Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Only when their presence vanishes completely—when the storm they left behind settles into silence—does Alix allow his shoulders to ease. Just slightly.

He turns back to Gander, still lying broken in the center of the ruined battlefield.

Alix crouches beside him again. ”They really gave you a beating, Gander.”

Gander forces a weak laugh, dry and ragged. ”My apology, Your Majesty,” he rasps. ”I was already injured before the fight… my mana hadn’t recovered fully. If it had… I could’ve taken those two. Without a problem.”

Alix smiles faintly, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes but carries warmth nonetheless. ”It’s all good. You’re alive—that’s what matters.”

Without another word, Alix gently pulls Gander’s arm over his shoulder and rises, supporting his weight with practiced ease. Gander stumbles slightly, but Alix steadies him effortlessly.

”You’ve done enough for today,” Alix murmurs.

They lift off from the crater, soaring above the devastation. Ash and soot spiral in their wake, the ruins of the Verid Hollow shrinking below them.

They disappear into the sky, searching for a quiet place.

A place to rest.

To heal.

-----

Velzar City.

Two streaks of light tear across the dusk-lit sky, trailing smoke and fragmented mana. They fall fast—too fast—until they crash down before the obsidian gates of the castle.

The force kicks up a gust of wind and scorched dust.

The first guard steps forward instinctively, hand tightening around his halberd—until his eyes adjust.

”Sir Tandu!” he gasps. ”Sir Carwel!”

The two figures slump forward. Tandu drops to one knee, teeth bared in a snarl, blood smeared across his jaw. Carwel stays standing only because he’s leaning on the broken haft of his own weapon, his chest rising and falling with ragged effort.

”Go,” the first guard snaps to his companion, his voice sharp with urgency. ”Get the healers. Now!”

The second guard doesn’t hesitate. He bolts toward the inner gate, already flaring a signal rune in the air with his palm.

-----

In the healing chamber, the two warriors—Tandu and Carwel—can finally sit upright without swaying. The pain still lingers, etched deep into their bones, but their breathing has steadied.

Tandu spits a clot of blood onto the stone floor and exhales.

”Alright,” he grunts. ”Stop the healing for now. I’ll go to Lord Astram and give the report—”

But before he can rise to his feet, the air shifts. A pressure rolls into the room like thunder before a storm.

And then, he is there.

The door creaks open without sound. A monster enters—tall, armored in scales of glimmering obsidian green and iron-gray. The light seems to bend around his form.

Lord Astram.

”There’s no need,” Astram says, his voice deep, metallic, and resonant. ”You can report to me here.”

Tandu freezes. Carwel instinctively bows his head. Both speak as one, their voices strained but respectful.

”My lord.”

The healers, sensing the change in atmosphere, bow quickly and file out without a word. Only Astram and the two warriors remain.

Tandu lowers his head further, then straightens, still breathing hard. ”Understood.” He exchanges a glance with Carwel, then begins.

”We found that person… the one we’ve only known as ’The Plague.’ Same abilities. Same cursed skills” He swallows, his voice quieter.

Astram’s expression doesn’t change, but the light in his eyes sharpens slightly. ”Go on.”

Tandu swallows, then straightens.

”We engaged him,” he begins. ”He was already damaged when we arrived—burned, cracked, leaking mana. Should’ve been a simple cleanup.”

Carwel shifts slightly, silent.

”But it wasn’t,” Tandu continues. ”He withstood the first two volleys. Kept fighting. His skill—Xhar’s Final Stitch—it’s… unnatural. He wouldn’t die.”

Astram’s eyes narrow faintly.

Tandu presses on. ”We had to use all our Tier 6 skills. Even then, the bastard stayed standing long enough to drag us into hell with him.”

There’s a pause. Tandu clenches his fists.

”We did won, my lord. But...”

Astram is quiet for a moment. His gaze flicks to Carwel, who nods grimly in confirmation.

”…And then?” Astram asks.

Tandu’s jaw tenses. ”Someone appeared. Out of nowhere. The pressure he released—he shouldn’t be Tier 5, but that’s what our readings said. Even so… we couldn’t move. He made us retreat.”

Astram’s gaze doesn’t shift. His golden eyes bore into Tandu’s.

”You ran.”

Tandu flinches, then drops to one knee again.

”Yes, my lord.”

For a long moment, Astram says nothing. The silence hums with tension, like a string pulled taut.

Finally, Astram speaks—quietly.

”…Heal yourselves,” he says, turning slightly toward the window where dark clouds churn beyond the horizon. ”I feel turmoil building on this continent. And when it arrives, I’ll need you at full strength.”

Neither Tandu nor Carwel respond immediately. They just nod, heads lowered, the weight of shame still pressing on their backs—but they accept the order.

----

In a quiet grove on the outskirts of the shattered battlefield, the wind brushes softly through fractured trees and the scorched grass is slowly regrowing where mana has begun to return.

Alix kneels beside Gander, who’s now leaning against a slanted boulder, wrapped in a cloak to hide the worst of his wounds from the chill air.

Alix pulls out a small vial in the inventory—obsidian glass, etched with fine gold runes. Its contents glow a soft, pale amber that pulses like a heartbeat. The name etched beneath the seal reads: Heartroot Elixir – Tier 10 Grade.

Alix stares at it for a moment before exhaling softly.

’This thing cost me over ten thousand credits back in the game,’ he thought. ’Took a full month of raids, auctions, and trading. Just to get one.’

Alix gives a dry laugh, shaking his head. ’To people living well, maybe it’s nothing. Pocket change. But for someone like me… this was everything. I only bought it because I thought I’d need it for that raid.’

He uncorks the vial slowly. A delicate scent of warmth and rain-soaked earth rises from it—old magic, potent and pure.

He lifts the vial to Gander’s mouth.

”Drink.”

The moment the liquid touches his tongue, his body jolts faintly. The glow spreads from his throat outward, pulsing into his chest, down his limbs. The cursed seams binding his body stabilize, then seal. The pale rot threading his veins vanishes one line at a time. The air grows still.

Gander exhales, clearer now. ”…I feel like I just drank a divine water.”

”You did,” Alix says quietly. ”Now don’t waste it.”

He stands, brushing dust from his coat, but doesn’t look away from Gander.

”Rest. When you’re able to move, we’ve got planning to do.”

----

Back to the Three Kingdoms Continent.

The war grinds forward like a relentless beast.

Smoke rises over the scarred plains of eastern Valgros. Once lush, now cratered and burning. Black banners marked with bone sigils march forward in unison.

At the head of the invasion, General Gorath stands atop a ridge of shattered stone, his monstrous frame wrapped in thick armor. His voice is like a boulder crashing through a battlefield.

”Push forward. No quarter. I want that fortress turned to ash tonight.”

Behind him, the Bonepiercers Legion advances like a wall of death—cold, merciless, tireless.

Beside Gorath, General Varkas rides a plated dreadmaw. He grins behind a cracked helm. ”Keep on attacking. They’ll break soon.”

To the left and right, the four commanders fan out—each a nightmare in motion.

Sorin, her twin sabers dripping with the blood of scouts, moves like a shadow through the battlefield, silent and vicious.

Thurn, cloaked in skittering webs, commands a swarm of venomous arachnids and monsters that overrun trenches before any soldier can scream.

Nyssara, blade-limbed and bearing a massive shield, sweeps across the walls of Fort Relan with her folded weapons drawn. Each swing is a storm of metal and blood.

Veltha, coiling through the grass, chants in a long-forgotten tongue. The ground trembles beneath her spells, and entire battalions of Valgros soldiers fall screaming as the earth transforms into a marshland.

”Push them back!” Asdri roars, surging forward once more, lightning dancing across his blade. His cloak is in tatters, his armor scorched—but his eyes burn with defiance.

Behind him, the Golden Lion Legion crashes into the enemy lines like a tidal wave of steel and flame. Their golden banners ripple with every clash, every step forward.

Pyke, his chest still bleeding, slams his war axe into a marrow hound, crushing bone and sending splinters flying. ”These things just keep coming!”

”Keep your line tight!” Ingra shouts, casting a barrier of frost as another wight lunges. Her magic flickers, weaker now, but her will remains iron. ”We fall back now, and they’ll overrun the city!”

Valia floats above, pale light trailing from her fingers as she heals a downed knight. Her voice rings clear. ”Their commander—Gorath. Let’s try taking him down this time, the legion might collapse!”

The fight rages on for hours.

Steel clashes, spells detonate, cries of rage and pain echo across the battlefield. The sun has dipped behind thick clouds of smoke and dust, and both armies bleed from every edge.

Even the monsters seem to slow. Even the elites falter.

Asdri, breathing heavily, blocks another blow from Gorath’s massive fist. Sparks fly. Their weapons lock, and for the first time since the battle began, their eyes meet—close, tired, blazing.

”You’re always been persistent,” Gorath growls, voice like grinding stone. ”But your men are gasping.”

”So are yours,” Asdri mutters, forcing Gorath back with a surge of lightning. He takes two shaky steps, then stops.

Gorath pauses. Looks across the torn battlefield.

His Bonepiercers are still fighting, but the regular soldiers are at their limit.

The Golden Lions fare no better—golden cloaks soaked in red, armor dulled, spells half-cast from trembling hands.