Wolf Lord Gunnar followed the firelight and found where the Yellow and Black Warrior had gone. He had finally carved his way through the green tide, and his iron-gray Terminator Armor had now been dyed completely red.
He sharply sniffed, and long, pointed canine teeth emerged from the corners of his mouth as his nostrils wrinkled.
Thanks to the formidable gifts bestowed by his Gene-Seed, he could smell blood from dozens of miles away through a blizzard, just like a real wolf.
Beyond the alleyway cut off by flames, there was a heavy scent of blood and gunpowder. From experience, he could tell that the explosives had carried a large charge—possibly anti-Power Armor mines.
Having fought countless battles as a former member of the Wolf King's honor guard, he could often tell what enemy he would face through scent and experience alone. He was more accurate than a radar.
"Russ's fangs, don't tell me that guy got blown to pieces?"
He was never one to keep things bottled up. What he thought in his heart nearly simultaneously came out through those thick lips, startling the Gretchin sneaking up behind him with a little knife, intending to stab his heel.
The Wolf Lord turned his head toward his feet and gave the Gretchin a savage grin. One stomp reduced it to a puddle of thick pulp, and then he broke into a run toward the flames.
As for the pups behind him? What did it have to do with him whether they could keep up?
What he had said to his subordinates earlier had not been meant to stir their morale. Fenrisian warriors had never lacked morale. He had merely spoken the truth: anyone slower than the Dark Angels had no business returning to the battlefield. They could stay at Fang