Reborn As A Beastman With A System

Chapter 162: Fifteenth-order Legend!

Is this an elf?

"Yes... yes, it is," Logan muttered, his voice barely hiding his disbelief. The figure before him, though dressed in tattered rags like a beggar, was unmistakably an elf. His long, pointed ears peeked out from beneath tangled locks of green hair, a hallmark of his kind.

Despite the weathered lines of age on his face, his features remained strikingly handsome, the kind of beauty one would expect from a creature of legend.

Logan knew there was no mistaking it; this was an old elf, ancient by human standards. He couldn't be wrong.

But something didn't add up.

"Elves are supposed to be proud and noble, right? Why does he look... like this?" Jane asked, her voice tinged with confusion. Her brother Begon nodded in agreement, equally taken aback. This elf was far from the elegant, almost ethereal beings they had always imagined. In stories, elves were warriors of grace and wisdom, dressed in fine robes or glittering armor.

But this one?

Shabby. Broken. Collapsed on the ground.

Logan exchanged a look with his brother-in-law, Fisher, who sat tense at the edge of his seat. Then, turning to his fifth uncle, Reynolds, he gave a quick command. "Uncle, leave him here. You go ahead with your tasks."

Reynolds blinked, momentarily thrown by the request. He glanced at the elf sprawled out before them, looking little more than a worn-out vagabond. But Logan's tone left no room for argument. Reynolds signaled to the two Beastman warriors who had been holding the elf. They released their grip, saluted Logan, and exited the tribal hall without another word.

As the doors closed behind them, the elf crumpled to the ground, now lying flat on his back. His breathing was shallow, his body limp.

Suddenly, Fisher leapt from his chair. His face, which had been pale just moments before, flushed red with emotion. He rushed to the elf's side, kneeling next to him. "Teacher!" Fisher's voice cracked, filled with urgency. "Teacher, wake up! Please!"

"Teacher!" he called again, gently shaking the elf's frail form. His desperation echoed through the room.

Jane and Begon stood frozen, their eyes wide with astonishment. Teacher? Jane thought. This... is Fisher's mentor? She shot her brother a bewildered look.

There was no way this disheveled, fallen elf could be the legendary figure Fisher had spoken of so reverently. Could it? Doubts gnawed at her. Had her brother been deceived by some wandering imposter?

Because surely, no legendary elf, a figure of myth and power; would ever be reduced to this.

Logan, too, was taken aback. His initial shock had turned to something else entirely. His mind raced as he accessed the detection system, hoping for some clarity on the elf's identity.

The results flashed before his eyes:

Name: Oaks Carlton Windrunner Age: 1674 years Occupation: Legendary Magician. Legendary Warrior Race: Elf. High Elf Strength: Level 15 Warrior (Legendary Peak)

Logan's heart skipped a beat. His eyes widened in disbelief. One thousand six hundred seventy-four years old! Oaks was a living relic, a piece of history that had survived millennia. Logan felt like a child; he was only about to turn eleven soon, for crying out loud and this elf had lived over a hundred times his own lifespan!

But that wasn't the most startling part.

Level 15. Legendary Peak.

Not only was this elf a master magician, but also a warrior of the highest caliber. Double legends. The kind of power that only a handful could ever dream of attaining.

"Could the limits of the Epic Road really be at Level 16?" Logan muttered under his breath. The numbers made his head spin, but they also opened his eyes. He had learned more about the upper limits of power in just these few moments than in years of study.

But still, one question lingered uneasily in his mind: How could someone of such unimaginable strength and stature have fallen so far?

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His thoughts were interrupted by Jane, who had been watching him closely. She noticed his expression shifting from awe to confusion and concern.

"What's wrong, Logan?" she asked, her curiosity piqued by the sudden change in his demeanor.

He hesitated, glancing between the elf and his sister. How could he explain that this seemingly broken figure lying on the floor was, in fact, one of the most powerful beings to ever walk the earth? The enormity of it left him speechless.

But deep down, Logan knew one thing for certain: this encounter would change everything.

"It's okay... it's okay…" Logan muttered to himself, shaking his head as if trying to dispel his earlier shock. He took a deep breath, pulling himself together. Get a grip, he thought. This elf really was a big deal.

A moment ago, he had been baffled, wondering how on earth his brother-in-law, Fisher, had managed to find such a peculiar elf. But now? Now, he could only feel a twinge of envy. Fisher had stumbled upon a stroke of sheer luck. This wasn't just any elf, it was a legendary figure, a treasure of unimaginable value.

From the corner of his eye, Logan saw Jane arch an eyebrow. She clearly noticed the shift in his mood, sensing he had discovered something important.

But just as she was about to ask, Fisher's desperate calls came to an abrupt halt.

The old elf stirred. Slowly, he sat up, his movements sluggish, his eyes glazed over as if waking from a deep sleep. He looked around, blinking in confusion.

"Hey, Sher... where is this? Am I not in a wine cellar?" The elf's voice was groggy, his gaze darting from Fisher to the unfamiliar surroundings.

Fisher's face turned an even deeper shade of red. "Teacher… my name is not Sher. It's Fisher."

The elf furrowed his brow, still clearly disoriented. "Fisher? When did you change your name to Fisher?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

Fisher sighed, exasperated but not surprised. He had grown accustomed to this. After spending half a month with his mentor, he had learned that the old elf had a... unique way of seeing the world. Debating with him was a lost cause. "Teacher, you were drunk," Fisher explained, his face flushed with embarrassment.

"The owner of the wine cellar had to carry you out."

The elf squinted as if trying to recall the incident. "What? I haven't had enough to drink yet!" he grumbled, shaking his head. "The wine cellar owner is too stingy."

Logan chuckled softly from the side, watching this exchange with amusement. So this is the legendary elf, he thought. More like a mischievous child than a dignified warrior. Despite his legendary status, this elf was certainly full of surprises.

As for being drunk? Logan knew better. For ordinary people, alcohol might cloud their senses, but for someone of the old elf's strength; especially one above level six, it wouldn't have any lasting effect unless they wanted it to. Drunkenness was a choice for beings like this. They could use their inner power, their magic or fighting spirit, to dissolve the effects of alcohol instantly.

But it was clear that the elf had allowed himself to be drunk on purpose. He had embraced the intoxication, enjoying it, perhaps as a way to momentarily escape the weight of his centuries-long existence.

"Still want to drink, do you, sir?" Logan asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The old elf's eyes lit up at the mention of wine, suddenly more alert. "You have wine?" he asked, his tone hopeful.

Logan gave a short nod, suppressing a grin. He had to admit, for all the elf's legendary power, his carefree, almost reckless attitude was... endearing. But that didn't ease Logan's concerns. Dealing with someone this powerful was like handling a wild, unpredictable force. And this particular elf; this old legend, was a handful.

He was unruly, whimsical, and utterly unbothered by the chaos he left in his wake.

As the saying goes, "It's easy to invite a god, but hard to get rid of one." And right now, Logan couldn't help but feel that was exactly the situation they were in.

"I do," Logan replied, still wary of the powerful being sitting before him. As harmless as the elf might appear, he knew better than to let his guard down completely. A creature of this magnitude was not to be trifled with. "But... don't you think you've had enough?"

The elf leaned closer, studying Logan with a gaze that, for the briefest moment, felt as ancient as the forests themselves. His features, though softened by time, were still strikingly handsome. That undeniable elven grace.

Elves, after all, were a race designed to inspire jealousy in others. Long-lived, impossibly skilled, and with beauty that seemed to defy the ravages of age. This one, Oaks Carlton Windrunner, had lived for over a thousand six hundred years; far beyond the lifespan of most other races. Even legendary Beastmen couldn't dream of reaching such an age.

Only dragons, with their equally unnatural talents and long lives, could compare.

And, of course, there was that face. The kind of face that seemed to belong more to a deity than a mortal.

"Wine, eh?" The elf's lips twitched into a faint smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I could use another drink."

Logan chuckled, though his mind was still racing with the realization of what kind of "guest" they were dealing with. This is going to be... interesting.

Once, a human noblewoman famously remarked, "Even the plainest of elf men is more handsome than the most beautiful human man."

Her words sparked outrage across the human kingdoms. Nobles, and even some kings, took it as a grievous insult. Some called for her to be burned at the stake for betraying her own kind. Though her statement may have been exaggerated, it spoke volumes about the almost otherworldly beauty of elves, both male and female.

Elves were seen as perfection embodied, a fact that made them rare and highly coveted in the human world, especially as slaves.

Elven slaves were more than just labor; they were prizes, status symbols that only the wealthiest or most powerful humans could afford.

"Wait… are you that Logan?" the old elf suddenly blurted, snapping out of his daze. His gaze sharpened as he stood up and brushed the dust from his ragged clothes. The air around him seemed to shift, his earlier stupor replaced by a surprising energy.

Logan blinked, surprised by the abrupt question. "Yes," he replied, cautiously. "I am Logan, Chief of the Silver Mane Tribe."

How does he know who I am? Logan wondered. Perhaps the elf had heard of him through Pleti, another elf who had crossed paths with the tribe. Either way, the old elf's sudden awareness put everyone on edge.

In the blink of an eye, the elf was in the air, his hand shooting out like a lightning strike. He grabbed Logan by the shoulder, his grip firm but not painful.

"Teacher!" Fisher cried out in alarm, his voice strained with panic.

Jane and Begon jumped to their feet, their faces contorted with shock. Jane, her instinct for protection taking over, began to radiate fire magic, the air around her shimmering with heat. "Elf! What do you think you're doing?" she shouted, her voice filled with warning.

But before the situation could escalate further, Logan raised his hand quickly. "Stop! Don't do it!" he shouted, his heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, fear had gripped him, but then he realized the elf hadn't hurt him. His grip, though sudden, wasn't crushing or threatening.

If this elf had truly wanted to kill him, it wouldn't have been a struggle, it would have been over in a single, effortless motion. One flick of the wrist, and Logan would have been reduced to nothing more than a memory.

The elf, sensing the tension, let go of Logan's shoulder and descended gracefully, his feet hovering slightly above the ground before finally touching it.

Then, as if speaking to no one but himself, the old elf muttered, "He's only ten years old, but already at the seventh level of strength, nearly the eighth. Truly remarkable. I drank good wine and found a rough gem, this trip was worth it."

Fisher, Jane, and Begon stood frozen, the relief from the elf's release quickly replaced by renewed shock at his words. They stared at Logan, wide-eyed.

"Only ten years old!" Jane breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

"Seventh level, almost eighth?" Begon muttered, unable to comprehend it. Was he really talking about Logan?

Jane and Begon had assumed Logan was at the sixth level, a remarkable achievement for someone his age, but this? This was unheard of.

Even Fisher, who had always been proud of his brother-in-law, was thrown off. Fifth level, Fisher had always thought. How had he misjudged him so badly?

The old elf, his sharp gaze now fixed entirely on Logan, stepped closer. "Boy," he began, his tone serious but warm, "you have great talent. But raw talent alone is not enough. If you want to achieve true greatness, if you want to surpass the limits of your strength, you need a mentor. Someone to guide you."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

"I am willing to be that mentor," the elf declared, his voice steady, a subtle but undeniable authority in his words. "Are you willing to be my student?"

The room fell silent. Everyone, including Logan, stood still, trying to process what had just been offered. A legendary elf, someone whose power and wisdom stretched across millennia; had just offered to take Logan under his wing.

Fisher's jaw dropped. Jane and Begon exchanged astonished glances. This wasn't just an offer; it was the chance of a lifetime.