Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

At the name, the tavern grows quieter.

An older adventurer, face weathered by years of battle, takes a slow sip of his drink. ”If they killed Grath… then this ain’t just some monster uprising. This is war.”

A merchant sitting nearby frowns, adjusting his tunic. ”War? You think they’re actually… organizing?”

Another adventurer—this one missing two fingers—snorts bitterly. ”They’re already organized, idiot. And they’re getting stronger.” He gulps down his drink and mutters, ”Maybe they’re tired of the abuse we give ’em.”

A hush falls over the group.

Outside, the city churns with its own rumors. Some whisper that the monsters have found a new leader, someone uniting them.

But one thing is clear: fear is spreading.

In the heart of the Raltheon Kingdom, within the grand halls of the Royal Palace, voices clash in heated debate. The air is thick with tension, nobles standing in circles, their faces flushed with anger.

A noble in gold-trimmed robes slams his fist against a marble table. ”This is an embarrassment! A bunch of beasts holding our cities? Killing our warriors? We should have crushed them by now!”

Another noble, an older man with graying hair, scoffs. ”Crushed them? The Guild sent twenty thousand adventurers, and five thousand never returned! What do you suggest, Lord Edris? Send our knights to die next?”

Edris sneers. ”Better than letting those abominations think they own our lands!” He turns to the throne, where King Edric sits, watching the chaos unfold. ”Your Majesty, we must act now! If we wait any longer, those monsters will become a true threat!”

Marshal Walric, standing near the king, finally speaks. ”The Guild underestimated them. They thought it was a simple extermination. It wasn’t.” He crosses his arms. ”We need to reevaluate the enemy before making rash moves.”

The room erupts into shouting again. Some demand immediate war, others urge caution.

But through it all, King Edric remains silent.

The tension in the grand hall is suffocating. Nobles shout over one another, their voices a mix of anger, fear, and desperation. The weight of the defeat sits heavy in the air, poisoning every discussion with frustration.

Lord Edris, his face red with barely restrained fury, turns sharply toward a man standing calmly among the chaos. Duke Fynn.

Fynn, the leader of the noble faction that constantly opposes him.

Edris clenches his fists. ”What do you think, Duke Fynn?” he asks, his voice edged with impatience.

The room quiets slightly as eyes shift to the composed duke.

Fynn, dressed in elegant but understated noble attire, meets King Edric’s gaze instead of Edris’s. ”Your Majesty, let’s not rush into anything.” His tone is smooth, measured. ”What happened in Delon city proves that we are dealing with something far beyond what we expected. Sending another army blindly will only end in another disaster.”

A murmur spreads through the room. Some nod in agreement, while others scowl.

Fynn continues, ”I suggest we gather more information first—truly understand what we are dealing with. We have resources, spies, and scouts for a reason. Acting recklessly now could cost us more than just soldiers.” He pauses for a brief moment before adding, ”Also, the envoy from Valgros Kingdom is set to arrive soon. They might be willing to assist us. After all, war is their expertise.”

Edris’s jaw tightens, his patience wearing thin. This damn snake. Always preaching caution, always delaying things. If not for these nobles causing trouble in the kingdom for the past few days, the situation wouldn’t have spiraled this far.

But because there’s no evidence against them, Edric’s hands remain tied.

Still, he refuses to let Fynn dictate the pace.

”I want everyone here to send their most powerful scouts to investigate,” Edric declares firmly, his sharp gaze sweeping across the gathered nobles. ”We will work together to gather intelligence efficiently.”

The words are casual. The meaning is not.

Fynn’s forehead twitches slightly. This sly bastard.

By framing it as a cooperative effort, Edric ensures that every noble must participate.

Some nobles exchange glances, clearly displeased, but none dare voice opposition. They know refusing this request would only raise suspicion.

Fynn exhales quietly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. ”Of course, Your Majesty. That is a reasonable course of action.”

Edris smirks slightly, watching the silent frustrations ripple through Fynn’s faction.

The next day, Eldoria City is draped in banners, and its streets are lined with soldiers in gleaming armor. A grand welcome is prepared for the envoy from Valgros Kingdom, but despite the show of hospitality, there is an unshakable tension in the air.

Valgros is stronger, wealthier, and far more experienced in war than Raltheon. Their presence alone is enough to make the nobles uneasy.

When the envoy arrives at the Royal Palace, they are led directly to the throne room. The heavy doors swing open, revealing two imposing figures at the head of the delegation.

The first is Prince Darius—the third prince of Valgros Kingdom. He is young but carries himself with the confidence of someone who has never known defeat. His long black hair is tied back neatly, and his sharp golden eyes scan the room with mild amusement.

Beside him stands Marshal Draven, one of Valgros’ most renowned warriors. His presence alone is suffocating. He is a Tier 5 powerhouse, his sheer aura he didn’t restraint, is enough to make some of the weaker knights instinctively tighten their grips on their weapons. His crimson and black armor gleams under the grand chandeliers, and the massive greatsword strapped to his back looks as if it could cleave a knight in half with a single swing.

As they step forward, neither of them kneel.

Instead, they only offer a slight bow.

A clear sign of disrespect.

A murmur spreads through the court.

King Edric’s expression remains calm, but his fingers tighten on the armrest of his throne. He expected this. Valgros has never seen Raltheon as an equal.

Prince Darius smirks slightly, his voice smooth as silk. ”Your Majesty,” he greets, his golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable. ”I appreciate the warm welcome.”