Reborn As A Beastman With A System

Begon beckoned with a hint of urgency, then posed his question, "You called me here, what more do you seek?"

With a dismissive wave, Logan replied, "Ease your mind, abd come sit." He sprawled back into his chair with a carefree slouch.

Across from him, Begon positioned himself, eyes fixed on Logan.

"Recall the plan concerning the beastmen thieves I mentioned earlier?" Logan probed, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Begon nodded slowly, his face clouded with concern. He harbored deep reservations about the plan. Not only did it pose a grave risk to their tribe, the Silver Mane, but it also endangered the thieves themselves. The idea of these beastmen, masquerading as mere thieves yet pivotal to the tribe's covert operations, weighed heavily on him.

Logan leaned forward, his voice lowering. "They depart at dawn, and I shall lead them myself." Unaware of Begon's internal turmoil, he felt compelled to justify his decision, given his role as the tribe's chief and his prominence within the tribe.

Begon's surprise was palpable, and his objection immediate. "But you're the chief! How can you justify such a risk?"

"Don't you see? The wasteland grows ever more tumultuous, teeming with cutthroat bandits and would-be legends among their ranks," Logan explained, his tone laced with frustration.

Begon stood abruptly, his voice rising in alarm. "It's a perilous gambit, Logan! Facing a sizable band of thieves could spell disaster. Your duty as chief isn't to court danger!"

At that moment, the room thickened with tension as Begon, in his role as the elder, rebuked his nephew. His words echoed a mix of fear and familial duty, hoping to sway Logan from his perilous path. He had the seasoned insight of a former mercenary, well aware that the band of beastmen thieves under Logan was hardly a strong force it might seem.

In the world of mercenaries, fierce rivalry breeds a certain level of respect and adherence to unwritten rules.

Conversely, the landscape among thieves was treacherous, fraught with internal conflicts and constant suppression by mercenary bands.

"Even if Logan' gang comprised two thousand beastmen, they might scrape by," he thought. "But with merely fifty? It's practically a death sentence."

Just half a month prior, Begon might have let his nephew's reckless ambitions slide, perhaps secretly hoping for a mishap to expedite his own ascent to tribal leadership. However, the recent coalition battle had reshaped his views dramatically. Seeing his nephew's leadership qualities flourish, Begon had come to a reluctant acceptance of his rule.

Thus, he was determined not to let Logan jeopardize his life.

"Uncle, you worry too much," Logan countered, trying to soothe the tension. "I'm headed to Kasros Canyon. It's not what you think, I'm not aligning with any bandit groups. You know the tribe's plight. We need food, or how shall we sustain ourselves?"

Observing Begon's furrowed brow and anxious demeanor, Logan couldn't help but smile inwardly. This was the first instance his uncle addressed him with such a paternal tone, a sign of their shifting opinions about him, acknowledging him more as a nephew than just a chief.

"The fields won't yield till July, and our reserves will last barely a month. There's a dire gap we need to bridge," Logan added, his voice laden with urgency.

Begon remained silent, the gravity of their food scarcity weighing on him.

"You must realize, though," Begon finally spoke, "while Kasros Canyon lacks major bandit presence, it remains perilously unpredictable."

Hearing this, Begon felt a tinge of relief, recognizing at least that Logan was steering clear of the typical dangers associated with bandit groups. Yet, the path his nephew chose was fraught with its own perils.

Kasros Canyon, nestled within the Tara Hills roughly a hundred miles southeast of the Silvermane Tribe, is a bustling nexus of commerce and intrigue. As the largest canyon in the Tara Hills, it has transformed into a commercial hub, boasting tens of thousands of shops where one can purchase anything imaginable.

The transient population frequently surges to 100,000, drawn from merchant camps that sprawl across the southern wilderness, all converging on Kasros Canyon.

Its prosperity ensures top-tier security, supported by both lore and a legend that the canyon itself is a bastion against disorder. Begon, knowing this, felt somewhat reassured that Logan would avoid the foolhardy path of turning to thievery in such a well-policed locale.

"Uncle, relax. I'm forging a path for our tribe's survival," Logan reassured, a confident smile playing on his lips. "I have strategies ready that, if executed well, could secure a lasting revenue stream for us."

"I'll be gone for a month, perhaps even just half if all goes according to plan," he continued, his tone light yet firm.

"And you know, I can't be swayed from this decision," he added, half in jest.

"So, the tribe will need to persevere for the next month," Logan concluded, sensing the weight of his own words.

Begon opened his mouth to object, feeling the risks still loomed large, but the resolute look in Logan's eyes made him pause. Was there any point in voicing his concerns if Logan's mind was already made up?

Feeling somewhat marginalized, Begon exited the council hall, his spirit dampened by the exchange.

Inside, Logan stood and watched his uncle's departure, a knowing smile crossing his face. Initially, he had toyed with the idea of supporting a band of beastmen thieves, but a recent review of the marketplace technology illuminated a safer, more lucrative path.

"Why bother with the dangers of a thieves' group when selling a few key technologies could easily tide us over this food shortage?" he mused silently.

At that moment, Logan felt a surge of relief. His uncle was right; dabbling with a thieves' group was perilous and unnecessary. Stability and strength must come first, ensuring the tribe could withstand future crises without resorting to such drastic measures.

At the cavalry training grounds of the military camp, Crowe, Bagan, Cardia, and Tyton huddled around several carts arrayed before them.

"Is this the hunting gear the chief promised to equip the Second Cavalry Brigade with?" Cardia asked, her curiosity peaking as she hoisted a one-meter-long wooden pole. It was strong in the middle, tapered at the ends, and tipped with a sharp metal head.

"That's correct," affirmed an elderly beastman, his frame stooped and sinewy, his claws resembling the gnarled branches of a tree, and his nearly toothless mouth attesting to his advanced age, surely nearing seventy.

This seasoned figure was none other than Bastos, the proprietor of the Silver Mane Tribe's forging workshop and a skilled intermediate blacksmith.

"What do they call this?" Tyton inquired, his eyes wide with fascination as he examined the novel item for the first time, deducing it must be some form of weapon.

Just as Bastos opened his mouth to educate the young warrior, a clarion voice resonated around them, preempting the old smith: "That, gentlemen, is known as a javelin, a novel addition to our armaments!"

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