The Evolutionary Path of the Lion

Chapter 91 Bloodline Suppression

The midday sun, slanting westward, slanted down onto the grass north of the footprints, leaving a few fine hairs clinging to the grass stems.

Those were not the stems and leaves of wild grass; they were slender, short, and of a different color. Under the blazing sun, they lost the withered yellow of the vegetation, gleaming with an exceptionally bright hue, out of place against the backdrop of the wasteland. That ray of light was firmly locked within the fine strands, not just ordinary mirror reflection, but more like a warm halo that had been stored within the downy hairs for a long time.

The hyena slowly brought its nose close and sniffed carefully; the scent was exactly the same as that of an ordinary male lion, with no difference whatsoever.

But it was these few inconspicuous thin threads that inexplicably caused a deep-seated sense of unease and fear to rise in its soles.

This unease has nothing to do with smell or sound; it is purely an instinctive warning triggered by visual impact.

Hyenas' vision is far less sensitive than their sense of smell, but their unique colors and light signals can directly pierce through rational judgment and awaken primal fears etched deep in their blood.

The lead hyena instinctively took a step back.

Two companions immediately surrounded them from behind, sniffing and observing them repeatedly. After a moment, they too felt fear and retreated.

The three scout hyenas stood frozen before the remnants of the golden thread for a full minute, no longer daring to advance. Finally, they all turned back, initially walking slowly, then turning to a trot after ten steps, and soon running at full speed, hurrying back to their pack to report their strange discovery to Slitmouth.

Two kilometers north of the landing site, Marcus's campsite fell into a long silence at three o'clock in the afternoon.

On a folding chair outside the tent, a man casually propped his legs up on top of the equipment box, holding an enamel mug in his hand. The tea in the mug had long since gone cold, but he hesitated to drink it, simply holding the mug quietly with his gaze unfocused.

The thermal imaging equipment next to them continued to operate, automatically refreshing the scan image of the southern area every fifteen minutes. This was a setting that Morris had set before leaving, and Marcus had not changed it from beginning to end.

Throughout the entire day, he received only three brief messages on his communication devices.

My phone kept popping up messages.

The first message was from Morris, informing him that he had arrived safely in Nairobi and would be transferring flights the next day. He also reminded him to be mindful of his surroundings and to pay close attention to his safety.

The second is Kenneth. The London headquarters is finalizing funding matters, so he doesn't need to be on edge and can focus on his duties.

The last message was from Ella, containing only one cold, hard instruction: Any unusual activity on the south side should be objectively recorded, without any subjective judgment.

Marcus's fingertip hovered over the screen as he silently read the message twice.

Ella was always taciturn, speaking far less than Maurice, but her mind was far more meticulous than Culler's. Every word she uttered was carefully considered, calm and restrained. Asking him to only record and not judge clearly indicated a lack of trust in his subjective deductions, yet he was needed to stay here and act as the eyes and ears on the front lines.

This delicate balance left Marcus unable to define whether he was truly trusted.

The thermal imager screen flickered and refreshed, clearly displaying the scanned area of ​​the entire southern region without revealing any abnormal heat sources.

Marcus pulled his long legs back from the equipment box, slowly stood up, and walked to the southern boundary of the camp, looking up at the vast southern wilderness.

The surrounding area was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The evening breeze swept in from the west, causing the distant wild grasses to bend and ripple, creating waves of green that stretched eastward for miles before slowly dissolving into the rising, hot air.

During the day, however, several lion roars could be heard from afar, full of power, but this is also a common phenomenon on the grasslands.

He stood silently at the border for a moment before turning back, picking up his hard-sided notebook, turning to the page for that day, and writing a line below the date:

At 3 p.m., there were no abnormalities on the south side, and the thermal imaging equipment was operating normally.

His gaze lingered on the brief record for a moment, his pen paused slightly, and he casually added a line of short notes: "The west wind has passed."

Even he himself couldn't explain why he wrote that extra sentence. He just felt that the thin text was too empty, and adding a small detail about the environment would make the paper complete, so he didn't cross it out.

He closed his notebook, picked up the enamel mug beside him, tilted his head back and drank the cooled tea in it, gently placed the mug on the table, turned around and ducked into the tent.

Inside the tent, all was quiet. The satellite phone in the corner lay still, its charging indicator slowly turning from dark red to emerald green. A tiny green light shone through the canvas, casting a still spot of light on the inner wall of the tent, perfectly still.

Marcus pulled open his sleeping bag, curled up inside, and slowly closed his eyes.

The evening breeze swept past the tent, gently patting the canvas with intermittent, dull sounds that soon faded into complete silence.

As dusk settled over the wilderness, the entire sandbar fell completely silent.

It lay on the western high ground on one leg, its right forelimb in an awkward compensatory posture, its entire weight on its other three limbs, and its chin lazily resting on its rough claws.

The old lioness lay three meters to its right rear, already curled up and fast asleep.

On the left, the young lioness is preening herself, carefully licking her left hind leg. During the daytime confrontation, she had crouched low, her legs covered in mud, the mottled stains still not cleaned off.

The entire pride of lions was at rest, except for One-Legged, who showed no signs of sleepiness.

The harrowing confrontation during the day kept replaying in my mind, from afternoon to dusk, it just wouldn't go away.

It lived on this grassland for nine years, witnessed the migration and wandering of male lions, experienced two invasions by foreign tribes, and survived the most suffocating dry season. At that time, the grass and trees withered, all the herbivores died, and packs of hyenas occupied the border of their territory, staring at each other in a stalemate for a full thirty days.

Those thirty days were the most difficult and desperate situation it had ever faced in its life.

At that time, it was guarding the sandbar alone. The old wound on its right forelimb had not yet healed. Every time it patrolled, it had to deliberately adjust its gait and take a longer route, barely making up for the weakness of its unbalanced limb.

Despite being overwhelmed by dire circumstances, it never retreated even a single step.

Only it knows that during those dark and hopeless days, it was on the verge of retreating countless times.

But today's crisis is completely different from the past.

The attack was by a full fifty hyenas, the largest pack it had ever seen in its life. Led by the hyena leader, whose mouth was covered with hideous scars, they formed a dark, imposing mass.

At first, it was already tense and ready for a desperate battle.

The change began with that sub-adult male lion who left the pride alone.

Even now, the one-legged man is still unable to clear up the confusion in his heart.

The lion's mane was not yet fully developed, and its shoulder height was nearly two heads shorter than that of an adult lion. Its body was young and thin. But as it calmly stepped out of the defensive line, the one-legged lion stared intently at the back of the figure, its limbs and feet seemingly locked in place by an invisible force, unable to move.

This is by no means a constraint brought about by fear, but rather a kind of inexplicable attraction and awe. The difference is clearly perceptible, yet indescribable.

Immediately following was a roar that shook the entire plains.

It had witnessed countless clashes between adult male lions. Seven years ago, when the wandering male lions on the eastern plains were fighting for territory, they let out a deafening roar, their imposing presence so strong that it subconsciously retracted its injured limb and took a half-step back.

Today's roar, originating from a still-young body, possesses a depth and power far surpassing that of the past.

Nine years of fighting on the grasslands have ingrained instincts and perceptions that cannot be rationally explained. The survival experience etched into their blood offers no comparable answer.

Only one glaring detail can never be buried.

In the morning light, a strange, flowing light circled around the lion's neck.

It had seen its kind with all sorts of fur colors—brownish, dark brown, light beige, and many with necks and manes mixed with gray and ochre—but it had never seen such an unusual color before.

That wasn't the color of the fur itself, but a faint glow emanating from beneath the skin, an unusual texture that instantly stirred its deepest instincts.