The world trembled.
It did not pause, did not sigh, did not shift subtly. It quaked. As if something ancient had stirred in its depths a forgotten terror roused from millennia of slumber. The earth cracked in wide veins, air itself seemed to groan with pressure, and sky above pulsed with a dim, sickly light. But it was not the other one that was the source this time.
It was Gin.
Where once stood the silver-blue wolf, now loomed a figure beyond comprehension. A massive, coiled silhouette eclipsed the twilight, green scales glowing like liquid jade under the trembling starry sky. Two horns spiraled from either side of a broad, serpentine or longer wolf skull, arching backward like twin spears of nature's wrath. His four claws, each the size of small houses, pressed against the trembling earth. His tail stretched far into the jungle behind him, slicing the terrain as if even mountains would not defy its path.
