Reborn As A Beastman With A System

Chapter 174: Masked Man's Injury!

Adik Tribal Hall

At the pinnacle of the grand Adik Tribal Hall, Chief Arar surveyed the assembly. Below him sat eight Beastman chiefs, each exuding a regal air despite their recent turmoil. They were the leaders of tribes driven from their homes by the fearsome Silver Mane Tribe, now seeking refuge among the Adik.

With a curious glint in his eye, Arar addressed them, "What brings you esteemed chiefs to my hall today?"

"Master Chief Arar," an old Beastman chief began, his voice steady yet laced with urgency, "we are grateful for your hospitality. But we come with a pressing matter." Enjoy new tales from M V L

"Please, we implore you to lend your strength to our tribes!" another chief interjected, his tone both respectful and desperate.

"Our survival is at stake!" a chorus of anxious voices erupted, the weight of their plight palpable in the air.

"Silence!" Arar raised a hand, commanding respect. The room fell quiet; the chiefs knew the Adik Tribe's strength dwarfed their own. Rumors of Arar's legendary prowess as an eighth-level warrior added to their apprehension.

"Why should I intervene for you?" Arar questioned, a bemused smile touching his lips. "The Silver Mane Tribe seems subdued now. You could remain within our borders without fear."

"Surely, they wouldn't dare attack us!" Artom, Arar's son, chimed in, confidence brimming in his voice. "With the Adik Tribe standing strong, we can withstand any threat from the Silver Mane."

"Master Chief Arar, Master Chief Artom, your words bring solace," the old chief said, though his brow furrowed in worry. "Yet, the crisis we face is not from without, but within."

"Within?" Artom echoed, bewildered. "But I thought all tribes were safe now. What do you mean by an internal crisis?"

The old chief sighed heavily. "The famine has worsened. We barely scraped by before, and the Silver Mane's aggression forced us from our lands. Now, even in refuge, our supplies dwindle dangerously low."

"Famine?" Artom felt a chill of realization. "With so many tribes relying on us, we face a dire situation. The Silver Mane Tribe cares little for the lives of ordinary Beastmen, launching wars that leave us all struggling."

"I sympathize," Arar replied, his expression grave. "Even the Adik Tribe is grappling with food shortages."

Gasps echoed among the chiefs; their hope wavered. They had come seeking help, only to find the Adik Tribe equally beleaguered. The implications were stark; without sustenance, the survival of their people hung in the balance.

"Wait," Artom interjected, a dawning comprehension crossing his face. "Are you here to ask for food?"

"Yes," the old chief admitted, shame creeping into his voice. "We come to request your aid."

In their eyes, the Adik Tribe represented a sanctuary, a resource. If they could sustain thousands, surely they could assist the eight tribes on the brink of starvation. But now, their hopes clashed with the stark reality that they were all in the same perilous boat.

"If we could lend them some supplies, it would help them get through this crisis," someone suggested softly, though the weight of the situation was heavy in the air.

Artom, always quick to speak, shook his head firmly. "Impossible!" His voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Chiefs, you know the Adik tribe has over 16,000 people to feed. The food we consume every day far exceeds what your eight tribes combined need. How can we have any extra food to lend you?" His words were sharp, filled with an unyielding practicality.

The old Beastman chief sighed deeply, his eyes weary from the burden of leading through such dire times. The other chiefs shared the sentiment, letting out long, collective sighs. They had feared this answer, knowing full well the harsh reality of the current famine. Food was a treasure, as valuable as life itself. To ask another tribe to share it in these desperate times was no easy request.

Suddenly, Arar, who had been silent, stood up, his presence filling the hall. His gaze flicked sharply to his son, and his voice boomed with authority, "Artom, enough!" The reprimand echoed, silencing the room further.

The eight chiefs exchanged glances, their hope now pinned on Arar, the figure of power they had come to plead with. Arar's eyes softened as he turned to them, offering a small but genuine smile. "Chiefs, you came to me for help, and I will not turn my back on you."

The chiefs, though relieved, could see the weight of his next words. "But Artom speaks a hard truth," Arar continued, his tone serious. "Our Adik tribe is not overflowing with food either. It is true that we are struggling to keep our people fed. Yet," his voice softened, "I cannot stand by and let your people starve. The Adik tribe cannot be so heartless."

There was a brief flicker of hope in the eyes of the visiting chiefs. They sat up straighter, waiting for Arar's next words.

"However, food is not a trivial matter," Arar added, his expression thoughtful. "I must discuss this with the council of our tribe. If there is a way to lend you supplies, we will, but I cannot promise anything just yet."

A collective sigh of relief escaped the group. "Thank you, Chief Arar!" the old Beastman said, rising from his seat. The other chiefs followed suit, their faces now brighter with hope. They bowed deeply in gratitude.

Arar raised a hand, signaling them to stand. "Do not thank me yet," he said with a chuckle. "If we can spare any food, we will help. But if we don't have enough…" His voice trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken. The chiefs' faces paled at the thought.

Seeing their sudden worry, Arar quickly added, "Do not fear. I will find a way. I won't abandon you in your time of need. But I ask for a few days to deliberate and come up with a solution."

The eight chiefs exchanged uncertain glances, but they nodded. It was all they could do, after all. Their fate was now in the hands of Arar and his tribe.

"Then we will take our leave," the old Beastman said, rising to his feet. The other chiefs followed his lead, bowing once more to Arar before turning to depart.

Arar smiled warmly. "Go well, chiefs. We will be in touch soon."

As they exited the grand hall, Artom and Arar shared a quiet smile, a father and son bound by the weight of leadership, yet confident they could find a way through this crisis.

---

Two days later, chaos erupted in the quiet residence of Chief Arar.

"Hurry! Fetch the pharmacist and the priest: now!" Arar's voice was filled with urgency, echoing out into the night as he supported a figure cloaked in black, their face obscured by a devil-like mask. Blood soaked through the mysterious figure's clothes, and Arar's grip tightened, trying to steady them.

If one looked closer, they'd see the trail of blood that had followed them into the room, dripping steadily from the masked figure's wounds.

"No… no need…" the masked figure rasped, their voice weak and broken. "I… am fine… just… cough, cough!" Blood spilled from the corners of the mask, staining the already drenched fabric.

"Quiet, don't speak!" Arar snapped, though his tone was filled with concern. He lowered the masked figure gently onto a nearby couch, his eyes scanning the wounds that marked the mysterious person's body.

Moments later, the door burst open, and the tribe's elderly priest and the pharmacist rushed in, followed closely by Artom, whose eyes widened at the sight before him.

"What happened?" Artom demanded, his voice trembling as he stared at the masked figure, unsure whether this stranger was friend or foe.

Arar, focused on the figure's injuries, didn't answer right away. "We don't have time for questions," he said, his tone clipped. "Help him first. We need to keep him alive."

The room became a flurry of activity as the priest began chanting softly, laying hands on the masked figure's chest, while the pharmacist prepared herbs and bandages, all the while Artom stood frozen, unsure of what danger or secret had just walked through their door.