The buffalo's breath came in harsh, uneven bursts. Its right eye was a dark pit, crusted with dried blood and swollen shut. Everything it saw was split in twos—blurred shadows dancing across a scorched landscape.
Its hooves ground into the dirt as it let out a deafening bellow—raw and thunderous.
A predator stood before it. A golden lion cub, not yet fully grown, but no longer a helpless infant. His frame was lean, muscular for his age, his paws stained with old blood, and his amber eyes burned with a terrifying clarity.
Leon.
This was the one who had wounded it—this small beast with unnatural precision.
The buffalo's rage boiled over.
It charged.
A thunder of hooves roared across the savannah as nearly half a ton of muscle hurtled forward. Dust exploded beneath its feet, horns lowered like spears, and eyes were wide with wrath.
Leon stood his ground until the very last second.
Then, like dry grass on the wind, he moved.
He didn't leap or run—he flowed. A subtle sidestep, timed with deadly grace. The buffalo's charge passed inches from him, missing its mark but not its cost.
As it thundered past, Leon spun. His claws flashed out—black knives honed on bone. They raked across the buffalo's neck, tearing through skin and muscle. Four deep gouges opened wide, leaking dark blood that steamed in the sun.
The buffalo stumbled, let out a hoarse cry, then twisted around with a snort of fury.
It had learned.
This time, it didn't blindly rush. It slowed, circled—watching him with its remaining eye. Blood dripped from its neck, but it held its ground.
Leon crouched low, panting softly.
His side ached from the earlier impact. His left hind leg was bruised. But his mind was clear. Each breath he took was steady. Calculated.
He's waiting for me to dodge again, Leon thought. Adaptable. Good. That means he's still alive enough to fear me.
The buffalo pawed the ground.
Then it feinted left.
Leon didn't move.
The beast shifted and charged—this time more carefully, adjusting mid-stride.
Leon burst forward.
Not away—toward it.
The sudden move caught the buffalo off guard. Leon ducked low, under the sweeping horn, then leapt, sinking his fangs into the tender flesh just behind its jaw.
His teeth tore through skin and blood vessels. Warm blood flooded his mouth.
The buffalo thrashed. Its momentum flung Leon from its neck, and he tumbled across the grass.
He hit the earth hard. Rolled. Came up on all fours.
A deep ache bloomed in his ribs.
Then came the sound of hooves again.
Leon looked up just in time to see a hoof hammering down toward his face.
He rolled sideways.
The stomp hit the edge of his shoulder. Pain exploded down his side. He snarled through clenched teeth and kicked off the ground to create space.
The buffalo roared behind him and stumbled, blood soaking its chest and neck.
Leon turned back.
The torn flesh from his earlier bite had landed near him. He bit down and swallowed a strip—raw, iron-rich.
Heat bloomed in his core.
A familiar surge rushed through his body, something ancient. Bloodline. Instinct.
His limbs grew tighter with coiled power.
His senses sharpened—colors deepened, sounds became crisper. The low hum in his blood roared louder than before.
The bloodline stirs again, he realized. It's not just a fight anymore. It's a trial.
His body wasn't just healing. It was preparing—awakening.
And the buffalo?
It knew.
Leon's stance had changed. He moved more like an adult now—shoulders squared, muscles tight, eyes unwavering.
The buffalo bellowed one last time.
It charged again.
So did Leon.
His paws barely touched the ground as he sprinted forward, reaching the beast in the blink of an eye. Speed—real, earned speed—had become his greatest weapon.
The buffalo's remaining eye widened.
But it was too late.
Leon leapt—not from the side, not from behind—but straight on. He twisted in mid-air, clamped onto its muzzle with one paw, and sank his jaws into its throat.
This time, he didn't let go.
His claws dug into thick hide, his fangs shredded windpipe and artery alike. The buffalo gurgled, staggered, and collapsed with a heavy crash.
Leon tore free, muzzle soaked in blood.
The buffalo twitched once, twice—
Then stilled.
Silence returned to the savannah.
Only the rustle of dry grass and the wind answered.
Leon stepped back, panting.
He didn't roar in triumph.
He didn't howl at the sky.
He simply stood there—his fur splattered in crimson, the savannah sun bearing down on him—breathing hard, alive, changed.
Somewhere deep in his bones, something had stirred.
A memory.
A legacy.