Listen, the howls of wolves are gradually rising. Under the moonlit night, pairs of eyes are shining like fluorite, and the air bursting out is filled with the desire for blood. The angry wolves had their hair on end, their front teeth exposed, and they were roaring and about to launch the final attack.
Look, on the top of the mountain, the White Wolf King is singing to the moon, and his voice is filled with endless desolation and desolation.
Come on, do you dare to go forward and call out, "My husband, my husband?"