Reborn As A Beastman With A System

"Execute the plan!" Surshen's voice was firm and unyielding as he surveyed the battlefield. His gaze lingered on the coalition's advancing front, assessing every movement with a strategist's precision. Turning to the fourth- and fifth-level commanders of the Duskin tribe, he gave them a sharp nod. These commanders, handpicked from his trusted ranks, stood ready, their loyalty as solid as the iron in their weapons.

The commanders responded in unison, "Yes, sir!" and without further hesitation, dispersed into the fray, each knowing exactly where they needed to be.

---

At the Defense Line

The tension at the defensive line was thick enough to cut. Arar and Lero, chieftains and fierce warriors from their respective tribes, were at the front, moving with lethal speed and precision. These two Beastmen seemed unstoppable, weaving effortlessly through a storm of crossbow bolts, arrows, and javelins. Each projectile missed them by inches, but their eyes were fixed forward, a fiery determination burning in their gaze. Their approach was relentless, almost maddening.

"Prepare to engage!" Barnett, a seasoned warrior holding the defense line, kept his eyes locked on the advancing Beastmen. His voice was a low rumble, filled with the experience of countless battles. He turned to his grandson, Logan, who stood beside him with a cool but intense focus.

"Are we ready, Logan?" Barnett asked, his grip tightening on his weapon.

But Logan didn't answer right away. His gaze was set on Arar and Lero, sensing the power radiating from them. These weren't ordinary warriors; they were seventh-level fighters, each brimming with energy and skill. Though Arar was rumored to be close to the mythical eighth level, he had yet to fully reach it. Logan knew that even without the highest level of strength, these two could wreak havoc on the battlefield.

As he observed the coalition's wolf cavalry, now reduced to a mere two or three hundred soldiers and only meters from the defense line, Logan understood the importance of timing. The crossbow units, archers, and javelin troops had done their part, but their impact was diminishing as the coalition forces closed in. The time for distance attacks was nearly over; now, they would have to meet their foes in direct combat.

"If we can take down their leaders, this war could be ours," Logan murmured, his voice barely audible over the noise of the battlefield.

Then, with a decisive nod, he called out, "Advance!"

At his command, Barnett surged forward, crossing the defensive line with an eagerness born of years on the frontlines. His target: Arar, the fierce chief of the Adik tribe. Following close behind, Begon, Kro, and other tribal leaders, along with hired fifth- and sixth-level warriors; charged into the melee, their battle cries echoing across the field.

Meanwhile, Hoyle, the half-human shaman with a powerful staff, watched intently. As soon as Logan issued the command, Hoyle raised his staff, muttering an incantation under his breath. His eyes narrowed on Lero, the fierce chief of the Qatar tribe.

With a flourish of his staff, Hoyle unleashed his spell. The ground beneath Lero's feet began to crack, and from those fissures emerged countless vines, twisting and writhing like serpents. They coiled around Lero's legs, tugging him back, threatening to immobilize him.

Lero's eyes widened, a flicker of alarm breaking through his fierce demeanor. A wood mage on the enemy side? His mind raced, but he quickly steeled himself. With a swift, fluid motion, he sliced through the vines at his feet and sprang ten meters into the air, his muscles straining with the effort.

Yet the vines were relentless. As he soared upward, more vines shot up, following him into the air, reaching, grasping, determined to drag him back down.

Lero's Beastman warriors nearby weren't as fortunate. The lower-level fighters struggled against the vines, their weapons ineffective against the enchanted tendrils. Though their raw strength allowed them to tear some vines apart, it was clear they were no match for Hoyle's magic. However, Hoyle refrained from delivering fatal blows; his orders from Logan were clear; subdue, not slaughter. Even so, the entangling vines drained the Beastmen' energy, leaving them weakened and gasping.

For the higher-level coalition fighters, those of fifth and sixth levels, the situation was even more dire. Hoyle's vines didn't just immobilize them; they sapped their very life force, feeding off their fighting spirit. Several fifth-level warriors fell to their knees, their faces pale, their breaths shallow. They were warriors, yes, but against Hoyle's relentless magic, they were helpless.

While Hoyle unleashed nature's wrath, Astali and other water mages from the serpent tribes added their own brand of chaos. They summoned small but treacherous puddles across the battlefield, transforming solid ground into slippery traps. Coalition soldiers stumbled, their movements hampered, their formations disrupted. Though these water traps were not deadly, they slowed down the enemy, leaving them vulnerable to the relentless assault of Hoyle's vines and the arrows from the defensive line.

Meanwhile, the defensive forces held steady, watching as the enemy's momentum faltered. Logan surveyed the battlefield with a cold, calculating gaze. They were winning; slowly but surely.

In the midst of the chaos, Logan allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The coalition forces were powerful, but they lacked unity. Each entangled warrior, each panicked Beastman struggling against magical vines, was a testament to the strength of Logan's strategy. They didn't need to kill every last enemy; they only needed to break their will.

And with Arar and Lero caught in the relentless grip of his forces, that victory seemed closer than ever.

"Press forward!" Logan called, his voice carrying across the battlefield. The defenders rallied, their morale high, as they watched their enemies falter under the relentless assault.

In the chaos, Logan could see the desperation beginning to take hold of the coalition. The defenders pushed harder, confident that the tide of the battle had shifted in their favor.

At the heart of the battlefield, the clash between Barnett and Arar erupted with the force of a storm. These were no ordinary fighters; each was a seventh-level warrior, and as their weapons met, sparks of deadly energy flew in all directions, cutting through the air like fiery blades. Any unlucky Beastman soldier from the coalition forces who strayed too close was instantly hurled backward, the impact of the warriors' unleashed power too much for them to withstand.

Arar narrowed his eyes, pressing his attack as he forced Barnett back, step by step. His voice was cold and laced with a mixture of surprise and disdain. "Barnett, I never expected you to reach the seventh level," he sneered, circling with lethal intent. "Last I saw you, you barely seemed capable of reaching the sixth."

Barnett gritted his teeth, holding his ground with effort. There was a nearly twenty-year age gap between the two, but they had known each other for a long time, both veterans in this brutal land. Though younger, Arar had always carried an air of superiority, and his surprise at Barnett's newfound strength only added fuel to the fire of their rivalry. The chiefs of the Southern Wastelands tribes had crossed paths many times, and they all knew each other's reputations well.

Barnett, though newer to the seventh level, wasn't deterred. With each exchange, he adapted, his movements growing more fluid, his defenses more confident. He began to push back, slowly closing the gap in their skill levels.

"You know, Arar," Barnett taunted, dodging a particularly vicious blow with a smirk, "I heard tales of your legendary eighth-level strength. Yet here we are, and I see no trace of it." He chuckled, sidestepping another slash. "Perhaps the rumors were just that; rumors."

Arar's expression tightened, his jaw clenching. He, too, had chased the elusive power of the eighth level for years, but it had remained just out of reach. His frustration at this reminder flared, and his voice dropped to a growl. "Careful, Barnett. If your Silver Mane Tribe's confidence rests on you alone, then I'll be the one to end your tribe's story here, in the dust of the wasteland!"

With a fierce battle cry, Arar unleashed a surge of his fighting spirit, a torrent of power that rippled through the air and slammed into Barnett, throwing him back with incredible force. Barnett was flung ten meters backward, the sheer impact knocking two coalition soldiers off their feet as he skidded to a halt, digging his heels into the dirt.

But Barnett only laughed, wiping blood from his lip. "Impressive, Arar! I can see you haven't lost your touch." He rose to his feet, his face alive with a fierce exhilaration. "Let's go again!"

Years of frustration, pent-up energy, and newfound strength fueled him. This was his first real fight as a seventh-level warrior, and he was ready to push his limits, even if it meant taking on a warrior as powerful as Arar.

---

Elsewhere on the Battlefield

Behind the frontline chaos, a different battle was brewing among the coalition ranks. A fifth-level Duskin commander darted to his warriors, raising his voice in a rallying cry that caught many by surprise. "We are now warriors of the Silver Mane Tribe! Fight for the Silver Mane Tribe!"

The shout echoed, confusing and shocking the Duskin warriors. They had entered this battle to crush the Silver Mane Tribe, not to pledge loyalty to them. And yet, their own commanders continued the chant, each voice ringing out louder than the last.

"We are now warriors of the Silver Mane Tribe! Fight for the Silver Mane Tribe!"

The Duskin warriors looked around, bewildered, unsure if this was some kind of twisted ruse. But soon, they realized the truth as a large portion of the coalition soldiers began to panic, breaking rank in the chaos. Those from the Duskin tribe who chose to respond did so with violence, turning their weapons on the other coalition warriors around them. A wave of betrayal swept through the rear ranks as the Duskin warriors stabbed their supposed allies in the back.

At first, the other tribes' soldiers didn't understand what was happening. But as one Duskin warrior after another turned, the coalition forces dissolved into disarray. Confusion turned to terror, and terror to rage, as coalition fighters were struck down by what they thought were their allies. Cries of betrayal and pain filled the air.

Seizing the moment, Surshen, Mamuti, and Kule, leaders of this insurrection; moved with lethal precision. They targeted the coalition's commanding officers, fourth- and fifth-level leaders who had coordinated the assault. One by one, the officers fell, ambushed and overwhelmed. The heart of the coalition's command crumbled, leaving their soldiers without guidance or direction.

The coalition ranks splintered into chaos. Some soldiers resisted, turning to face the backstabbing Duskin forces; others tried to press forward, blind and panicked. Many clumped together in defensive circles, forming desperate groups to avoid being slaughtered by their former allies.

The chiefs at the front, locked in their fierce battles against the Silver Mane Tribe's champions, were oblivious to the pandemonium unraveling behind them. All their carefully laid strategies, their battle plans, were now in tatters.

---

The Ground Shakes

Suddenly, a rumble shook the earth beneath them. From both sides of the battlefield, the thunder of hooves and the roar of war cries filled the air as two columns of cavalry, long held in reserve, charged forward. Dust billowed up, and the ground trembled as the cavalry raced into the chaotic fray, their spears lowered and their armor glinting in the sunlight.

The sight was overwhelming. Coalition soldiers, already disorganized and reeling from betrayal, were unprepared for the sudden cavalry assault. They barely had time to regroup as the riders bore down upon them, scattering their lines further.

In the midst of it all, Barnett and Arar paused their duel for a brief moment, each catching sight of the new turn of events. The battlefield was a sea of dust, chaos, and clashing loyalties, and neither of them could tell friend from foe amidst the bedlam.

A twisted grin crossed Barnett's face. "Seems like your coalition isn't as unified as you thought, Arar!"

Arar snarled, his pride wounded, but he forced himself to refocus. "Don't think this changes anything, Barnett. Your Silver Mane Tribe will still fall today!"

But even as he spoke, the resolve in his voice wavered. For the first time, he began to realize that this battle was slipping from his grasp.

The battlefield was no longer a place of organized warfare; it was an arena of raw survival, where loyalty meant nothing, and every warrior fought for their own life. The betrayal of the Duskin tribe, the cavalry's unexpected charge, and the chaos of broken ranks had transformed the conflict into a deadly free-for-all.

In this storm of blades, spells, and clashing wills, the fate of tribes and warriors hung by a thread.