The Direwolf Pack was a nightmare made flesh—bloodthirsty, savage, and each the size of a young bull. Their sheer bulk alone gave them a terrifying edge. The average Lizardfolk warrior didn't stand a chance.
And leading them was the Alpha Direwolf—an SS-class beast, a hulking brute of raw muscle and primal fury. It was unstoppable.
"These Direwolves are too strong!"
"We can't beat them... not even close!"
"Is this... how we die?"
"..."
The Lizardfolk cried out in despair. It took ten of their warriors just to hold back a single Direwolf. The power gap was overwhelming.
And worse—more Direwolves kept pouring in from the shadows behind the front lines, their glowing eyes and snarling jaws spelling doom.
But just as the slaughter reached its peak—
A figure in a white shirt began to materialize in the middle of the battlefield, slow and steady, like a ghost stepping out of the mist.
