Reborn As A Beastman With A System

The sun had barely begun to rise, casting a faint glow over the Silver Mane Tribe. The air was still cool and crisp, but the tribe was already wide awake, buzzing with excitement. Hundreds of Silver Mane orcs gathered at the massive stone gate that towered over their settlement like the wall of a fortress. The mood was electric.

Word had spread quickly: news of a triumphant night. The Silver Mane Tribe had sent out troops in the dark, their mission swift and ruthless. By dawn, they had crushed five smaller tribes, sweeping through them like a storm. The werewolves from those defeated tribes were now being escorted in, their heads low, wrists bound, and faces pale with exhaustion.

The Silver Mane orcs looked on with pride. To have overrun five tribes, each a thousand strong, in a single night? Was their tribe truly this powerful now? The realization sent a ripple of amazement through the crowd. Even the older werewolves, who had seen the tribe through many battles, felt their chests swell with newfound pride.

At the front of the gathering stood Lot, one of the tribe's senior political officers. His sharp eyes scanned the rows of prisoners as they filed through the gate. Beside him stood his fellow officials, all of them waiting with tense anticipation. They had arrived early to oversee the aftermath of this victory.

Suddenly, a murmur spread through the crowd, growing louder by the second.

"The Chief is here!"

"Long live the Chief!"

Lot turned quickly to see what had caused the commotion. Walking toward the gate, flanked by warriors and with the admiration of his tribe reflected in every gaze, was Covenas—the young, charismatic leader of the Silver Mane Tribe.

Covenas, with his tall frame and confident stride, approached with a calm but commanding presence. His silver mane, the defining feature of the tribe, gleamed in the early light. The orcs around him parted like water, bowing their heads in respect as he passed.

Some of the younger warriors looked at him in awe, while the elders nodded in approval, their minds already comparing him to his legendary grandfather, Chief Barnett, the tribe's founder.

Covenas had promised them greatness, and now they were witnessing it unfold before their very eyes.

The captured werewolves from the conquered tribes glanced up at him, their faces filled with disbelief. Was this truly the chief of the Silver Mane Tribe? He looked so young, almost too young to have orchestrated such a bold conquest. They had heard of the Silver Mane's growing power, but seeing it—seeing him—was something else entirely.

As Covenas approached the front, Lot and the other political officers snapped to attention, their fists pressed to their chests in salute.

"Chief!" Lot greeted, his voice steady despite the excitement in his eyes.

Covenas smiled, his eyes bright with curiosity. "I hear we've taken down five tribes?" he asked, his tone light, almost as if discussing a minor victory.

Lot nodded, eager to report. "Yes, three tribes with less than a thousand werewolves each, and two larger ones, close to fifteen hundred. We've captured over 4,000 werewolves in total, and there are 18 kodo beasts, along with their cubs—"n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Before Lot could finish, Covenas raised his hand, silencing him with a casual wave. "Enough of the spoils," Covenas said, shaking his head slightly. "These small tribes were barely surviving as it is. There's no glory in counting the scraps."

His focus shifted immediately, his tone growing more serious. "What about our casualties?" he asked, turning to the group of orc officers standing nearby, their armor still stained from battle.

One of the officers stepped forward, his expression grave. "Minimal, Chief. A few injuries, nothing severe. The operation went smoothly."

Covenas nodded, relieved. "Good. Let's make sure our wounded are treated immediately. And the prisoners—ensure they are fed and watered. We'll decide their fate soon enough."

As Covenas spoke, his voice carried a quiet strength, his commands decisive but not without compassion. The Silver Mane Tribe had changed under his leadership, growing not just in power but in its vision. This was not the savage brutality of old. Covenas sought something more—he sought a future for his people, one where they would rise above mere survival and into greatness.

The orcs watching could feel it. Even the old werewolves, those who had lived through the early days of the tribe's formation under Chief Barnett, recognized the shift. Covenas was not just a chief. He was a leader of vision, guiding them into a new era.

As the sun continued to rise, casting long shadows over the gathered tribe, there was no doubt in anyone's mind—Covenas was fulfilling his promise. The Silver Mane Tribe was on the rise, and nothing, it seemed, could stand in their way.

A werewolf officer approached quickly, bowing respectfully before Covenas. "Master Chief, I am Captain Jazz, under Lord Bagan's command. We engaged in a small battle in the south and managed to capture three small tribes. Unfortunately, we lost seventeen warriors, and sixteen more were seriously injured."

Covenas nodded thoughtfully. The losses were unfortunate but within what he considered an acceptable range for such a swift conquest. Still, he was intrigued. "Bagan managed to take down three tribes with just one small battle?"

Captain Jazz, seeing that Covenas was approachable, relaxed slightly and allowed himself a small smile. "Chief, if you only knew the situation."

He continued, his tone filled with a mix of pride and disbelief. "Two of the smaller tribes surrendered the moment we surrounded them. They didn't even try to fight. Their numbers were so small that our warriors outnumbered them. What could they possibly do to resist?" He scoffed at the thought, shaking his head in disbelief.

Covenas raised an eyebrow, amused. "Surrendered that quickly? That's almost disappointing."

Jazz chuckled, his confidence growing as he saw the chief's amusement. "It was too easy! We encircled them, and after killing just a handful of their guards, they threw down their weapons. One of their chieftains even said he was willing to join our tribe before we even made a proper threat. They were so desperate—running out of food and supplies, barely surviving."

He paused for a moment, then added with a grin, "As for the one battle we did fight, it was over in less than five minutes. We engaged the Lute tribe, but they were so poorly equipped. Some of their warriors didn't even have proper armor—many were shirtless! And their weapons? Rusty and dull. Our warriors cut through nearly a hundred of their men in minutes.

Their chief was so terrified, he surrendered right there on the battlefield, begging us not to kill anyone else."

Covenas couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head. "Five minutes? And they surrendered after losing a hundred men? That's barely a fight!"

Jazz tried to suppress his laughter, but it was clear he found the whole situation hilarious. The chief, noticing this, added with a grin, "Go ahead, if you want to laugh, just do it. It's painful to hold back."

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That was all the encouragement Jazz needed. He let out a hearty laugh, and soon, the officers standing nearby joined in, their chuckles and smiles lighting up the grim scene. Even Lot, normally stoic and serious, allowed himself a small smile. The mood had lightened, and for a moment, the burden of battle seemed to lift.

In truth, the Silver Mane Tribe had evolved beyond the smaller tribes they encountered. Unlike those tribes, whose warriors were little more than farmers or craftsmen who picked up a spear when necessary, the Silver Mane trained its warriors relentlessly. Day in and day out, they honed their skills, sharpening both their minds and bodies. This was what made them so formidable.

Compared to the ragtag groups they were facing now, it was no contest.

To Covenas, it was obvious. Crushing these smaller tribes wasn't a sign of weakness on their part—it was simply the result of superior training and preparation. The real challenge would come when they faced larger tribes, those with warriors as disciplined as theirs.

After the laughter subsided, Covenas turned serious again. "What about Kro?" he asked, his voice sharp now that the moment of levity had passed.

Just then, another werewolf officer stepped forward, saluting with deep respect. "My Lord Chief, I am Pegan, under Lord Kro. We led the northern attack and captured two tribes. We engaged in two small battles, both lasting less than ten minutes each. We lost twenty-five warriors, and nine were seriously injured."

Covenas nodded in approval. "Well done. Quick and efficient." The short duration of the battles and the relatively low casualties meant they were continuing their conquests with precision and effectiveness.

Still, hearing about the loss of life pulled at his heart. Between Bagan's and Kro's forces, they had lost forty-two warriors in just one night. Not a staggering number, but still, each life was precious to Covenas. These were men and women who had trusted him, who had fought under his banner, and now they were gone.

He took a deep breath, his face somber for a moment before he spoke again. "Uncle Lot, make sure the wounded are seen to by the best pharmacists we have. I want every effort made to save them. And for the fallen... we will honor them. Have their bodies cremated in front of the Temple of Courage."

Lot gave a solemn nod. "Yes, Chief. It will be done."

As they stood in silence for a moment, a wind swept through the camp, carrying with it the scent of the wild grasses from the northern plains. Seventy miles away, in the desolate hills beyond the tribe's borders, tall weeds swayed in the breeze, untouched by the chaos that had gripped the land that night.

The sun was beginning to rise higher now, illuminating the path ahead—both for the Silver Mane Tribe and for Covenas. A path of conquest, but also one of growth, change, and perhaps even greatness.