Reborn As A Beastman With A System

Late at Midnight!

Under the cloak of darkness, the Silvermane tribe was a hive of silent activity. As the first slivers of moonlight pierced the night, an army, meticulously assembled hours before, began its quiet exodus.

"Lord Chief, are you're joining the fray?" Crowe's voice betrayed his surprise as he watched Logan, armored from head to toe and brandishing a wolf scimitar, approach atop his steed, Fenrir.

Logan, scanning the ranks of troops readying for departure, arched an eyebrow. "Would my presence be unwelcome?"

The planned battlefield lay several miles from their homeland, chosen to spare the tribe the ravages of war and the destruction of their crops. Though Crowe, along with Commander Lotts, had orchestrated the military strategy, the exact location remained unknown to most.

With Lotts commanding the vanguard, Crowe was left to steer the rear guard. His smile was the only reply to the chief's question, a testament to their growing camaraderie and his subtle recognition of Logan's more unguarded, youthful idiosyncrasies.

"Fear not, Crowe. Command as you see fit; I shall merely observe," Logan assured him, his tone sincere yet light with curiosity. This was, after all, his first witness to a grand skirmish among Beastmen.

"Lord Chief, the battlefield is blind to rank and royalty. Should harm befall you..." Crowe's concern was palpable, his plea half-formed.

Logan's expression darkened momentarily. "Crowe, do you question my prowess as a fourth-level warrior?"

"It's not that, my chief, I merely worry that—"

"Enough," Logan cut him off with a firm gesture. "As commander, you will advance with the troops now."

"Understood," Crowe conceded, his tone tinged with resignation, signaling his warg to fall in line.

If the Chief chose to ride into battle, so be it. "Let's move, Fenrir. Witness the art of war among the beastmen!" Logan declared, a playful slap landing on Fenrir's broad, furry head as the army moved into the looming shadows.

Fenrir, ever the social beast, found solitude unbearable. These days, his spirits were high, leading the cavalry drills with enthusiastic vigor.

His excitement only heightened with the prospect of venturing out to observe the troops in action.

"Woooooooooo..." Fenrir barked, jumping energetically in place, barely containing his excitement.

As he was about to set off, four wolf cavalry emerged from the shadows, their wargs trotting up briskly.

"Salutations to the chief!" They bowed their heads in respect as they approached Logan.

Logan, surprised, recognized them immediately. "What brings my personal guard out here?"

"Lord Cardia has tasked us with your protection, sir," one of the cavalry replied, his tone deferential.

"Protect me? That overzealous Cardia, always meddling where she needn't!" Logan grumbled, frustration lining his voice. These guards were formidable, all ranked third-level, while he himself boasted a fourth-level prowess. The notion of needing protection almost seemed laughable to him.

"Let's move, Fenrir," he commanded briskly, patting the massive wolf's head before melding into the marching army.

The four guards exchanged uneasy glances, then hurriedly spurred their wargs to keep pace with Logan.

About half an hour later, under the cloak of night, the vast army halted.

"Give the order: everyone grab a bite and rest up," commanded Crowe from atop a small knoll, where he, Lotts, and several fourth-level beastmen officers were huddled, strategizing over their next moves.

Logan stood slightly apart, an observer to the tactical discussions.

"Duke, what's the latest from your scouts?" Crowe inquired, scanning the faces of his officers.

"Nothing significant, sir. The coalition forces at the Youwa tribe appear complacent—scarcely a scout in sight," Duke reported, his voice carrying a hint of disdain.

"Stay sharp. If they make any sudden moves, I want to know immediately," Crowe ordered, his voice firm.

"Yes, sir!" Duke responded, nodding sharply before rejoining his unit.

"Also, Laril, make sure to position your archers atop these large hills," Crowe instructed, gesturing into the darkness where several hills rose, their peaks looming two to three hundred meters into the night sky.

"Understood!" Laril acknowledged with a nod.

From his vantage point, Logan surveyed the terrain. The werewolves' innate night vision, though slightly less acute than during daylight, afforded them a clear view of their surroundings. He noted the strategic importance of the hills, ideal high grounds for archers to dominate the battlefield below, their reach extending several hundred meters around each hill.

The effective range of a second-level beastmen archer was quite good, nearly four to five hundred meters, while a third-level could hit targets up to six hundred meters away. Logan nodded in approval, the placement of the archers could very well dictate the flow of the impending battle.

As night deepened, time seemed to blur.

...

From the Youwa tribe, a coalition of five to six hundred soldiers, banners of five different tribes fluttering in the wind, advanced toward the Silver Mane tribe.

Mamuti, maintaining his usual amiable smile, scanned the approaching beastmen infantry and the nearly two hundred wolf cavalry trailing them. His eyes sparkled with a mix of anticipation and resolve.

"Dear chiefs, our fortunes hinge on this battle. If we strike the Silver Mane tribe hard, ten thousand kilograms of food will reach your tribes by tomorrow," Mamuti addressed the gathered chiefs, his smile unwavering.

Then, his gaze hardened as he looked around, his tone chilling as he continued, "However, should any tribe hold back, hoping to preserve their strength, and our alliance falters or fails to meet our objectives..."

He paused for a moment, letting the gravity of his words sink in. "Then, not only will there be no food tomorrow, but you can also expect retribution from our Duskin tribe."

Chief Kala of the Kala tribe was quick to respond, his voice firm, "Young Chief Mamuti, have no fears. The Kala tribe has committed fully; we are not here to undermine our own efforts."

"Yes, please rest assured, young chief!" echoed another, their voices blending into the night, solidifying their resolve under the weight of Mamuti's stark ultimatum.

Tyton trailed just behind Mamuti, his expression neutral but a sly smile playing at the corners of his lips, hidden from view.

"Think you can hold us accountable, Duskin tribe?" he mused inwardly, skepticism lacing his thoughts. "You'll need the opportunity first."

He had recently been privy to some intriguing intelligence. His envoys had spoken with the Silver Mane Tribe, and shockingly, the tribe's chief had openly declared that should their current adversaries falter, not only would the Youwa Tribe be subjugated, but the three Black Dermis tribes would be annexed outright.

This news had initially stunned Tyton, but as he pondered, it became evident. The Silver Mane Tribe had long been preparing to expand their territory by absorbing the four tribes.

The coalition marched swiftly, fueled by Mamuti's brimming confidence. He had ordered an all-out advance toward the Silvermane territory.

Meanwhile, Logan, reclining on Fenrir under the stars, was jarred from his reverie as he noticed the warriors around him bracing for combat.

"Enemies approach," he realized instantly. As he rose, the soft rustle of movement on the wind and the silhouettes of advancing figures in the darkness confirmed his suspicion.

On the strategically positioned hills, the werewolf archers lay camouflaged among the grass, their fingers tensing on their bowstrings.

"Hold your fire," whispered Laril, the archery squadron leader, his voice steady yet urgent. "Wait until they're directly beneath us."

His command left the archers around him holding their breaths, their anticipation palpable.

The coalition was indeed closing in.

As Mamuti fantasized about his imminent rise to power through the defeat of the Silvermane tribe, his mount, Meow, abruptly halted, its senses tingling, scanning the surroundings with alert eyes.

"What's the matter, Meow?" Mamuti queried, concern flickering across his features as he leaned forward to gauge his warg's distress.

With a sudden growl, Meow roared towards the darkness ahead, sensing the imminent clash.

Mamuti's expression abruptly shifted from curiosity to alarm. His voice rang out, urgent and clear, slicing through the quiet of the night. "Alert! Enemies ahead!" But no sooner had the words left his mouth than the air was split by the whistle of arrows. They rained down swiftly, striking the vanguard of the coalition's beastmen infantry.

Screams erupted, shattering the silence as the first casualties of the ambush fell under the deadly precision of the Silvermane archers.

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