The morning air felt crisp against my skin as Iolaus and I made our way through the devastated landscape. Dawn had barely broken, and already the heat was building – a typical Greek summer day that would have had me running for air conditioning in my old life.
Here, in Hercules' body, the heat was barely noticeable, though I missed the comfort of my tweed jacket.
"Look at these tracks," I said, kneeling beside a massive paw print. It was bigger than my hand – Hercules' hand – and deeper than any normal lion's print should be. I found myself instinctively measuring it against my palm, mentally comparing it to the African lion specimens I'd studied in museums.
"You know," Iolaus remarked, watching me examine the print, "usually you just follow the trail of destruction. Since when did you become such a careful tracker?"
I quickly stood up, trying to look more heroic and less like a professor conducting field research. "Just being thorough. These prints tell us a lot – the lion's size, its weight, which paw it favors..." I caught myself starting to lecture and quickly added, "And, uh, which direction it went. You know, for fighting purposes."
We followed the trail through a landscape that looked like it had been hit by a natural disaster. Trees were splintered, boulders were crushed, and deep gouges marked the earth where massive claws had torn through the soil. I couldn't help but notice that the destruction followed a pattern – the lion wasn't just rampaging randomly.
"See how the claw marks curve here?" I pointed out to Iolaus. "It's marking its territory, just like a normal lion would. Just... on a much bigger scale."
"How do you know so much about normal lions?"
"Ah..that…I just picked it up from somewhere, you know me," I said quickly. "Always... learning new things. About lions. For lion-fighting reasons."
The trail led us into increasingly rough terrain.
The comfortable farmland gave way to rocky hills, and soon we were climbing through terrain that would have given a mountain goat pause. Hercules' strength made the climbing easier, but I still found myself missing proper hiking boots.
"Hold up," I called to Iolaus, spotting something interesting. On a flat rock face, there were deep scratches – but these weren't random marks. "These are old," I said, running my fingers over the grooves.
"The lion's been using this route for months, maybe years."
"How can you tell?"
"The weathering pattern on the rock, the way the marks overlap..." I realized I was slipping into academic mode again. "I mean, hero's intuition. Very mystical. Much wisdom."
As we climbed higher, the signs of the lion's presence became more frequent and more disturbing.
We found scattered bones, not all of them animal, and places where the rocky ground had been worn smooth by the passage of an enormous body.
The air changed as we neared what I suspected was the lion's lair. There was a sharp, musky scent that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Even Hercules' divine muscles tensed instinctively. This wasn't just fear – it was primitive, deep-seated recognition of an apex predator's presence.
"The cave should be just ahead," I whispered, though I wasn't sure why I was whispering. Maybe because every survival instinct, both human and demigod, was screaming at me to be as quiet as possible.
We crept forward, staying low and moving carefully. The entrance to the lion's den was impressive – a giant cave mouth that looked like it had been torn into the mountainside by massive claws. The ground around it was littered with bones, and the rock walls were scored with deep scratches.
I found myself analyzing everything, my academic mind working overtime despite the danger. The height of the claw marks told me exactly how big the lion was. The pattern of bones showed its feeding habits. The wear on the rock indicated its favorite paths.
"Remember the plan," I whispered to Iolaus. "We need to observe first, understand its patterns, find its weaknesses..."
A deep growl echoed from the cave, cutting me off mid-strategy. The sound seemed to vibrate through the very rocks beneath our feet. My heart – Hercules' heart – started pounding so hard I thought it might burst out of my chest.
"New plan," Iolaus muttered, gripping his sword tighter. "Don't die."
"That's... also a good plan," I agreed, feeling Hercules' muscles coiling for action.
We pressed ourselves against the rocks as heavy footsteps approached from inside the cave. Each step made small pebbles bounce on the ground. The musky smell grew stronger, and a hot breath of air wafted out of the cave, carrying the unmistakable scent of recent kills.
Then we saw it – first the massive paw, then the muscled shoulder, and finally the huge head with its mane that seemed to glow like actual gold in the morning sun. The Nemean Lion emerged from its den, and all my careful plans, all my academic knowledge, seemed suddenly very small and insignificant.
"Oh," I said softly, my voice barely a whisper. "It's much bigger in person than in the vase paintings."
The lion turned its head, and our eyes met.
Its gaze was intelligent, ancient, and utterly terrifying. This wasn't just a big cat – this was a mythological force of nature, a divine punishment given flesh and fury.
In that moment, I understood why the real Hercules had been chosen for this labor. And I, a professor playing at being a hero, was about to find out if knowledge really could triumph over raw power.
The lion's muscles bunched, its claws scraped against stone, and I knew our observation period was officially over. Time to put theory into practice – assuming we survived the next few minutes.
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