Reborn As A Beastman With A System

"The prodigal son has returned!" The air vibrated with the whisper that threaded through the gathered crowd like wildfire.

As Logan, flanked by two imposing wolf riders, approached the heart of the tribe, a palpable tension hung over the sea of beastman tribesmen amassed at the entrance. Their eyes, gleaming under the moon's caress, were laden with a mix of grief and hopeful expectancy, a silent indication of the calamity that had befallen the Silver Mane Tribe.

Slowing his mount to a deliberate pace, Logan couldn't help but absorb the heavy atmosphere. The whispered breaths and downcast eyes of his tribesmen spoke volumes of the tragedy that had swept through the tribe like a tempest - the valiant fall of Chief Daddy in the throes of battle.

Such a loss to the beastman tribe was akin to ripping the very soul from their collective chest; the chief was more than a leader, he was the very spine of their existence.

Amidst the sea of sorrowful faces, Logan felt an unsettling churn in his stomach. It wasn't fear that gnawed at him but a profound sense of dissonance. The gazes that met his were tinged with a silent plea for the emergence of a new pillar to uphold the shattered remnants of their tribe.

"Could I truly ascend to the mantle of chief?" The question loomed over Logan as he rode through the crowd, his heart heavy with uncertainty. This unease stemmed not from cowardice but from a profound sense of unpreparedness. Yes, he was the progeny of Chief Daddy, his only son of age, making him the prime candidate for the chieftaincy by default.

Yet, the prospect of leadership sat uneasily upon his shoulders.

Chief Daddy's departure from this realm was as sudden as it was devastating. Logan, whose dreams had always danced beyond the confines of the tribe, yearned to explore the vast expanse of the world. The mantle of chief, with its weighty responsibilities, seemed an anchor tethering him to a destiny he hadn't chosen.

Confronted with the expectant gazes of his people, Logan found himself adrift in a sea of indecision. Yet, duty called with an undeniable voice, pulling him toward the inevitable.

He dismounted his warg with a grace that belied his inner turmoil, crossing the threshold of the communal hall. The hall, though grand in title, was but a modest wooden structure, its walls bearing the scars of time and echoing the tales of countless tribal congregations.

"Young Chief!" The greeting came from two guards, their salute crisp in the cool night air. They addressed him with a reverence reserved for those destined to lead, their eyes holding the unspoken belief in his ascent to chieftaincy.

Acknowledging their salute with a nod, Logan stepped into the hall, his gaze immediately drawn to the familiar faces that filled the space. There, in his father's seat, sat an elder of the tribe, his presence a stark reminder of the void left by Chief Daddy.

"Greetings, Grandfather, Uncle Darius, Uncle Fenrir," Logan greeted, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions within. As he faced the elders of his tribe, the weight of his forthcoming decision pressed heavily upon him, a burden borne of blood and bound by the expectations of his people.

Indeed, the elder who commanded the room with an air of venerable authority was none other than his grandfather, Barnett. A formidable figure renowned within the tribe, Barnett was a sixth-level warrior whose reputation was built upon a foundation of strength and wisdom.

Flanking him were Logan's paternal uncles, the stalwarts of their generation, Darius and Fenrir. Both men, his uncles, were fifth-level powerhouses in their own right, their presence reinforcing the lineage of valor that ran deep within the family.

Turning his attention to the right, Logan greeted the tribe's esteemed commanders, Bagan and Crow, with a respectful nod. "Commander Bagon, Commander Crow," he acknowledged, his voice resonating with a mix of reverence and solemnity. These two warriors, both of whom wielded fifth-level power, had served loyally under his father's command, their prowess in battle undisputed within the tribal ranks.

"Young...Chief!" The commanders' response was tinged with a hesitation born of respect and a somber realization of the mantle Logan was poised to inherit. Their greeting, though delayed, echoed through the hall with a weight that underscored the gravity of the moment.

"Tell me, Logan, are you aware of the circumstances surrounding your father's demise?" Barnett inquired, his gaze piercing as he sought to gauge the depth of understanding in his grandson. The air seemed to thicken with anticipation as all eyes turned towards Logan.

"Yes, Grandfather," Logan replied, feigning a sorrow veiled with confusion. "But what i still struggle to grasp is how, with Father's wisdom and strength, his life could be easily taken on the battlefield?"

His question hung in the air, a poignant reminder of the loss that had ensnared their hearts. Logan's father had been summoned by the Cross Kingdom, a once-mighty kingdom now a shadow of its former glory.

Leading a contingent of over a hundred wolf cavalry and three hundred wolf beastman warriors, he had answered the kingdom's call to arms, venturing into the treacherous terrain of the Cross Mountains to confront the human kingdoms beyond.

Despite the decline of the Cross Kingdom, the call to arms was one that smaller tribes, pressed by the desperation of scarcity, could not refuse. The allure of the human kingdom's riches, juxtaposed against their own dwindling resources, compelled them into a cycle of raids and skirmishes, a grim reality to the struggle for survival.

"The truth is grim," Commander Crow interjected, his voice heavy with the weight of shared loss. "This incursion was unlike any before. We found ourselves not against a single opposition, but an alliance of three human kingdoms. Their ranks boasted warriors of considerable strength, leaving the beastman of the Cross Royal Court reeling under the onslaught.

The decree was clear - all warriors of sixth level and above were to confront this threat head-on."

A somber silence followed his account. "Your father fell valiantly, facing the might of the human kingdoms. So fierce was the battle that even the earth refused to yield his remains to us," Commander Crow concluded, his words painting a vivid picture of bravery and sacrifice.

Logan, absorbing the gravity of Commander Crow's narrative, found himself pondering the strength of the human kingdoms. The Cross Mountains, a vast expanse separating them from the Silvermane tribe, shrouded much of their knowledge in mystery. "Are the human kingdoms truly such a strong adversaries?" he questioned, seeking to unravel the complexities that lay beyond their borders.

"Indeed, their strength was monumental. This time, the human kingdoms united to dispatch ten of their legendary warriors against the orc forces of the Cross Royal Court.

The battle was fierce, and the toll was grave; we lost at least three of our own legends, while our army, nearly 800,000 strong, suffered catastrophic losses within the unforgiving terrain of the Cross Mountains," Commander Crow revealed, his voice a somber echo of the bitter reality they faced.

Logan's reaction was a mix of shock and awe. "Ten legendary warriors?" he echoed, the concept barely comprehensible. Legends were beings of immense power, each capable of altering the fate of nations. That the human kingdoms had mustered ten for battle, and their own court had lost three in response, painted a grim picture of the conflict's scale.

This revelation shed new light on Logan's understanding of his own position. By comparison to such titanic figures, his own strength, although notable, paled into insignificance. "In such a war, even my father, with all his might, was but of inconvenience caught in the storm," he mused quietly.

"There's no point dwelling on such distant matters. The kingdom of legends is far beyond our reach. In a confrontation of this magnitude, your father's fate was sealed," Barnett, his grandfather, interjected. His voice was steady, devoid of sorrow, not out of callousness but acceptance.

This acceptance was born from a history of loss; Barnett's gaze held the weight of past conflicts that had claimed many of his sons, Logan's uncles, leaving only a few behind.

"Your father's passing should not be your focus now. Our immediate concern is to appoint a new chief and ensure the stability of our tribe," Barnett stated, his gaze now firmly on Logan. Despite having numerous descendants through his many sons, Logan stood out as the direct heir, adhering to the tribe's strict succession tradition favoring the chief's eldest son.

This rule was not just a matter of preference but a cornerstone of tribal stability, designed to prevent internal strife over leadership.

"You, being Kotas's eldest son, have been chosen to succeed him as chief," Barnett declared, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "This decision was reached after careful deliberation with your uncles and the commanders."

Logan was momentarily taken aback by the gravity of his grandfather's words. "Am I to be the chief?" he stammered, the reality of the situation slowly dawning on him.

"And why not? Do you hesitate?" Barnett's inquiry was sharp, a challenge laid bare before Logan, under the scrutinizing gaze of his uncles and the commanders.

Yet, remembering the expectant eyes of his people, Logan's resolve hardened. "I am ready," he affirmed, a newfound determination steeling his voice. "The responsibility to guide the Silvermane tribe to a brighter future rest with me."

At that moment, a mystical voice echoed within him, "Congratulations, you have ascended to the role of tribal chief. The chief's rule system is now activated."

"The system awaits your command," the voice concluded, ushering in a new era for Logan and the Silvermane tribe, one filled with promise and the daunting challenges of leadership.

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