Antonio and his pack bowed their heads. The king of werewolves stood majestically in this moment. He was the embodiment of nature's wrath. He turned from the humans again to face the six werewolves before him. One by one, lowered their heads in a display of deference to the alpha, Antonio.
In his eyes and stature, he said without words, the power of a king was uncontested.
They howled in homage to their monarch. The sun slid across the sky to cast a radiant red-orange glow on him. The moment etched in the annals of Earth's history.
The magnificent and fearsome werewolves then underwent transformations back to their human selves. But this metamorphosis was no graceful dance; it was a cruel and agonizing ordeal. Their bodies convulsed and writhed, a grotesque symphony of bones crunching and grinding, accompanied by violent tremors that shook them to their very core. Sweat dripped from their brows, each dropping a testament to the painful spasms racking up their once mighty frames. Within the depths of this metamorphic chaos, lightning-like surges of fire coursed through their veins, illuminating the torment etched on their contorted faces. Heat radiating from them. Their nude skin was hot and flushed, sweating profusely as their bodies regulated the excess temperature.
The high cost of regaining their human forms was etched in every grimace of suffering they bore. No pleasure accompanied this transition, only a torturous return to their former selves. Human radiators in front of broadcasting cameras.
As the metamorphosis reached its climax, their mouths bled, a crimson offering to the harrowing process. The elegant werewolves, once graceful predators, were now distorted, taking the shape of mere humans. They stood barefoot, their proud forms laid bare, stripped of their lupine splendor. But there was no shame in their nakedness; no trace of modesty tainted their confident gazes.
In their vulnerability, they found strength, for they were united in their nature. This painful transformation, a reminder of their mortality, had forged a bond that transcended their identities as werewolves. As humans, they stood tall, unashamed, and ready to face whatever destiny.
Antonio stood before the crowd as he had with the Call of the Werewolves.
“We’ve left you alone, but even the devil gets tired of tending to his own. Things have gotten so out of hand. This is a suggestion. A warning. Stop. Being. Fools.”
He raised his hands when he heard over a radio channel from a soldier’s walkie transmitter, that someone SCREAMED out: “FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!”
A gunshot rang out, and Candace’s face were spattered with blood. She crumpled to the ground as if back slapped.
Bullets pierced the air, striking Antonio’s body with merciless force. One after another, they hit him—his mouth, his cheek, his chest— each impact leaving dimples on his skin, but not a single bullet managed to penetrate. The barrage drove him back only by the sheer impact, but he did not yield to pain; his defiance stood firm. His eyes flared to an unearthly rage. Whorls and eddies in his eyes built brighter, like flares on the surface of the sun, hungry… pissed.
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In a seamless transition, Antonio smoothly morphed back into his wolf form. His eyes blazed with intensity. But before he could fully gather his bearings, an ear-splitting explosion tore through the air and rocked the ground.
Jason and Supatra were blown backwards, while Lángrén fell to her knees. Their bodies are no match for the thundering rockets unleashed from a gunship. Its devastating firepower shredded the surroundings with a relentless hail of bullets at a blistering rate of fire. Nia’s fur was set ablaze, a testament to the chaos unleashed upon them.
Antonio couldn’t spare a moment to help. His attention was drawn to a heart-wrenching sight. Marisol leaped to cover Candace, valiantly shielding her just as a second explosion hit them both. They succumbed to unconsciousness on the ground.
In a surge of primal rage, Antonio’s emotions took hold in his veins, and he let out an earth-shattering roar. His body bristled with reckless hate, as if an ocean of overwhelming rage bubbled beneath his skin. In a stunning display of power, he grew larger, swelling to almost eight feet tall, and his fur thickened, exuding an aura of invincibility. He unleashed a primal, berserk roar that shook the earth. His eyes were aflame with a terrible wrath. An eerie silence pervaded the area. Though his mass increased, he moved swiftly, gracefully, with a predatory, panther-like gait.
The King of Werewolves became that which demons run when a good man goes to war. He yanked the night to fall to drown the sun. No friendship could live, as he saw his true love lying injured. His darkness, held at bay for millennia, rose to battle. No cost was too high when the King went to war.
The titanic beast was angry. Beyond overflowing with pissed-off rage.
Antonio stood on his hind legs, reared up, and roared with a cry, sounding like continental plates grinding together. In blinding speed, he rips across the concrete in a terrifying blur of teeth and claws. Incomprehensible fury fueled his wrath, and he sent tremors into the ground. He was no longer just a werewolf; he was a living embodiment of vengeance and retribution. Antonio was the personification of a relentless storm of terror itself, a vengeful force that even the darkest nightmares dared not contemplate.
Fear permeated the air as Antonio unleashed his furious vengeance upon the attackers, raw power and unbridled fury. Rampaging among humans. The swipe of his tail knocks several humans away. The deafening, horrifying sound of men standing armed now peeled apart like sliced onions. Trees break their backs to bow to Antonio. Ocean retreats in his growling anger.
Gore and guts fly. As the barrage tore apart the street, a snowstorm of bullets slammed into Antonio with no effect. The Get of Fenris SMASHED into the cordon. Flames lick at his fur, failing to even singe.
A shoulder-launched rocket zipped past him. Antonio's eyes follow the rocket effortlessly. Fueled by his inner turmoil, the king grabs a female soldier by the nape of her neck. Her hands clung and fought with all her might. Her screams were ignored as the Alpha dragged her across the rocks as if pulling a carpet roll. He yanked her to a tree and with hands slammed her body against the trunk. He dropped her body to the ground, then curb stomped her head as if it was a grape. He continued to create gruesome confetti, painting the field in a grotesque sense of horror.
A barrage of fifty caliber bullets tore apart the street beneath him. Antonio pressed forward, his determination unwavering. He cocked his head at the helicopter gunner. As flames licked at his fur, he obliterated all obstacles. With a thunderous growl, Antonio, with bulging muscles and an expression of unbridled rage, crouched low on the ground, his powerful legs coiling like springs. His eyes glinted with primal fury as he locked his gaze on the approaching helicopter, a mere speck in the vast expanse of the sky. In an explosion of raw power, the Get of Fenris launched himself upward, defying gravity with an awe-inspiring leap that sent shock-waves through the ground. The earth trembled beneath his immense might as he ascended into the heavens, his colossal form hurtling through the air like a furry comet.