The four generals waste no time.
The scarred general, Orin, swings his massive battle axe in a brutal arc, aiming for Varkas's exposed ribs. The strike connects, but instead of flesh, the blade meets something far denser—bone-like armor hidden beneath his fur. Sparks fly as the axe skids off, he didn't even leave a shallow wound.
"Hah! Tough bastard," Orin mutters, yanking his weapon back.
The lanky general, Jupus, steps in next, his twin daggers flashing. He moves like a wind, his blades seeking weak points in Varkas's defense. He strikes at the joints, the tendons, the unarmored patches of fur—each cut precise, calculated.
Varkas moves with supernatural speed, twisting his body to avoid the worst of the attacks. "Not bad," he growls. Then, with a sudden burst of strength, he swipes at Jupus with his massive claw.
Jupus barely dodges—the tips of Varkas's claws graze his chestplate, carving deep gashes into the steel. He grits his teeth and rolls away, breathing hard.
