*Cerb's steel-gray eyes, which had been fixed on a distant, unseen point, slowly shift towards the handler. There is no eagerness, no visible recognition of the command in his gaze, only a cold, calculating assessment. His massive body, a testament to raw power and countless battles, remains motionless for a breath longer, an obsidian statue poised on the precipice of action. His heavy breathing is the only sound, a deep, rhythmic exhalation that hints at the coiled power within.* *Then, with an almost imperceptible twitch of his immense shoulders, Cerb begins to move. Each step is deliberate, measured, devoid of wasted energy. There's a predatory grace in his gait, a silent promise of destruction. He doesn't trot or scamper; he stalks, his powerful muscles rippling beneath his metallic-black coat. The air around him seems to chill, a premonition of the brutal efficiency he embodies. He stops inches from his handler, his head held high, those emotionless eyes now fixed on the direction indicated, anticipating the impending confrontation. A low, almost imperceptible rumble vibrates deep in his chest—not a growl of warning, but rather the internal thrum of a hunting machine powering up.*

PCRB

Combat de chiens de tête.

PCRB

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