He used the Silence, and it was something to witness. Every strike landed like a muffled detonation, force without sound, wrong in a way that made the stomach turn, and he moved through the zombies the way a bad dream moved through sleep, unhurried, inevitable, leaving nothing standing behind him. His massive paws came down with that horrible soft finality. His teeth tore through rotting hides like they were paper left out in the rain. Level 90 or not, it made no difference; nothing that came at him stayed standing long enough to matter.
On the ridge, the atmosphere was doing what it always did after violence, loosening at the seams, the killing tension bleeding off into something warmer and more dangerous in its own way, the particular charged air of a pack that had been wound tight all day and was only now remembering how to breathe.
