Chapter 11: The Ranking

  Lily moved through the ridgelines, and for six days the forest did not answer her. It watched.

  Every step was measured, every branch tested before weight shifted onto it. Capturing a beast was nothing like the elders described in training yards. It was not about courage. It was not about strength.

  It was about finding something stronger than you and forcing it into a position where strength no longer mattered.

  (D–) rank beasts were the most realistic targets.

  They were not weak, only limited.

  A lone human could not overpower one. If a (D–) broke free mid-binding, if the ring tore at the core before the restraints held, the beast would turn berserk. And a berserk (D–) could kill.

  The difficulty was never the trap itself.

  It was isolation.

  Most (D–) moved in loose groups, herds that never strayed far from one another. Males circled shared territory boundaries. Twice she thought she had found a solitary Ironbark War-Langur, only to glimpse another shape higher in the canopy. Once she tracked an Ironhide Goreboar for nearly half a day before finding fresh tracks overlapping its path.

  (D) ranked beasts were more solitary.

  But they required more than rope and wood stakes—layered traps. Counterweights. Anchors tied to rooted stone. And even then, one surge of panic strength could rip a poorly braced system apart.

  (D+) was not ambition.

  It was suicide.

  On the fourth day, the forest broke its silence.

  A roar tore through the trees — sharp, furious, then abruptly cut short. The sound carried wrong. The sound of a core being ripped.

  Another answered it from farther away.

  Then one more.

  Someone had succeeded.

  Binding was violent. The beast always screamed. You were tearing part of something fundamental from it and anchoring it into yourself. If it was not immobilized, if the timing faltered, it would fight to the end.

  By the fifth day, the forest quieted again.

  Which meant most of her peers had already bound something and begun the walk home.

  Lily still had nothing.

  She would have been satisfied with a Stonehorn Crusher.

  Not glorious, not rare. Just solid (D–), a frontal breacher with predictable behavior. Enough to pass. Enough to avoid (E).

  But even finding one alone proved difficult.

  On the sixth day, with only hours remaining before the deadline, she began angling back toward the village boundary. If the sun set and she had nothing bound, she would be declared (E) rank by default. Anyone who failed to capture a (D–) or higher fell there.

  She considered binding an (E+) simply to avoid returning empty-handed.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  She did not.

  Better to return empty than return with something weak.

  Near the outer treeline, she saw two other girls standing apart from the path, empty-handed.

  They did not speak.

  They did not need to.

  A heavy bellow rolled through the deeper forest.

  Stonehorn.

  The blunt, thick sound of a ram caught in something it could not break.

  They waited.

  Fifteen minutes later, the last of the sixteen emerged from the dark tree line.

  Talen.

  Lily recognized him immediately — same age, same training yard, someone she had traded blows with more than once. His hair was matted with sweat and dust, jaw tight with effort he was trying not to show.

  Behind him walked a Stonehorn Crusher, horn plates scraped raw where restraints had held. Its steps were stiff. Its eyes dull from the violence of binding.

  Not impressive.

  Not rare.

  But (D–).

  Talen did not look triumphant.

  He did not look ashamed either.

  Just relieved.

  Their eyes met for half a heartbeat.

  Then he looked away first.

  He would not stand among the uninitiated.

  And she would.

  Night fell fully before the ceremony began.

  Torches flared around the central clearing. Smoke drifted low beneath the dark canopy of sky. The wooden platform stood elevated above the gathered villagers, thick beams braced to bear tremendous weight.

  The Chief ascended first.

  His beast followed.

  The Ironroot Warbear mounted the platform with deliberate heaviness. The timber groaned under its mass — not cracking, but acknowledging. Seventeen hundred kilograms of fur and muscle settled beside the Chief, breath rolling slow and heavy in the cool night air.

  Silence spread outward.

  The ritual came first. Gratitude to the gods. Reverence to ancestors who had first bound the forest instead of being devoured by it. A request — not for mercy — but for strength.

  Then the ranking began.

  “Rank One.”

  The clearing stilled.

  “Kaelan. Bloodstripe Sovereign cub. (D+).”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd.

  The striped cub stepped forward beside Kaelan, long-limbed and alert, eyes reflecting torchlight with unsettling calm.

  “(D+) places you within successor tier,” the Chief said evenly. “You are the second in ten years.”

  The words carried weight.

  “You will stand among future candidates.”

  Kaelan bowed deeply.

  “I will not disappoint.”

  Pride showed — controlled, but unmistakable.

  Finding such a beast was one thing. Tracking and trapping it was another. Surviving the binding alone was something else.

  “(D) rank.”

  The next names followed.

  Rovan — Ironfur Warbear. A dense, forward-leaning bear built for war, distinct from the Chief’s titanic Ironroot.

  Darek — Nightfang Ripper.

  Maelin — Shadeclaw Prowler.

  “These stand within elite tier,” the Chief said. “Future pillars of this tribe.”

  They bowed. Applause followed.

  Then (D–) rank.

  Most had taken Ironbark War-Langurs — difficult to isolate, manageable once restrained. A few had bound Ironhide Goreboars — brutal, low-built, thick-skinned.

  Names were called. Beasts stepped forward.

  They had passed.

  Near the end, the boy with the Stonehorn stepped forward.

  A few glances passed between villagers.

  Last resort.

  But still (D–).

  He bowed and stepped back.

  Then only three remained.

  No beasts stood at their sides.

  The clearing seemed larger around them.

  “This year,” the Chief said, voice steady, “three return without a binding.”

  No anger.

  No sympathy.

  “The forest does not bend to desire. It answers preparation, timing… and sometimes fortune.”

  He paused.

  “Do not mistake this result for the end of your path.”

  Then, clearly:

  “You are (E) rank.”

  The word settled into the night.

  No elaboration.

  “To continue your training, Stonehorn Crushers will be assigned to you.”

  Assigned.

  Not captured.

  The three girls bowed together.

  “Thank you, Chief.”

  For a breath, silence held.

  Then the clearing resumed.

  “(E) rank…” someone murmured.

  “Couldn’t even catch a (D–).”

  Not hidden or directed. Just spoken.

  “Three this year.”

  “Assigned Stonehorns. Didn’t even earn it.”

  The comments passed between neighbors. Between cousins. Between people who had watched them grow up.

  Lily felt heat rise to her ears.

  Beside her, one girl held her chin high, jaw clenched too tightly. The other stared at the ground, fingers twisting once in her sleeve before going still.

  They had known this could happen.

  Every year, someone failed.

  They had stood in this same clearing before, whispering about others.

  But standing here — being the ones measured and found lacking — felt different.

  Heavier and more exposed.

  Around them, the celebration swelled. Cups were raised. Laughter climbed higher. Kaelan’s name rose above the drums.

  “(D+)!”

  “Successor!”

  E rank was not exile.

  It was not cruelty in the Chief’s voice.

  But in a village ordered by strength, it meant behind.

  And being behind felt like standing in open ground without armor.

  None of the three spoke.

  There was nothing to argue.

  They had no beasts.

  The rank was correct.

  That was what made it sting.

  They turned from the firelight together and walked toward the darker edge of the village.

  Behind them, the drums grew louder.

  No one called their names.