Chapter 303: Hunting

The wilderness camp was different from what Lynch had imagined. He had been to some camps in the wild and even on large grasslands before, but those places felt less like protecting humans and more like preventing humans from harming nature.

A form of reverse protection—people confined to camps that controlled their behavior. The low fences wouldn’t stop a large feline from jumping over.

But there was no worry about animals recklessly attacking the human camp. In nature, animals understood rules better than humans and knew the value of not invading others’ territory.

Here, at the edge of the grassland, the outermost barrier was made of thick wooden stakes, each thick enough to be grasped by a person.

They might not call them stakes here, but the craft was the same—sharpened wood points facing outward, many stained with blackened blood scabs, carrying a faint strange odor.

Inside was a sturdy wooden wall, tightly sealed, making the camp stand like a small fortress on the grassland.

Seeing Lynch’s curiosity, Hassana proudly explained, “Our location isn’t great. Every year during the animal migration, herds pass nearby. Sometimes they get curious and want to see what’s beyond the grassland.”

“The blood on those stakes outside is from beasts charging the camp,” he said, then seemed to recall something. “If you’re not in a hurry, you’ll see something rare—something I bet you’ve never seen!”

He exaggerated, “A breathtaking sight!”

Lynch nodded silently. When the vehicle stopped, he got out.

Inside the camp were several vehicles under maintenance—larger and taller, with huge tires. They looked less like cars and more like modified farm machinery: safe, reliable, and sturdy, but not fast.

Sitting inside, one’s eye level was about two meters high, well above the tall grass, with an unobstructed view.

A young man, resembling Hassana, approached and greeted him as uncle, then glanced at Lynch.

Hassana introduced Lynch. The young man, slightly older than Lynch, immediately showed respect. After hearing Lynch’s name several times overnight, today’s encounter made him address Lynch as Mr. Lynch.

He spoke quickly, “Uncle, our scouts have spotted their vanguard about eighty kilometers out. Shall we mobilize?”

Hassana thought briefly and nodded, then explained to Lynch what they discussed.

“Mr. Lynch, do you think this place is full of life?” Hassana asked. Lynch naturally said yes.

Hassana smiled, “It is indeed vibrant, but filled with dangers people don’t imagine.”

“We lack water here—rivers or lakes that can provide animals with hydration.”

“Animals fill their needs by eating grass, which contains moisture. But there are so many animals they can quickly consume all the grass in one area. To find food and water, they must keep migrating.”

“Only when the rainy season comes do they circle back to places with permanent water. When those dry up, they migrate again.”

“Herbivores migrate, and some carnivores follow them.”

“These carnivores are our targets!”

After speaking, Hassana patted his nephew’s arm. “Tell the young men to prepare. I’ll hunt down the strongest leopard-lion for my friend Mr. Lynch!”

They began preparing hunting gear. A sergeant approached Lynch and handed him a pistol. “Know how to use it?”

Lynch felt the cold metal, a strong sense of security. He nodded. “Off safety, pull the trigger, and leave the rest to God.”

The sergeant hesitated, then laughed, “God doesn’t get involved in this. Hopefully, we don’t get too close. If this is truly migration, these…” He glanced at the big vehicles under final checks, “won’t stand a chance against the animals’ hooves.”

The federation had no grand animal migrations to witness. If it did, they wouldn’t need reserves to protect near-extinct species.

Some elites spared no expense hunting abroad yearly; the cost sometimes equaled a small business’s annual profit. They loved sending trophies home at great expense.

Though no migrations existed in the federation, they saw such scenes on TV: entire herds like uncontrollable, raging floods tearing through everything.

Lynch hesitated, then pulled the sergeant aside. “Tell that young man to leave two small vehicles ready. If things go wrong, we leave immediately.”

After a brief midday rest and meal, the group set out.

Lynch expected everyone to ride the big vehicles, but only he, Hassana, and a few riflemen did. Others took smaller cars or even rode horses.

The horse riders moved quickly to scout ahead. The small cars carried many people, who acted strangely calm—neither excited nor nervous—carefully checking their gear: thick leather and metal body armor, ropes, and nets.

Inside the big vehicle were Lynch, Hassana, and others.

The grassland’s scenery was extraordinary. The over-one-meter-high grass concealed many dangers, leaving only deceptive beauty.

While casually chatting with Hassana about federation news, a rider some distance from the convoy suddenly lurched. A tawny blur flashed in Lynch’s eyes as both horse and rider vanished into the grass.

About half a minute later, a riderless horse appeared, panicked, galloping back toward the convoy. Tension rose instantly.

Hassana’s nephew frowned, whispered to nearby men. A local hunter on the second big vehicle raised a rifle and fired. The horse charging the convoy fell.

Around the fallen horse, tall grass swayed as if boiling, then settled.

Hassana gave Lynch a sly look. “The migrating herd is almost here. The predators have arrived!” No one seemed concerned about the missing rider. They were used to this.

Forty minutes ahead of schedule, the farthest rider reported contact with the lead edge of the migrating herd.

This vanguard was small, just scouts. To humans and outsiders, the grassland seemed the same every year, but there were subtle differences.

These scouts were mostly prime adults, highly sensitive to grassland changes. Their job was to lead the herd to food-rich home routes.

About ten minutes later, Lynch saw one: strong, two to three meters long, about 1.7–1.8 meters tall, gray skin with brown fur, a short neck, resembling a cow but without horns. Instead, a bowl-shaped bony structure crowned its head.

That was their headbutt—a hard weapon. A collision from such a multi-ton creature running would rival a car crash.

“Foreigners call them Augatasian cattle—though they’ll quickly add they aren’t true cattle. To us, they’re cattle, no different from the ones we’ve herded for centuries.”

“These scouts search for moisture and grass distribution. They move slowly, giving predators a chance.”

“If it’s a herd of hammerhead cattle, predators won’t dare attack. They stay at the front and rear of the migrating herd, hunting constantly.”

“The youngest, strongest predators choose the front. The old and weak follow at the rear, scavenging.”

Hassana looked at Lynch sincerely and said, “You’re my friend, so I want to give you the best. That’s why we’re hunting the strongest leopard-lion!”

With a wave of his hand, some horsemen cracked their whips and began approaching the slow-moving hammerhead cattle. They didn’t capture the beasts but kept passing close to them.

As they passed, they sliced sharp cuts into the cattle’s bodies.

The injured cattle bolted, blood spilling from the wounds onto the grass and ground.

More and more cattle panicked and ran wildly. After a while, if they weren’t further harmed, they would stop, only to be chased again by the horsemen.

Within twenty minutes, even Lynch, far away, could faintly smell the intense stench of blood.

A brutal, bloody scent.