No One Left Behind!

"Is it hard? After all, many people died in the battle!"

Logan sat on the steps, his body slumped in a despondent heap, hands clasped tightly together. As his gaze fixed blankly on the horizon, a gentle voice unexpectedly broke the silence at his side.

Jolted from his reverie, Logan looked up with a start. "Grandpa!"

It was Barnett who had approached quietly. With a nod and a warm smile, Barnett seated himself beside his grandson. "Come, sit with me again," he urged gently.

Logan obeyed, resettling beside him.

"Congratulations are in order," Barnett began, his voice tinged with pride. "The tribe has notched a significant victory. I hear that four smaller tribes will be annexed under our banner. It's astounding really, your leadership has already doubled our size in less than a month. You're doing wonderfully."

These weren't mere flatteries but heartfelt truths.

Logan, Barnett's grandson, truly was remarkable, a young man with the vision and tenacity of a born leader.

"Do you know?" Barnett's tone shifted, turning reflective. "I am not originally from these wastelands. I hail from the Kingdom of Rennes. Fifty years back, I was guarding a large trade caravan for a major commerce guild there. Unfortunately, luck wasn't on our side. Our 2,000-strong group was ambushed by several large bands of thieves. The caravan was decimated; senior guards fled, leaving the less experienced to fend for themselves. My brother... he died in that chaos."

Pausing, Barnett's eyes clouded over with a mix of sorrow and resignation. "I was gravely wounded in that assault. Back then, I had potential, thought I'd rise high, maybe to the sixth level of mastery. But that injury stunted my progress forever."

His voice hardened slightly. "Afterwards, captured by those thieves, I was sold into slavery. But I didn't remain bound for long. I managed to escape during a slave uprising."

Barnett's gaze drifted across the landscape, lost in the past. "In those days, this land was filled with turmoil. To survive, I banded together with other nomadic beastmen, and from that strife, the Silvermane Tribe was forged."

Hearing this, Logan's eyes widened with astonishment. He had always known his grandfather was the pillar of the Silvermane Tribe, but the depth of Barnett's past and the origins of their tribe were revelations to him. And to learn Barnett originated from the Kingdom of Ren was yet another layer to the storied life of the man he admired.

"The notion of an beastmen kingdom is notably expansive and undefined," Barnett began, his voice steady, reflecting his deep experience. "Unlike human territories with their rigid borders, the lands of the beastmen are in constant flux."

He sighed, the weight of history in his eyes. "Wars among the beastmen kingdoms are frequent, as no single tribe maintains power indefinitely. At the first sign of weakness, the larger tribes pounce, eager to claim dominance. Thus, the leadership—and even the name—of the kingdom can change with startling rapidity."

Barnett paused, his gaze turning inward as he recounted a painful memory. "When the Silvermane tribe was young, numbering merely a few dozen, many sought to claim us. I recall a devastating battle where we swelled to over a hundred souls. Yet, by its grim conclusion, only the elders, the frail, the women, children, and a handful of my own kin survived. All others perished."

The sorrow was palpable in his voice as he continued, "That was perhaps my darkest hour, not only had we lost countless children, fathers, and husbands of our tribe, but I lost my brothers, my comrades-at-arms. It was then I first understood the brutal nature of war. Despite its cruelty, we were compelled to fight, to grow stronger, and to secure essential resources for survival."

Barnett's expression hardened with resolve. "It was through relentless conflict that the Silvermane tribe endured. Under my guidance, and later, under your father's, we slowly but surely gained strength."

He looked intently at his grandson, his voice softening. "Countless warriors, including my closest friends, my descendants, and even my own sons, have laid down their lives over the years. Their sacrifices were though lay the foundation of the tribe, ensuring that their kin could thrive in greater security within the Silvermane tribe."

"Do you grasp the gravity of what I'm saying?" Barnett asked, seeking confirmation in Logan's eyes.

Logan's response was tinged with self-doubt. "Grandpa, I'm sorry, I feel so overwhelmed by it all!"

Barnett placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "No, my boy, this is a normal reaction. You're just stepping into your role as chief. It's vast, and painful to bear witness to such loss. Yet, remember, every sacrifice strengthens us. As you lead, remember these lessons, and perhaps, in time, the need for such harsh sacrifices will diminish. But until then, they are necessary for our tribe's future strength."

Logan nodded, a new understanding dawning upon him. Through his grandfather's stories, he began to see the broader picture of leadership: harsh yet essential, burdened with past sacrifices but hopeful for a stronger future.

"Yes, I swear on my honor, the Silver Mane tribe will ascend to greatness once more," Logan declared with unwavering conviction.

"Very well, I shall hold you to that promise," responded a voice tinged with both skepticism and hope.

Logan let out a deep, resonant laugh that seemed to echo off the ancient stone walls of the chamber.

Barnett, his expression unreadable, slowly rose from his seat and walked toward his private quarters nestled deep within the craggy recesses of their mountain home.

As Barnett's silhouette merged with the shadows, Logan shook his head gently. His grandfather had been trying to impart wisdom, yet the true depth of his words eluded him. Still, he felt an inexplicable sense of clarity wash over him, a strange peace in the midst of chaos.

Once just a young man poisoned by his own life's direction lessness and now thrust into this brutal new world, Logan grappled with the harsh reality of his decisions that led to the loss of lives. It was a hard truth to swallow.

However, his grandfather's teachings weren't entirely lost on him. Comfort in his own skin was now a newfound treasure. He recollected the old man's words: as the Silver Mane Tribe grows stronger, the sacrifices required would diminish. Without strength, their suffering would perpetuate endlessly.

He couldn't agree more.

Thus, the cycle of sacrifice and ascension for the Silver Mane tribe was only beginning.

...

In the sprawling conference hall of the tribal fortress, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation. Logan had just arrived when commanders Crow and Bagan, alongside notable figures like second uncle Begon, Uncle Reynolds, Kodiak, and Cobos, filtered in.

"Thank you for your diligence, commanders. You've organized the post-battle reports, I presume?" Logan inquired, scanning their solemn faces.

Crow, holding a piece of tanned animal hide etched with figures and notes, stood and saluted sharply. "Chieftain, we have documented the outcomes of the battle," he announced with a formal air.

"Let us all hear it, then," Logan commanded.

Crow nodded, clearing his throat. "This engagement mobilized 527 of our warriors and 186 wolf cavalry."

He paused; the weight of the next words heavy on his tongue. "We suffered 52 fallen warriors. Another 27 were grievously injured, with 118 sustaining minor injuries. Twelve warriors have been rendered completely unable to return to duty."

He continued, "From our wolf cavalry, we mourn 15 brave souls. Thirty-nine were critically wounded, and 46 bear less severe injuries, but 23 of those grievously wounded will no longer ride."

The room fell silent as the grim toll of war settled among them, each number a stark reminder of the cost of their survival and their enduring struggle for power.

"That concludes the report, detailed information about our soldiers' sacrifices," Crowe said, his tone somber as he met Logan's gaze, which was clouded with a mix of resolve and sorrow.

Logan, though already aware of the grim statistics, felt a renewed twinge of discomfort ripple through him as the numbers were articulated aloud. The battle had exacted a steep toll, slashing their tribal numbers by nearly a hundred. This loss was not just numerical but deeply personal for a tribe with only 800 warriors in its ranks.

The air in the conference hall was thick with despair, the weight of their loss palpable among the assembled leaders. Sensing the need to fortify their resolve, Logan stood, his voice steady yet heavy with emotion. "In war, the harsh reality is that not all warriors return. But we honor every soul that has fallen under our banner."

He continued with a directive that underscored his commitment to their values and traditions. "Crowe, ensure that every fallen soldier is returned to our homeland for a proper burial. We will reunite them with the earth of their ancestors."

"And let there be no hesitation in providing the fullest care for our wounded. We spare no expense for their recovery."

"Yes, Chieftain," Crow replied, his voice tinged with regret. "However, the fallen have already been buried on the battlefield..."

Without missing a beat, Logan's response was firm, an unyielding edge to his command. "Then we shall retrieve them. No member of our tribe will be left behind. Dig them out and bring them home."