Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

There’s a beat of silence after Veyrith’s words—long enough for the weight of them to settle.

Then Brakar steps forward.

His eyes burn with resolve as he raises his voice so it carries across the entire formation.

”We will not fail.”

The commanders straighten. The monsters behind him let out low, rising growls—barely restrained energy trembling just under the surface.

One of the captains, a flame-crowned beastkin, roars, ”We’ll carve our way through whatever waits inside!”

A knight slams a gauntlet to his chest. ”For the future of this land!”

”For the fallen!” someone else shouts.

”For vengeance!”

Then, in perfect unison, every voice rises like thunder crashing across the mountains:

”We will win, and free this land from Astram’s tyranny!”

The ground itself seems to respond, mana pulsing beneath their feet. The portal surges behind Veyrith, its light deepening to a storm-lit glow—like it, too, recognizes the weight of what’s coming.

Veyrith gives a single, sharp nod.

”Then, let’s go.”

The moment Veyrith steps into the portal, the tension doesn’t lessen—it shifts. Like coals pressed tighter under weight, not cooled. Svira follows silently behind him, her tail trailing a serpentine path across the stone floor. And then, the rest begin to move.

One by one, the commanders signal their squads. Alix turns, locking eyes with Lathar, who gives a crisp nod. No words are needed.

Then—

Light.

The portal flares, swallowing the vanguard whole.

And when the world reforms—

They stand in silence, on the other side.

The air here is different. Heavier. Stale with age and something else—something buried. The floor beneath their boots is smooth obsidian. The chamber is vast, circular, and cold.

But what truly halts them—

—are the ones waiting.

Across the chamber, just beyond the far curve of the ancient hall, Astram’s forces are already assembled.

Tier 4 and five elites in jagged armor. Spellcasters swathed in blood-red runes. Beastkin with gleaming, unnatural eyes. And at the front stands Astram, unmoving, his presence like a knife slid between the ribs of the world.

Tension erupts instantly—like two clouds of toxic gas meeting in the air, their fumes ready to ignite at the faintest spark.

The two armies don’t charge. Not yet. But it wouldn’t take much. One step. One breath. One insult.

Rewalt steps through the final archway from the hidden portal chamber, flanked tightly by Asdri and two royal guards. The moment he sees both forces—Astram’s and Veyrith’s—facing each other in that vast chamber, something cold twists in his gut.

Gods… they look like they’re seconds away from killing each other.

Asdri leans in quietly, voice low. ”Father… they are hungry for each other’s throats.”

King Rewalt watches from the edge of the chamber, his breath shallow, chest tight. Asdri stands close behind him, his fingers flexing near the hilt of his blade even though he knows, he can’t do anything if a battle erupts.

The two armies stare each other down, silent as death.

Rewalt swallows hard. Every instinct screams that this was a mistake. That asking for help from two, Veyrith and Astram, was a gamble no sane ruler should’ve made.

And now they’re here. In his kingdom. In his crypt.

He feels it. The raw power. The hunger for battle humming beneath the skin of these monsters, like wolves in a pen made of paper.

Astram’s forces stand like a tide waiting to crash. Veyrith’s side, steady as carved stone, no less lethal. One provocation—one step too close—and the entire capital city could become a graveyard.

Rewalt finally breaks the silence.

”Follow me,” he says, low but firm.

Both armies remain still, but two figures move—one from each side.

Astram lifts a hand without looking, and the closest of his elite nods, signaling his troops to follow but not engage. Veyrith mirrors the action, his expression unreadable as he steps forward alongside Rewalt.

Asdri follows behind, tension still clinging to his bones.

They walk slowly—Rewalt leading them past rune-etched pillars and ancient, crumbling statues, deeper into the crypt. The air grows colder, denser. Power, ancient and unmoving, coils through the stone like vines in a long-dead garden.

Neither Astram nor Veyrith speak as they walk side by side, their silence louder than war drums.

Finally, they reach it.

A gate—not made of metal, but a special-white stone. Covered in layered seals and sunken glyphs that pulse faintly with forgotten mana. It radiates pressure. Not aggressive. But watchful. Waiting.

Rewalt stops before it. His voice is quiet. ”This is it.”

He reaches into his cloak and pulls out a pendant—circular, etched with the same glyphs that glow along the gate. With a whisper of a word, the pendant rises in his palm, floating into the air.

The glyphs respond.

A hum fills the crypt, low and bone-deep. Then the gate begins to shift.

The runes shiver. Locking mechanisms older than the kingdom itself begin to turn.

And then, a crack splits the air, like the first breath of a tomb that hasn’t opened in centuries.

A gust of cold, dry air spills out. Dust swirls. Mana pulses.

But beyond the gate… is only darkness.

A huge wave of aura sweeps through the group like a tidal force made of pressure and presence. Even Veyrith and Astram—both brushing the peak of Tier 6—pause, their expressions tightening under the weight of it.

Astram breaks the silence with a short, sharp laugh. ”There it is. This is no trick… it’s a real tomb. A Tier 7’s resting place.”

Veyrith’s eyes gleam, but he reins in his excitement with a breath, his voice low and even. ”Finally. This... this might be worth it.”

The others are visibly affected—stiffening, bracing, exchanging uncertain glances.

But Alix? He doesn’t flinch.

His gaze scans the shifting mana with measured calm. He crosses his arms and exhales through his nose, unimpressed.

Alix thought. ’Hm. The aura’s dense, sure… but not overwhelming. If there are Tier 7 artifacts here, they’ll be useful. Nothing more.’

The difference is stark.

Rewalt lets the silence stretch for a breath longer, then speaks, his voice firm but weary. ”Just like I said—only those at Tier 5 or below can enter.”

He continues, ”And… once you pass through, you’ll be teleported to a random location inside. No way to predict it. No way to control it.”

Lathar blinks, then frowns. ”Then what’s the point of us gathering like this?” He turns to Alix, brows raised, voice edged with disbelief. ”We can’t coordinate. Can’t plan.”

Astram’s voice cuts in, cool and sharp. ”So we can’t enter in squads?”

Rewalt shakes his head. ”Not unless you’re very lucky. That’s all I know. This tomb hasn’t been opened in my lifetime. Everything I’ve told you comes from the records of the kings before me.”

There’s a short pause.

Then, as if on cue, both Veyrith and Astram turn to their forces at once.

”Once you’re inside,” Veyrith says, his tone commanding, ”locate your comrades immediately. Don’t waste time. Prioritize regrouping.”

Astram’s gaze sweeps over his people, cold and cutting. ”Survive the drop. Then find your own. Avoid fighting until you’re at full strength.”

Lathar glances at Alix again, quieter this time. ”We’ll be scattered.”

Alix nods once. ”That’s fine. Our people are full of elites—they’ll manage.”

A moment of tense quiet settles once more. The kind that comes before a storm.

Rewalt steps back from the gate, the glyphs still glowing softly behind him.

”It’s open,” he says simply.

Astram turns to his assembled troops with a sharp wave of his hand. ”You’re first. Move.”

No hesitation. His elite step forward in near-perfect synchronization. Blood-red cloaks sweep the floor. Blades, staffs, and beast-forms shift and tense as the first of them approaches the gate. Carwel and Tandu, standing just behind Astram, remain still.

Carwel’s voice is quiet, almost regretful. ”I would’ve liked to see what’s inside.”

Then, without another word, the first of Astram’s forces crosses the threshold. The portal flares—light swallowing them whole—and they vanish into the tomb.

Veyrith watches without expression. His arms are folded, his tail still. Svira stands beside him, silent and unmoving, though her eyes track each soldier vanishing into the light.

When the last of Astram’s troops disappear, Veyrith finally speaks, his voice low.

”Let them go first. Doesn’t matter.” He glances toward his own commanders. ”Our time’s the same once we’re inside.”

He turns, nodding once. A subtle command.

Veyrith’s force begins to move.

They move like a storm of different shapes—monsters and warriors and beings of strange anatomy—but all with the same deadly focus. The portal devours them one by one.

Soon, only one group remains.

Alix and his people.

Lathar exhales slowly. ”Guess it’s our turn.”

Alix glances around at his squad crouched like a coiled blade.

”Remember,” Alix says, ”this isn’t a war zone. Not yet. Find each other. Don’t waste energy fighting every enemy you see.”

Lathar nods, expression grim but ready. The others murmur quiet affirmations. No fear. Just anticipation.

Then Alix steps forward.

He doesn’t look back.

The moment his foot crosses the threshold, the portal pulses—light bends, warps—

—then everything is gone.

A rush of cold. A strange pressure pulling in all directions.

Then silence.

When Alix opens his eyes, he’s somewhere else.

He stands alone on a broad, cracked stone plain. The sky above is murky—deep gray and faintly shimmering, like fog over polished glass. Far above, there’s a ceiling—miles up, maybe more—but still visible. It curves like a dome, faintly lit by unknown sources.

”Huh…”

He turns slowly in place.

The landscape stretches outward, impossibly vast. Strange structures dot the horizon—some broken, some half-buried. There’s grass in patches, but it’s dark and fibrous, like it grew in shadow. Obsidian pillars rise from the ground in crooked patterns, humming faintly with power.

”Feels more like a sealed world than a tomb,” Alix mutters to himself.

He narrows his eyes, testing the flow of mana.

Then he tried to fly.