Chapter 16: Beneath the Iron Roots

[Dense Ravine Forest, Morning Mist]

The forest breathed fog. Trees coiled with vine and dew. Every footfall was hushed. Jumong crouched in the underbrush, his bow steady, one eye shut as he tracked the beast.

A clawed footprint the size of a shield dug into the earth ahead—deep, jagged, and steaming.

"It's still close," Jumong whispered.

Ashwing coiled around a branch above, scanning the thickets. Barkhide kept low, his nose twitching.

The beast was no mere predator. It was a Hookmaw Scavenger, Class C in the Hunter's Beastiary and Class Index. Known for its jagged, rust-colored scales and iron-hooked jaw capable of crushing bone. Packs avoided it. Hunters rarely engaged solo.

"We stick to the plan," Jumong muttered. "Ashwing, right flank. Barkhide, hold center when it charges. I'll strike from cover."

A low hrrrauuuugh!—a guttural roar echoed from behind the brush.

It emerged. Seven feet tall at the shoulder, its back arched like a serpent, jaws clinking like rusted chains. The Hookmaw turned its head, yellow eyes locking onto Barkhide.

"Now!"

Ashwing dived from above, loosing a shriek: "Skkraaaah!" Her flame-coated talons scraped across the Hookmaw's scales. It barely flinched.

The beast swung wildly, trying to hook her midair.

Barkhide barreled into its flank, tusks slamming into its leg. The Hookmaw staggered and hissed, spinning toward him.

That was Jumong's cue.

He loosed two arrows in rapid succession. The first hit a soft spot behind the knee. The second struck its eye—glancing off.

"Tch... too shallow."

Ashwing wheeled again, aiming for the eyes. Barkhide held the beast's attention, deflecting swipes with brute strength.

Jumong circled, keeping low. He found higher ground and nocked a third arrow. [Whistling Fang]—his focused shot technique.

He exhaled.

Thwip! The arrow struck deep into the Hookmaw's exposed neck.

The beast bellowed. It staggered, blood seeping from its wounds.

Barkhide rammed again, and the Hookmaw crumpled to one side.

Ashwing delivered the final blow—her claws raking across its jugular.

It fell still.

Jumong approached the corpse, breathing heavily.

"Even with planning... that was too close."

Barkhide panted beside him. Ashwing flapped to his shoulder, silent.

He examined the beast. The scales were thick—valuable. The hooks on its maw could be reforged.

But more importantly, he had tested his current limits. Without his beasts, he wouldn't have lasted.

"I need more than a bow and two companions."

He stared toward the ridge where the creature had come from.

"If Class C nearly killed me..."

Above the treeline, far beyond their trail, hidden eyes watched the fight's end. Quiet voices whispered in an old tongue.

"He walks with flame and beast. He will come near the vault."

---

A dull amber light flickered through the gaps in the ironwood canopy. Jumong's boots sunk into moss as he walked cautiously between thick roots that coiled like serpents. Barkhide snorted beside him, wary. Ashwing flew above, scouting.

The hunt had ended, but the trail hadn't. The fallen Hookmaw had revealed more than just danger—its territory hid something deeper.

Jumong's fingers brushed an overgrown stone slab, half-buried. Symbols, scorched faintly into the granite.

"It's not goblin script," he muttered. "Older. Maybe dwarven?"

Ashwing landed nearby, her wings twitching.

"Kraaaa. Ember marks... forge signs..."

He studied the symbols more carefully. Embercraft runes. But twisted, ancient. Not from the Emberwatch.

"Help me clear it."

They worked in silence, pushing soil and vine away. Eventually, a hatch groaned beneath their hands. Cold iron. A faded emblem: two crossed antlers and a rising flame.

Jumong looked at Barkhide and Ashwing.

"We're going in."

The hatch opened to a steep stone stairwell. Each step echoed. Moss clung to the walls. The air turned dry, oddly warm.

At the bottom was a wide chamber. Stonework arched overhead, supported by black iron pillars engraved with flame glyphs.

Torches lit automatically as Jumong stepped in.

"No one's been here in decades… but it's still alive."

He drew his bow, cautious. Barkhide stayed close, nostrils flaring.

They found old weapon racks. Dust-covered scrolls. A forge sealed in runes.

In the chamber's center: a plinth. On it lay a short spear, blackened but intact. An inscription read:

'To those who walk with beast and ash, claim not what you cannot earn.'

Jumong didn't touch the weapon. Instead, he circled the plinth and found a cracked pedestal nearby. Embedded in it was a shard of crystal and a faded map.

He pulled it free gently.

"It's pointing west... across the Spineridge Valley."

Ashwing chirped.

"Emberforge trials," she said. "Forgotten ones. Failed paths."

Jumong nodded slowly.

"Then maybe that's where I go next. But not yet."

They left the vault with only the map and knowledge. Jumong avoided temptation. He could've taken the relic weapon—but he hadn't earned it.

Back outside, he looked across the forest.

"I need more strength. Something to fight up close… something to stand with Barkhide."

His bow had limits. Ashwing and Barkhide were mighty, but they could only do so much without structure.

He thought of the beasts he'd seen in the Emberwatch stables—those armored like mountains or swift like thunder.

"I'll tame one. Not just anything. Something that can hold the line."

A slow wind swept through the Ironroots.

The journey west would come. But first, he had to prepare. Better gear. A new companion. More experience.

No shortcuts.

Only the path.

---

The morning fog rolled over the ferns like a soft tide, swallowing the trees in waves. Jumong crouched beside Barkhide, tightening the reinforced leather straps along the beast's shoulder. His hand paused mid-pull as he looked at Ashwing perched atop a crooked pine.

"The Spineridge path can wait," he muttered. "First... I need to find it."

He stood, pulling the cracked map from his pouch. The ink had faded in places, but the etched trails remained. A symbol—vaguely shaped like a horned beast—rested beside the name: Stonehide Pass.

Ashwing tilted her head.

"Taming grounds. Dangerous ones. Herd-kin and mountain types."

Jumong nodded. That was the goal.

[Hunter's Beastiary & Class Index]

He remembered the classifications from the Emberwatch Hall.

Class D: Pack creatures. Low threat. Goblins, Hookmaws, Bonehounds.

Class C: Solitary brutes. Warped boars, Bladetails, Shriekers.

Class B: Armored or elemental types. Stonehides, Iron Tusks.

Class A: Region threats. Flame-blooded, enchanted beasts, war dragons.

Class S: Worldbound terrors. Rare and barely understood.

He was now a Cinder, barely able to stand his ground against strong Class C foes alone. Barkhide and Ashwing covered his flanks. But to tame a Class B beast, he'd need both brains and luck—and perhaps a bit of pain.

"Stonehides. Thick hide, stubborn as boulders, almost impossible to pierce head-on."

And more importantly... they charged.

That's what he needed. A wall of weight and fury.

It took two days' journey through broken ridges, thick fog, and frost-kissed rocks to reach the edge of the pass.

The ground changed. Flattened trees, cracked stone, and massive claw gouges were everywhere. The wind carried a dull scent—earthy, musky, and sharp like copper.

Jumong knelt and examined a track.

"Three toes. Clawed. Deep heel mark. Heavy. Must be two or three tons."

Ashwing hovered above and let out a sharp warning cry.

"Rrrrrakk!"

A distant snort echoed.

They froze.

Then—a massive stone-crunching stomp.

From the fog emerged a shape: low, wide, armored in layered gray plating. Its face resembled a cracked boulder. Steam rose from its nostrils. Two tusks of petrified bone jutted sideways from its jaw.

Class B – Lesser Stonehide Bull

"Rrmmmuuuughhh…"

It groaned like shifting mountains.

Barkhide stiffened. Jumong stepped forward slowly, not to provoke but to study.

"I don't need to fight it today. Just learn."

He reached into his pouch and pulled out a dried bloodfruit—a scent bait. He threw it aside gently. The beast stopped, snorted once, then turned its massive head… and ignored it.

"Too old," Jumong whispered. "Too smart."

He marked the pattern. The older bulls weren't easily distracted. But the younger ones—the ones not yet leaders—might be.

He'd need to draw one out. Separate it. Not with strength. With wit.

That night, beside a small cliffside camp, Jumong scribbled into a worn leather journal.

Target: Young Stonehide (Class B - Subadult).

Strategy: Terrain trap. Funnel into crevice. Immobilize legs.

Tools: Lure bait. Trip ropes. Weighted nets. Ember-tagged darts (if possible).

Timing: Just before dusk. When herd is moving back toward high ridge.

Risk: High. Ashwing and Barkhide may not be enough support. Do not engage if more than one comes.

He looked up at the stars, arms folded across his knees.

Ashwing settled beside him.

"You're afraid."

"Yeah," he replied. "Because this time, I don't know if I can pull it off."

"Good. Fear is smart."

They sat in silence as the wind howled across the broken crags.

At dawn, Jumong stood at the edge of the shallow canyon he'd chosen.

Lures set. Nets hidden beneath fallen leaves. A ledge above, with Ashwing watching. Barkhide low in the underbrush.

He held his breath as the ground began to tremble.

One… two… three massive forms emerged.

One stopped. Shorter tusks. Younger build.

The others passed.

"There you are," Jumong whispered, lowering his hand toward the first tripline.

"Let's see if I've learned anything."