Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

The wind whispers through the crenellations of the watchtower, carrying with it the distant howls of creatures unknown. Two soldiers, clad in the Valgros Kingdom’s midnight-blue armor, stand vigil under the pale glow of the twin moons.

Soldier 1, a young man with eyes that dart nervously across the horizon, breaks the silence. ”Old man, I heard that the monsters have already conquered half of Ordeya’s cities.”

Soldier 2, older and bearing the scars of past battles, nods solemnly. ”I know. That’s why I’m doing everything I can to get stationed elsewhere. After all, Tirion is one of the two cities they’ll likely attack first.”

The younger soldier swallows hard, gripping his spear tighter. ”So it’s a fifty-fifty chance.”

Soldier 2 offers a grim smile. ”Pretty much.”

Suddenly, the younger soldier squints into the darkness. ”Wait... do you see that?”

He points toward the horizon, where a faint glimmer of metal catches the moonlight.

”Is that... a skeleton in armor?”

”No,” he whispers, his voice tinged with disbelief. ”It’s not just a skeleton.”

The older soldier steps forward, his eyes narrowing. He activates his [Nightwatcher’s Sight], a skill that enhances his vision in darkness and over long distances. The world sharpens, revealing a chilling sight.

”No,” he whispers, his voice tinged with disbelief. ”It’s not just a skeleton.”

”By the gods...”

He sees a legion emerging from the mist—skeletal warriors clad in ancient armor, wights with glowing eyes, towering carrion ogres, and marrow hounds with fangs dripping ethereal ichor.

”It’s not just a skeleton. There are... things I’ve never seen before. Monsters... an entire army of them.”

The younger soldier’s face pales. ”What do we do?”

The older soldier grips his weapon tightly, his voice steady.

Soldier 2: ”We sound the alarm. Tirion must be ready.”

As the horn blares into the night, the undead legion continues its march, unwavering and silent.

The alarm bell tolls through the pre-dawn hush of Tirion, its deep clang reverberating off stone walls and tiled roofs. Lanterns flare to life across the barracks and guild halls, casting flickering light on the hurried movements of soldiers and adventurers alike. Boots thud against cobblestones, armor clinks, and the sharp commands of officers cut through the chaos.

In the central square, Captain Kedora stands atop a hastily assembled platform, his voice booming over the assembling crowd.

”Form ranks! Mages to the rear, archers on the flanks! Prepare for a defensive formation!”

Among the gathering defenders, whispers ripple through the ranks as eyes turn toward the horizon. This time a dense fog covers the Bonepiercers, unnatural in its speed and thickness, obscuring the landscape beyond the city’s outer walls.

”What’s causing that fog? It’s not natural...”

Captain Kedora strides toward the two soldiers who first sounded the alarm, his expression stern.

”Where’s the enemy?” he demands.

The older soldier, still catching his breath, replies, ”Sir, the fog covered the enemies after we rang the emergency alarm. Before that, we saw something... strange. A skeleton in armor.”

A murmur spreads through the assembled troops.

”A skeleton? Walking?” one soldier mutters, disbelief evident in his voice.

Another adds, ”How can the dead walk?”

Their questions are answered as the fog begins to dissipate, revealing a chilling sight. An army of skeletal warriors, wights, towering carrion ogres and monstrous creatures stands in formation, marrow hounds with fangs dripping ethereal ichor. Their hollow eyes glowing with an eerie light.

A palpable fear grips the defenders. The captain, sensing the wavering morale, raises his voice.

”Everyone, focus! No matter what these creatures are, we must defend our homeland!”

The soldiers straighten, gripping their weapons tighter, resolve hardening in their eyes.

Suddenly, a chilling aura envelops the city. The air grows cold, and an oppressive silence falls. From the midst of the undead army, a colossal skeletal hand materializes, gripping a massive sword forged of deathly energy.

With a deafening roar, the hand swings down, the sword cleaving through the city, destroying buildings and walls in its path. The ground shakes violently, and a cloud of dust and debris rises.

For a moment, there is stunned silence. Then, a young soldier, tears streaming down his face, cries out, ”Run!”

With the city’s defenses compromised, the undead surge forward with unnatural speed, their tier 4 strength overwhelming the human defenders.

The undead breach the city’s perimeter, their movements a blur. Skeletal warriors, their armor clanking, charge with weapons raised. Wights emit eerie wails as they leap onto the battlements, tearing through the ranks. Carrion ogres, massive and grotesque, swing their clubs, sending soldiers flying.

Captain Kedora barely has time to shout, ”Hold the line!” before the first skeletal blade carves clean through a man beside him.

”Back! Regroup at the—” His command cuts off as a marrow hound crashes into him from above. Its jaws clamp down on his shoulder. He screams, channels his Tier 4 skill, and blasts the creature off with a shockwave. He stumbles to his feet, blood pouring down his arm.

A towering wight lands in front of him, eyes glowing with unnatural hunger.

Kedora roars, ”You want a real fight?!” and hurls his blade into a spinning arc, igniting it with crimson energy. It slams into the wight’s torso—only for the creature to catch it mid-swing. With a sickening crunch, it drives its own bony hand into Kedora’s chest, piercing through the armor like paper.

Kedora gasps, blood bubbling from his lips. His last words are a hoarse whisper. ”Forgive me, Tirion...”

He falls.

The line breaks.

All at once, the soldiers scream. Some fight. Most run.

”Retreat!” someone yells. ”They’re Tier 4! We’re not— we’re not even close!”

”Gods help us!”

The older soldier from the watchtower, still gripping his spear, swings at a wight charging toward him. The blow connects—only for the creature to grab the shaft and shatter it with one hand. The soldier drops the splinters, draws a dagger, and roars defiantly.

”For Valgros!”

He doesn’t last long. The wight pins him to the wall, claws tearing through his chestplate.

Nearby, Soldier 1 runs, breath ragged, the noise behind him a deafening storm of battle cries and dying screams. A marrow hound clips his leg, and he tumbles to the ground. He turns, stabbing blindly upward, luck granting him one desperate wound across the beast’s eye. It yelps and stumbles back—just in time for a carrion ogre’s foot to crush the young soldier in a single, brutal stomp.

Buildings crumble as the undead pour in. Magic flares in the distance—fireballs, lightning bolts, barriers—but none of it holds for long. Tier 2 and Tier 3 spells break against Tier 4 monstrosities. Mages scream as their protective circles shatter.

An archer fires arrow after arrow from a rooftop—until a winged wight tears him from the ledge and drops him screaming into the crowd.

No reinforcements come. No miracles descend.

Tirion falls in less than an hour.

High above the city, Gorath floats with arms crossed, his massive form like a shadow against the moons. He watches the chaos below with a mixture of awe and amusement.

”Heh... unbelievable,” Gorath mutters, his tone rich with excitement. ”This is just one-fifth of Bonepiercer’s legion... and still, look at them.”

Below him, the undead continue their relentless advance. Buildings collapse, flames rise, and human screams echo beneath the clash of steel and bone. The air thrums with power—an oppressive, soul-chilling aura that pulses in waves.

Gorath narrows his eyes as several skeletal step forward amidst the battlefield. Their hollow chests begin to glow faintly. One by one, they thrust their weapons into the ground and shout in a forgotten tongue. The air twists.

Then, it happens.

With a sudden crack of energy, the earth quakes and from their backs, spectral limbs begin to materialize—colossal skeletal arms of pure aura, large enough to crush a wagon with a flick. They raise that phantom limb into the air.

The effect is instant.

[Battleforged]—the Legion’s signature ability.

Even incomplete, even as flickering projections of only a single arm—the pressure it exudes makes the entire city feel like it’s bowing.

Gorath grins, a jagged smile splitting his craggy face.

”Oh-ho... now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

He spreads his arms wide, his immense body crackling with contained energy.

”Even just materializing one damn arm, and they turn the battlefield into a slaughterhouse. Hells, I’m getting fired up just watching this!”

One of the spectral arms slams into a tower where surviving mages are casting in desperation. The structure implodes in an explosion of debris and flame. Screams vanish under the thunderous crash.

He floats down slightly, just enough to better watch the aftermath—Tirion, once proud, now a ruin soaked in blood and ash.

His eyes glow brighter.

”And this... this is just the beginning.”

The fires still burn. The screams have faded, now replaced by the groans of the wounded and the eerie silence that follows only after something is truly broken. Tirion, now lies in ruin—its spires shattered, its streets choked with debris and blood.

Gorath hovers above the central plaza, arms folded, eyes scanning the remnants of resistance. Below, the last pockets of defenders—those too wounded to flee, too exhausted to fight—begin to drop their weapons. One by one. Then in clusters.

A soldier falls to his knees, sobbing, his sword clattering to the cobblestone. Another throws down her shield and raises trembling hands.

”…We surrender!” someone shouts hoarsely.

And then others echo it.

”We surrender! We surrender!”

The cry spreads across what remains of Tirion’s defenders, rising above the silence like a desperate chant for mercy.

Gorath’s glowing eyes narrow. His voice echoes across the battlefield, deep and commanding, carried by unnatural wind.

”Bonepiercers! Don’t kill the ones that surrendered!”