. He wasn't just defending himself. He was punishing them. They had destroyed the one thing he had ever cared about, the peace of his swamp.

The last man, the one holding the axe, trembled. He had fallen to his knees. The ogre loomed over him, eyes glowing with fury. The man raised the axe, trying to swing, but the ogre caught his arm and twisted. The axe fell from his hand, and in that instant, the ogre grabbed his head, squeezing until the man's neck snapped with a sickening crack.

Then, there was nothing but silence. The ogre stood there, panting, his chest heaving with exhaustion and adrenaline. The bodies of the villagers lay scattered, their faces frozen in terror.

He didn't feel any better. He never did.

The years passed, and the swamp remained as it had always been—silent, decaying. But the villagers' children grew up hearing stories. The ogre became a legend, a ghost that haunted the night. They spoke of him in hushed tones, of the wrath he had unleashed on their ancestors. He had become a symbol of fear, a force of nature they could never escape.

But one day, the ogre realized something. They hadn't forgotten.

They hadn't forgiven.

He hadn't been left alone.

He had been trapped. In a cage of his own making. His anger, his violence, his desire for revenge, it all fed back into itself, over and over again. And now, as the years turned into decades, as the swamp grew darker and more treacherous, he understood.

The villagers hadn't just left him alone. They'd never let him go.