The Strongest Dog
Three months passed.
Just like that.
Norman hadn’t even realized how long he’d been living with the dog pack. Every day was the same: wake up, stretch, hunt, eat, sleep. But something had changed. Actually, everything had changed.
Ever since he joined, the pack had gotten stronger—fatter, even. No more hunger. No more scraps. These dogs were living large. And it was all thanks to him.
Norman was the reason they were thriving.
He never asked for anything. Never demanded respect. But they gave it to him anyway.
They adored him.
And over time, his body changed. His instincts sharpened. His combat evolved.
He developed a whole style of martial arts—dog-style kung fu. Techniques born from instinct, refined through blood.
They gave them names.
Body Slam – launched from all fours, slamming his full weight into prey.
Death Roll – a twisting ground move, perfected in swamps and rivers.
Anal Extraction – an up-close, rear-angle takedown used only when necessary.
Air Claw Gale – a spinning swipe that created shockwaves with sheer velocity.
They were vicious. Efficient. Pure.
He was no longer just Norman.
He was a weapon.
One day, prey was scarce. The forest felt empty. No deer. No pigs. Not even a rabbit.
That’s when they saw it—a leopard.
Beautiful. Deadly. Fast.
A predator by design.
But in Norman’s eyes, it wasn’t a threat.
It was lunch.
The leopard ran. Hard. It hit 120 kilometers per hour.
Norman hit 150.
He chased it down, legs pounding like pistons, eyes locked in, mouth open.
And when he reached it, he didn’t roar. Didn’t bark.
He bit.
Straight into the neck.
The leopard writhed. Clawed. Twitched.
But Norman didn’t let go.
Within one minute—it went limp.
All four legs stretched straight. Eyes rolled. Gone.
He didn’t even celebrate.
He dragged the carcass back like it was nothing.
The dogs stared in awe.
The husky said nothing.
But the atmosphere had changed.
Norman’s place in the pack kept rising. But he didn’t care.
He had no interest in being a leader. He never challenged the husky. Never played politics.
He just killed. Fed. Rested.
That was enough.
But admiration turned into obsession.
One night, Norman witnessed a commotion near the fire pit.
A German shepherd was trying to mount a corgi.
The corgi barked loudly, blocking him.
Tails puffed. Teeth showed.
A fight was seconds away from breaking out.
Until the corgi shouted:
“I save myself for Norman.”
“Only Norman’s genes are worthy of my body.”
The camp went silent.
Norman froze.
Something cold hit his spine.
He looked at her—serious, loyal, trembling with hormonal intensity.
“Wait… what?”
The corgi stared at him like he was a messiah. Like she was ready. Like this was her moment.
Norman stepped back.
Inside, something cracked.
“I’m not even a dog…”
He realized it fully, maybe for the first time in weeks.
He couldn’t mount a corgi.
He couldn’t fulfill what she wanted.
He didn’t belong here. Not really.
He had the fangs. The speed. The strength.
But not the biology.
And in that silence, with the pack watching and the fire crackling—
Norman, the strongest dog…
just felt cold.
Alpha’s Demise
It started with heavy rain.
Thick, relentless, splashing down like the sky was angry.
The dog pack split into small hunting squads, each group dashing out into the wilderness, spreading through the soaked terrain in search of food.
Hours passed.
One by one, they returned—soaked, muddy, successful. They brought back prey. Fat rabbits. A few deer. Even a wild turkey.
They gathered at their shelter beneath the overhanging rocks. The fire was out. Everything was wet.
Norman counted silently.
Something was off.
Three dogs were still missing.
Retarded, the golden retriever.
The German shepherd.
And the husky—their leader.
The dogs began murmuring, ears flicking, tails stiff with unease.
Then—
Through the misty rain, two silhouettes emerged. Walking slowly. Heads down. Drenched.
It was Retarded and the German shepherd.
Norman sprinted forward on all fours, his body moving like instinct.
“What happened?” he asked. “Where’s our leader?”
Retarded didn’t answer. He just stood there, rain sliding down his face like tears he didn’t know how to cry.
The German shepherd lifted his head slowly. His voice was low and hollow.
“We were ambushed… by a group of lions.”
“He held them off… so we could escape.”
“He didn’t make it.”
The rain didn’t stop.
Norman froze.
No breath. No thoughts. Just noise in his ears.
“Thunderclap…” he muttered.
“Wait—no. Rainclap. It’s raining.”
He took off.
Four legs pounding the mud, water flying in every direction. He ran faster than he had in weeks. 150 km/h. His top speed.
The wind hurt. The rain hurt. But he didn’t stop.
He found him.
Lying on the ground.
A soaked, broken body. Covered in blood. Torn fur. Mud clinging to every part.
Still breathing. Barely.
Norman knelt down beside him.
“Leader… are you okay?”
The husky opened his eyes—just barely.
His voice was cracked. Weak. But clear.
“We were ambushed…”
“I stayed behind… so they could run.”
“I might not see tomorrow.”
He coughed. Blood dribbled out of his mouth.
“Norman… from now on… you’re the leader.”
“It’s yours now…”
And then—he died.
Just like that.
No long goodbye. No last growl.
He was gone.
It was still raining.
Norman stayed beside him. For minutes. Maybe hours. He didn’t know.
Then he dug.
With both hands. With all four limbs. In the rain. In the mud. Like a dog. Like a man. Like a friend.
He dug a hole deep enough for a body. Then he gently placed the husky inside.
Covered him with soil. Patted it down.
Then he found a plank of wood nearby. He stuck it into the ground at the head of the grave.
There were no words.
They had no pen.
Just a plank. Blank. Empty.
But it stood.
And that was enough.
The others watched in silence. The fire still hadn’t been relit. The rain still poured. But beneath the rocks, under the open sky, something had shifted.
The alpha was gone.
And the pack would never be the same again.
Dog with a Mission
In the world of dogs, grief is short.
The next morning, the pack was already busy—chasing prey, sniffing out trails, running wild. No one mentioned the burial. No one looked back. They had no time for mourning. No time for hate.
But Norman was different.
Because Norman wasn’t a dog.
He was a man.
And in his mind, hatred burned like a furnace.
He didn’t snarl. He didn’t cry. He simply stood up, stretched his limbs, and spoke in a calm, even voice:
“I’ve got something to take care of today. You guys go hunt that way. I’ll be here.”
That was all it took.
The dogs didn’t question him. They never questioned Norman. His words were law—mostly because they didn’t care to argue, and also because they trusted him completely.
So the group split, heading toward the forest.
And Norman turned the opposite way—toward the hills.
Toward the lions.
The rain had stopped, but the ground was still soft, and the clouds above still heavy. Norman didn’t walk like a dog this time.
He walked like a weapon.
Then, out of nowhere—a ripple of motion in the brush.
He stopped.
From the bushes, trees, and grass… they emerged.
Hyenas.
At least thirty or forty of them. Fanned out. Forming a loose circle around him.
They didn’t attack.
They just stared.
Confused. Unsettled.
They had never seen a creature like him before.
Not fully dog. Not fully man. Not fully anything.
He didn’t bark. He didn’t growl. He didn’t even smell right.
They kept their distance, circling slowly, eyes wide, jaws half-open.
Norman didn’t have time for this.
He spoke calmly:
“Get out of my way… or I’ll open the gates of hell.”
But the hyenas didn’t speak English.
They just kept circling—tension rising. Their claws scraped dirt. Their breathing grew heavier.
Norman scanned the group. One stood slightly ahead of the rest. A bigger one. Scar across the muzzle. Likely the leader.
Perfect.
He didn’t waste another second.
He dropped to all fours—and launched.
A blur of muscle and instinct.
Body Slam.
The alpha hyena didn’t even flinch in time. Norman collided with him like a freight train—cracking bone, flattening muscle.
And before the body even hit the ground, Norman wrapped around its neck—
Fifteen full Death Rolls.
Snapping. Tearing. Crushing.
By the time he let go, the alpha’s head was detached, rolling across the muddy field like a dropped coconut, bouncing once, then twice, before landing still.
The rest of the pack froze.
Then—
Panic.
Hyenas scattered in every direction, yelping, howling, claws scraping madly against the dirt as they fled.
Norman didn’t chase.
He didn’t even watch them run.
He turned back toward the hills and kept walking.
A few minutes later, he reached a massive stone outcrop—a hulking slab of ancient gray rock resting between two low hills.
He stopped behind it.
What he saw made him lower his body and narrow his eyes.
Just on the other side—
Five or six lionesses.
One huge male lion.
And over a dozen cubs.
They were lying in the grass, breathing slow. Calm. Unaware.
A family. A kingdom.
His target.
The rain had stopped.
But the war was just beginning.
Kungfu Lions
Norman didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t roar. Didn’t wait.
He just leapt.
Straight over the stone, full force, launching his body through the air like a silver missile—and slammed down hard on the lion king.
Body Slam.
It connected. The lion grunted—shocked—but didn’t fall. Instead, he reared back, standing tall on two hind legs.
Paws up. Chest square. Form tight.
Norman froze for half a second.
What the hell… this lion knows martial arts?
Before he could move again—
CRACK.
A paw the size of a dinner plate smashed into his left shoulder.
The force was immediate. Violent. Unforgiving.
Norman flew through the air like a broken javelin—fifty meters before he hit the dirt and rolled hard. Dust exploded around him. His back skidded. His limbs flailed.
He landed flat on his side.
When he looked down…
His left arm was bent the wrong way.
Completely shattered.
He gritted his teeth. Blood in his mouth. Rain on his face.
Then he stood up.
On two legs.
One arm hanging dead. The other clenched into a fist.
The lion king stood across from him—still upright, still poised. Even he looked confused for a second.
What… is this thing?
But he didn’t ask.
He charged.
Fast.
Eighty kilometers per hour.
He kicked up dirt and leaves behind him, then leapt into the air—and returned the favor.
Body Slam.
This one came from above.
His full weight—pure muscle, claws extended.
Norman threw himself aside just in time, narrowly dodging the crushing blow.
Okay… he’s strong. But he’s not fast enough. If I keep dodging, I’ll wear him out.
That was the plan.
Norman backed off, started running wide arcs—baiting, dodging, drawing the lion’s energy out little by little. The lion panted heavier with each failed charge.
If I just keep moving… I’ll win this.
He was starting to believe it.
Right up until—
They arrived.
Six lionesses.
No warning. No sound.
Just muscle and fury and claws.
They came from every side—closing the circle.
Norman’s path was gone. The air changed. The energy shifted.
Oh no… this is no good.
He looked for an opening.
There wasn’t one.
He stepped back, just slightly—and the lion king moved.
From a distance.
He planted his feet, growled low—and released his move:
Air Claw Gale.
A blur of silver slashes—so fast they shimmered like beams of light.
They cut the air like razors.
Norman ducked.
One slash missed his face by a centimeter. Another carved the air beside his ribs. He dodged. He twisted. He spun.
Almost—
SLAM.
He didn’t see them coming.
Two lionesses hit him from opposite sides, crashing into his ribs like wrecking balls.
Then two more.
Then two more.
Six-body combo slam.
He was airborne again—soaring backward like a ragdoll, body limp, eyes wide.
He landed hard. Dust exploded again. His body bounced once, then twice.
Then he didn’t move.
He was still.
Breathing shallow.
Vision doubled.
I… might die here.
His left arm was useless.
His ribs were cracked.
His legs were trembling.
These lions… their kung fu is too strong.
Even Dark Benson might not survive this.
His mind spun.
The sky above him flickered gray. Rain began to fall again—light, cold, almost mocking.
He lay there, silent.
And the pride of lions, standing tall in the mist, began to circle closer.
New King of the Jungle
Norman was surrounded.
Seven lions had formed a tight circle around him.
There was no gap.
No exit.
No way out.
The lion king’s paws pressed into the muddy ground.
His massive rear legs tensed, claws gripping earth like anchors.
He was preparing to sprint—and strike the final blow.
Norman could feel it.
The tension.
The kill coming for him like a train.
He was bruised. Broken. Outnumbered.
But not done.
I have to think of something.
Not just to escape.
I have to destroy them.
I have to take revenge.
The lion king took off.
A blur of gold muscle and primal rage.
In three full strides, he launched into the air.
Three meters high.
Six hundred pounds of fury, claws spread wide—aimed straight down for one final body slam.
If that hit, Norman wouldn’t just be dead—he’d be pulp.
But it didn’t hit.
Norman dodged.
Barely.
He rolled under the attack and launched himself low—straight into the lion’s underside.
His head landed right beneath the king’s groin.
Without hesitation, he opened his jaw—and bit down.
Hard.
His teeth sank deep into the lion’s genitals.
Then he pulled.
Ripped.
A full, grotesque tear—flesh snapping like wet ropes.
The lion king collapsed instantly.
A gargled roar broke in his throat as his knees buckled, his body shivered, and he fell forward like a fallen statue.
He wasn’t getting up again.
Norman didn’t pause.
He spun behind the falling lion, lowered his body—
And lunged for the neck.
His jaws clamped down.
Right on the thick base of the lion king’s throat.
He bit down with every ounce of rage in his body—until his fangs sank past fur, past skin, into hot muscle and pulsing arteries.
Then—he twisted.
And launched into his final technique:
Death Roll.
One spin.
Two.
Five.
Ten.
Thirty-five times his body whirled violently, grinding the lion’s neck into submission—each rotation tighter, darker, more brutal than the last.
Tendons snapped.
Vertebrae cracked.
The wind howled as they spun through mud and blood.
Until finally—
POP.
The head tore loose.
Just like that.
Clean off.
It bounced once.
Then twice.
Then rolled three full meters away—
Like a basketball.
Or a freshly cracked watermelon.
Blood fountained from the open stump, spraying Norman’s chest and face.
The body twitched.
Then collapsed—twitchless. Silent.
The lion king was dead.
And his throne had been ripped from his neck.
The six lionesses saw everything.
They didn’t charge.
They didn’t roar.
They froze—staring at what was left of their ruler.
Then, as if sharing a single thought, they turned.
And ran.
Not toward Norman. Not toward revenge.
But backward.
Toward the cubs.
They rushed through the field, ignoring Norman completely, and gathered protectively around their young.
Their fight was over.
Because now—
They had no king.
They only had children.
The Rise of Dog Kind
Norman didn’t stop.
Not for a breath. Not for a heartbeat.
The six lionesses were still there—on the ground, scattered, stunned, cradling their cubs, their limbs sprawled like broken branches.
He looked at them.
And thought one thing:
Not a single one of you lives.
Then he moved.
Fast. Brutal. Without hesitation.
In a matter of minutes—he killed all of them.
All six lionesses.
And every cub.
Not one escaped.
No cries. No speeches.
Just the silence of slaughter.
—
From that day on, lions vanished from the grasslands.
Not just this pride—all of them.
News spread.
What happened here didn’t stay quiet.
The survivors ran.
The others heard.
And every lion within hundreds of kilometers fled.
Gone without a trace.
The rule of lions was over.
—
But something else began.
From every direction—dogs came.
They had heard the story.
They had smelled the blood.
They had felt the shift in the wind.
And they came.
Dozens.
Then hundreds.
From broken homes. From abandoned campsites. From human cities and muddy forests and nowhere places in between.
They came to this land—not as strays, not as outcasts—
But as believers.
They joined him.
Norman’s pack, once barely ten confused mutts,
had become an army of dogs.
Each one looked up to him.
Feared him.
Followed him.
Not because he was kind.
But because he was undeniable.
—
One day, as the sun cut through the sky like a golden blade, Norman stepped up onto the tallest stone in the entire grassland.
A towering slab of rock shaped by wind and time—
Now, it would become his throne.
He stood tall, alone at the top.
Hundreds of dogs sat below in silence.
Norman opened his mouth and shouted:
“From this day forward—this land belongs to Dog Kind!”
His voice echoed.
“This place is no longer the kingdom of lions.
This is a new empire.
Our empire.”
“Here, all dogs shall live freely—under no leash, under no rule but our own.
We hunted for scraps.
We served as pets.
We were thrown away.”
“But no more.
A new command will echo through these plains.
Our command.”
The dogs howled in response.
One by one. Then in waves.
The sound rose like thunder.
A storm of voices.
A new anthem.
A declaration to the entire world.
The lions are gone.
The dogs have risen.
And this land will never be the same.