Reborn As A Beastman With A System

With a masterful command, Logan directed his Manticore to ascend, rising to a lofty ten meters above the verdant earth before he decisively leaped off its back.

Now a formidable seventh-level warrior, Logan knew well that such a fall was trivial. Heights of ten, even twenty meters, posed no threat to his seasoned frame.

Meanwhile, Jean and her beast companion, worn and famished from their aerial escapades, were sent back to their tribe to recuperate. Although Logan felt the gnaw of hunger himself, the sight of a thousand acres of ripe rye swaying below was too inviting to ignore.

With a thunderous crash that echoed across the field, Logan landed, his impact forging a massive crater in the soft earth beneath him. The sudden appearance of such a force startled the orcs laboring in the wheat fields nearby.

Surveying the scene, Logan took in the fruits of his recent campaigns: three to four thousand captives gathered over the last fortnight. Predominantly wolf beastmen, their numbers also included a scattering of other beastmen tribes.

Among these were the Tauren and Antelopes, noticeable even from a distance. The Tauren, towering and robust, typically stood between three and three and a half meters, their formidable presence a testament to their strength.

Despite their imposing figures, the Tauren were known for their peaceful nature, a trait that marked their small but significant presence of two hundred in the Silvermane tribe, migrants from the distant northern to the southern wastelands.

The Antelope people varied more dramatically in height, from 2.4 meters down to two meters, largely due to the diminutive stature of the females of their kind.

Also among the ranks were Kobolds and Gnolls, each distinct yet similar; the Kobolds, however, boasted a sharper intellect than their Gnoll counterparts.

Logan recalled his grandfather's tales of the diverse branches within their own races, like the steppenwolves and the snowwolves, the latter smaller and less robust but uniquely adapted to the icy weather of their snowy dwellings.

And just as there were varied tribes of wolvemen, so were there different clans of Tauren: the Tauren who had joined him, the long-haired Tauren, the pale White Tauren, and the River Tauren, each group distinct, with its own customs and strengths. Logan, amidst the harvest below, felt a profound connection to this patchwork of tribes, united under his leadership.

The skin of the Tauren is a rich tapestry of dark yellow and bronze hues, contrasting starkly with the deeper, almost ebony shade of the long-haired Tauren, whose thick, dense fur has earned them the moniker "ox-consuming people" due to their formidable presence.

In the frigid climes near the Arctic ice sheets, the White Tauren make their home, their pale skin mirroring the icy landscape that surrounds them.

Closer to the temperate zones, the River Tauren boast a warm, brown skin tone. They thrive near the life-giving waters of seas and rivers, drawing sustenance and culture from these lush, fluid environments.

Turning to the Antelope people, a distinct branch of the sheep-headed clans, they exhibit subtle variations that may elude the untrained eye. Among these tribes, nuances in appearance are keenly perceived internally, though outsiders might see little difference.

This time, only a handful of Antelope people, a few dozen in number, have joined the tribe.

The kobolds, too, are a diverse lot. The Silver Mane tribe now includes cave kobolds, who stand at just about 1.4 meters tall. These small, stout creatures are not renowned for their martial prowess but have a unique affinity for mining, a passion that consumes their kind.

The cave kobolds possess innate skills in mining and prospecting, making them indispensable despite their lack of combat strength.

Their counterparts, the mountain kobolds, tell a different tale. Often towering over two meters, these robust beings are rumored to have bathed in dragon blood, earning them the name "Dragon Veined Kobolds." Allegedly slaves to the dragon clans, their settlements are believed to be nestled close to dragon lairs, forever in the shadow of these mighty beasts.

Another enigmatic group is the Snow Ao people, seldom documented, roaming the vast, desolate Arctic ice fields.

Many beastmen tribes boast such diverse branches, each with its distinct characteristics and lore. Interestingly, jackals are sometimes considered a lowly branch of the wolvemen by some, though this is staunchly denied by the wolvemen themselves.

Viewed as less intelligent and less attractive, jackals occupy a lower tier within the beastmen hierarchy, in stark contrast to the revered wolves, who stand at the pinnacle.

When the wheat-harvesting orcs, initially startled by Logan's thunderous arrival, realized it was their leader who had descended among them, they quickly composed themselves. With a respectful nod, they bent low and hastened their work, the rhythm of their scythes resuming its steady tempo across the golden fields.

Recognition dawned on the faces of the orcs as they watched Logan land amidst their fields; they knew him as their Chief, a figure of both might and mercy. Their routine momentarily halted in a blend of awe and respect.

It wasn't long before Cobos, the overseer of the farmlands, hastened towards Logan. The sight of the Manticore, now calmly perched nearby, was a clear sign of their leader's return.

"Lord Chief!" Cobos greeted with a deep bow, his voice echoing a mix of reverence and relief.

"Thank you for your diligence, Cobos. Tell me, how many have been toiling in the fields this season?" Logan inquired, his tone warm as he offered a slight, encouraging smile.

Logan held Cobos in high regard; the lands under his watch had flourished, and the expansion efforts had been progressing notably well, reflecting Cobos's efficient stewardship.

"More than 2,000 tribesmen, my lord, and 90% are newcomers, victims of recent calamities who have sought refuge with us," Cobos reported, his voice tinged with a mix of pride and surprise at the sheer number who had come to them.

The influx was unexpected, but Cobos understood the tribe's leaders were meticulous in their decisions. The integration of these many new souls meant a significant boost to their agricultural endeavors, aligning perfectly with Chief Logan's grand vision, to reclaim and cultivate land, potentially up to a million acres.

The thought alone set Cobos's heart racing with ambition.

Logan nodded, his mind already turning towards the broader implications of their growing numbers. "And how are these newcomers adapting? I trust they are being integrated into our efforts smoothly?" he asked, keenly aware of the importance of weaving these displaced individuals into the fabric of the Silvermane tribe through shared work.

"Yes, Chief. Everyone capable contributes to building and farming, which hastens their acceptance and belonging," Cobos explained, satisfaction evident in his voice at the seamless integration of the newcomers.

Logan then shifted the topic towards the practical outcome of their labor. "And what yield do we expect from these vast fields, especially given this season's challenges?"

"The drought has taken its toll, unfortunately. The rye is less robust, and some of it underdeveloped. We estimate the yield might only be about a thousand pounds per acre," Cobos answered, his tone sober as he detailed the impact of the harsh weather on their crops.

Logan listened intently, his mind already calculating the necessary adjustments to ensure the sustenance and stability of his tribe amidst these adversities.

Logan listened intently as Cobos detailed the yield estimates. "It's actually less than half of what we might expect under normal conditions," Cobos clarified. "I had initially projected the yield per acre to be around 300 Kg, but it looks like we'll be closer to 400 Kg."

"So, we're looking at less than 400,000 kilograms in total?" Logan asked, seeking confirmation on the numbers.

Cobos nodded, "Exactly, Lord Chief. Under usual circumstances, our lands spanning over a thousand acres would yield about one million kg. Considering our tribe has grown to more than 2,100 souls, this drop is significant."

Logan processed the gravity of the situation. A normal harvest would sustain them for over four months, but now, with the production cut by more than half, their reserves might last barely under two months. The rye's three-month growth cycle added to the urgency, as many tribes in the wilderness were already facing dire shortages.

"The food crisis is more severe than many might realize," Logan mused aloud. He then made a decisive command, "As soon as we complete the rye harvest, begin planting sweet potatoes and potatoes. They're faster growing, and we need to boost our food reserves urgently."

The future plans were clear in his mind: "Once the Silvermane tribe strengthens, we'll need to consider diverting water sources closer to our lands. The nearest branch river is over fifty miles away, but for now, our wells will have to suffice."

Cobos acknowledged the orders with a firm nod. His role had never been more critical, especially since the influx of new tribespeople. He had orchestrated the rye harvest to conclude in a single day, allowing no delays before transitioning to planting the new crops.

"Yes, Lord Chief. We'll start plowing tomorrow for the new planting. Every moment counts," Cobos affirmed, fully aware of the increased weight of his responsibilities in these challenging times.