Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

The next morning. Firion City, Capital of Valgros Kingdom

Rain lashes against the palace windows, a soft yet relentless drumming that seems to echo the grim mood within the grand war chamber. Magic lamp flicker along the stone walls, their flames dancing as if disturbed by unseen hands. The atmosphere is thick, heavy with dread.

King Rewalt sits at the head of the long obsidian table, hands clasped tightly before him. His usually calm, commanding face is pale and tight with tension.

A high-ranking scout finishes his report with trembling hands. ”…And just before dawn, our scryers confirmed it. Tirion has fallen, Your Majesty. The city was overrun before reinforcements could be dispatched. We… we believe the entire garrison has been wiped out or taken.”

Silence settles like a shroud.

Rewalt’s face twists, his jaw clenched. The sound of his knuckles cracking as he grips the edge of the table breaks the quiet.

”…Destroyed in a single night,” he mutters, barely louder than a whisper. ” Over five thousand soldiers, and it still fell…”

He turns his head slowly, his gaze falling on the man standing just beside him.

”Marshal Tesvin,” Rewalt says, his voice sharp with restrained fury. ”Any word on Marshal Zinov? Or… my son?”

Tesvin—normally composed, unshakable—lowers his head. His armor is still dusted with ash from last night’s failed mobilization.

”…No, Your Majesty,” Tesvin says quietly. ”There’s been no contact from Marshal Zinov’s command. Ashlight City is also in enemy hands.”

Tesvin hesitates. Just for a moment. Then he answers.

”The last confirmed report, sire… was that His Highness Asdri encountered a Tier 6 entity in the capital of Ordeya. He fought it directly to hold the line.” He swallows. ”He… suffered grave injuries. The surviving healers said his condition remains unknown.”

The room falls into a terrible silence.

King Rewalt lowers his head, eyes shadowed beneath his golden crown. For a moment, the king looks not like a ruler, but a father—stricken by regret.

”I shouldn’t have let him go to Ordeya…” he murmurs, his voice thick. ”I should’ve kept him here. It’s my fault. I sent him into the jaws of death.”

Tesvin remains silent, respectful. The weight of the king’s guilt is heavy, and there are no words that can lift it.

Then Rewalt straightens in his seat. His expression hardens.

”We can’t lose another city,” he says firmly. ”Gather every soldier we have left. I don’t care if they’re stationed along the borders or guarding merchant routes. Pull them back. I want a force assembled—now.”

Tesvin nods immediately. ”As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Rewalt gestures to a nearby servant, who carries a long, ornate box bound in enchanted steel and crimson leather. The servant steps forward and kneels, presenting the box to Tesvin.

Rewalt places a hand on the lid. ”Take this.”

Tesvin’s brows knit. ”Sire?”

Rewalt opens the box with a quiet click.

Inside lies a magnificent weapon—long and wrapped in golden bindings, pulsing with a dormant power. Arcane etchings glow faintly along the blade’s edge, humming with barely contained force.

”It’s the kingdom’s treasure,” Rewalt says solemnly. ”A Tier 6 weapon—Lion’s Fang.”

Tesvin stares at it in silence, awe and pressure settling into his chest.

”You won’t be able to draw out its full strength,” Rewalt admits. ”Not yet. But even so… it should be enough to face a peak Tier 5.”

Tesvin’s jaw tightens. He bows low.

”I will not disappoint you, Your Majesty.”

Rewalt adds, ”Take the Golden Lion Legion with you.”

Tesvin’s head snaps up, eyes wide. ”The Golden Lion? Are you certain, sire?”

Rewalt nods without hesitation. ”They’re the best we have. Two thousand soldiers—every one of them Tier 4. If we’re going to strike back, it has to be with our sharpest blade.”

Tesvin draws a slow breath, then gives a deep, resolute nod.

”I’ll lead them, sire. We’ll hold the line. No more cities will fall.”

------

Asdri’s eyes flutter, then slowly open—cloudy at first, unfocused.

The tent is dim, lit by soft enchantments that float like fireflies. The scent of herbs and blood fills the air.

Valia gasps.

”He’s awake!”

Valia nearly collapses in relief. Her hands tremble as golden light fades from her palms. She’s been kneeling by Asdri’s side the entire night, her magic flowing nonstop, her face drawn and pale.

”Oh, gods…” she whispers, blinking hard. ”You idiot. You absolute idiot…”

Asdri blinks slowly, voice a rasp. ”Valia… I’m sorry.”

Around them, the others begin to stir. Ingra is sitting against the wall, arm wrapped in frost bandages. Pyke’s covered in bruises, legs propped up on a broken chair. Famir, quiet as ever, just leans against the window frame, relief softening his usually sharp expression.

”Looks like our gamble worked,” Pyke mutters with a crooked smile. ”You’re too stubborn to die, huh?”

Asdri tries to laugh—only to groan, wincing.

Valia immediately presses a glowing hand to his ribs. ”Hey, easy. You burned out almost everything. Your core, your channels… even your bones are cracked in three places.”

”…Worth it,” he mutters.

Ingra scoffs gently, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. ”Says the man who screamed like a banshee halfway through casting.”

Famir’s voice is low, but steady. ”You did it. That thing’s gone. And the city still stands.”

Pyke leans back with a satisfied grunt, his arms behind his head. ”This is good news. If we tell the folks back on Weldea Continent, they probably won’t even believe us. ’Oh yeah, we erased a Tier 6 monster with a combo spell.’ Ha! They’d think we become crazy.”

Ingra chuckles, brushing a lock of hair from her face. ”It’s thanks to that old man giving us the link skill. What was his name again?”

Asdri shifts slightly, grimacing. ”Master Elstag. You’re right… I never imagined the link skill could go that far. We barely scratched the surface during training.”

He pauses, eyes thoughtful.

”We should thank him when we get back to Weldea. I think this is the first time anyone’s pushed a link skill to its absolute limit.”

”We always used it for defense,” Ingra adds. ”Or simple support magic.”

Famir nods. ”But channeling multiple Tier 5 skills into one body? That’s something else entirely.”

Valia crosses her arms, brow furrowed and looked at Asdri. ”And nearly killed you.”

Her voice is sharp, but there’s a tremor in it. She doesn’t hide how scared she was.

”We shouldn’t use that technique unless we have no other choice,” she says. ”It’s too dangerous.”

Asdri lets out a breath. ”I know. I don’t plan on feeling that kind of pain again.”

He glances toward Pyke, a tired smirk forming. ”...Maybe it’s your turn next time.”

Pyke raises both hands. ”Whoa, no thanks. My bones like being intact. You’re the chosen one or whatever, not me.”

Everyone laughs—tired, aching, but genuine.

The kind of laughter that comes only after survival.

Suddenly, the tent flap is pulled open with urgency, letting in a gust of wind and the smell of rain-soaked earth.

Marshal Zinov steps inside, his armor scratched and his cloak damp from travel. His stern expression softens the moment his eyes land on Asdri.

”Your Highness,” he says, voice low with relief. ”I’m glad you’re awake.”

Asdri manages a small smile. ”Uncle… you know me. I’m not that easy to kill.”

Zinov chuckles once, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. ”No, you’re not. But you scared us all.”

He kneels briefly beside the bed, placing a hand on Asdri’s shoulder. Then he rises with a sigh.

”I wish I could stay, but I can’t. I need to return to the capital immediately.”

Asdri’s brow furrows. ”What happened?”

Zinov’s face hardens. ”Tirion fell last night.”

The air in the tent freezes. All the warmth, all the lightheartedness, evaporates.

Valia’s hand stills over Asdri’s ribs. Pyke straightens in his seat. Ingra’s eyes go wide, lips parted in disbelief. Famir says nothing—but his hand.

”…What?” Asdri asks, voice hoarse. ”Tirion fell?”

Zinov nods grimly. ”It was fast. Our outer wards went dark just before midnight. By dawn, the city was overrun. We lost contact with the command post, the towers, even the eastern watch. It’s… it’s gone.”

Asdri slowly pushes himself up despite Valia’s protests, his teeth clenched against the pain. ”How many?”

Zinov doesn’t answer at first. His jaw works, and for a moment, the Marshal looks older than ever.

”Too many,” he finally says. ”Over five thousand stationed there. We… we’re not sure how many made it out. Maybe a few hundred, at most.”

Silence follows. A silence that presses on every chest.

Zinov exhales slowly, then continues, his voice low and grave.

”His Majesty has decided to go all out. He’s mobilizing everything we have to halt the enemy’s advance. No more delays. No more waiting. He’ll meet them head-on before they reach the heartlands.”

Asdri’s hands clench over the blanket. His breathing is uneven, but his gaze sharpens. ”Please… be careful. We still don’t know if they have another Tier 6 on their side.”

Zinov offers a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his tired eyes. ”Don’t worry, Your Highness. The Valgros Kingdom isn’t something a single Tier 6 can destroy.”

He steps back, adjusting the grip on his sword belt. ”Even monsters bleed. And if they don’t, we’ll teach them how.”

Asdri’s voice softens, heavy with gratitude. ”Thank you… Uncle.”

Zinov meets his gaze for a long moment. Then he nods. ”Get well, Asdri. You’re still needed. And when you’re ready… come find us.”

With that, he turns, his cloak snapping behind him as he strides out into the rain-soaked morning.

The tent is quiet once more.