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"Enemy attack!"
"Enemy attack!"
"Enemy attack!"
"Protect the Warchief!" Old Saurfang rolled over, sprang up in an instant, and grabbed the Brutal Axe lying beside him.
Roaring at the top of his lungs, he stood bare-chested in front of Thrall, weapon in hand, shielding him with his own body.
His eyes shone with a piercing light, like an eagle's, making others afraid to meet his gaze.
The displeasure and dissatisfaction old Saurfang had felt toward Thrall just moments earlier had long since vanished.
"Lieutenant, stand aside. I need to go out and take charge," Thrall said, extending his thick arm to push old Saurfang out of his way.
Steady as a rock, old Saurfang did not budge. Thrall was not, after all, a melee fighter. Though his close-combat skills were good, his greatest strength lay in being a Shaman who borrowed the power of ancestral spirits.
His physical strength fell far short of old Saurfang's.
"Warchief, your safety comes first," old Saurfang said gravely, his face expressionless as he blocked Thrall's path.
"No, I believe they need me more outside," Thrall said.
"Your safety is more important." Old Saurfang had become an immovable stone, impervious to any appeal. No matter what Thrall said, he remained planted in front of him, refusing to give an inch.
Thrall grew furious. He could not beat him in physical strength, nor could he defeat him in a fight.
He was utterly helpless, without any way forward.
"Saurfang, I order you to stand aside!" Thrall raised his voice.
His gaze hardened, and an oppressive aura radiated from him.
Thrall's anger sent a chill through