Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

A sudden gust of wind tears through the clearing as Thales reacts just as fast.

”Tier 4: Gale Lock!”

He carves a sharp sigil in the air, and a pressure pulse detonates outward from him in a precise circle. The encroaching swarm stumbles, thrown back as invisible force slams into them—chitin snapping, limbs twisting, the air itself turning into a cage of sharpened gusts.

Brakar doesn’t waste the opening.

He surges forward like a charging boulder, his war axe already glowing with violent crimson runes. His voice is a low snarl.

”Tier 4: Ember Rend!”

The axe explodes with fire as he swings it in a wide arc, the flames coiling like serpents around the blade. It cleaves straight through the armored boar-beast’s skull in one blow, fire trailing behind like a comet. Bone splits, brains sizzle, and the thing crumples with a shaking thud.

Another screech erupts from the trees as three flying creatures dive—long-winged, needle-beaked horrors with skin like stretched tar.

”Right flank!” Thales barks, his voice sharp and practiced. ”Don’t let them gain height!”

Two of his soldiers answer instantly. One, a woman with golden tattoos etched across her arms, lifts her palms to the sky.

”Tier 4: Sky Cutter!”

With a snap, blades of wind flash upward—narrow arcs of compressed atmosphere. They rip two of the flying beasts in half midair. The third dodges, dives, then gets blasted from the side by a pillar of earth as an Ember Claw warrior channels ground magic to spike it with a jagged column of stone.

The bodies fall like dead leaves.

Brakar twists, swinging his axe again as more centipede-wolves burst through the trees.

One lunges straight for his chest. Brakar ducks low, then steps into it—his axe slamming up under its jaw and cleaving through to the spine. The weapon hums with heat as he spins, dragging the body to hurl into another incoming beast.

A soldier to his left screams—an Astram soldier—dragged to the ground by one of the beasts. Its mandibles lock onto his arm, snapping bone like dry twigs.

Brakar sees it. He doesn’t hesitate.

He bounds forward and kicks the beast off the soldier, then brings his axe down in a brutal vertical arc.

CRACK.

The centipede’s head splits down the middle, steam rising from the ruined body. The wounded Astram groans, barely conscious.

Brakar growls over his shoulder.

”Healers, on him! Don’t let one casualty break our flank!”

Thales nods once. ”Cover the backline!”

Another Ember Claw mage joins hands with an Astram windcaller.

A swirling spear of compressed heat and slicing air forms between them. It’s hurled with a shriek that cuts across the clearing—and explodes on impact, vaporizing a cluster of beasts trying to encircle their rear.

The forest trembles.

More beasts still come. Now from the western ridge—bigger, slower, with obsidian-scaled hides that shimmer with latent mana.

”Magic-resistant,” Thales says grimly.

Brakar cracks his neck. ”Then we go physical.”

He barrels forward again, faster than something his size should be.

Minutes pass in carnage.

Soldiers shout. Beasts shriek. Mana burns the air, thick and volatile.

But the tide doesn’t end.

They start to slow—not from hesitation, but exhaustion. The Ember Claw warriors fight with grit, shoulders hunched, arms trembling from constant blows. The Astram soldiers are more precise, but their casting is delayed now, steps heavier, timing breaking.

Injuries pile up.

One soldier from each side drops at nearly the same moment—one to a crushed leg, the other bleeding out from a bite wound. Neither fatal. But both down. And they’re not the only ones.

A mage slumps after overextending her mana. A blade dancer missteps and is thrown back, armor dented and bloodied.

Then another crash.

Something enormous lands just beyond the treeline, sending out a shockwave that flattens the grass and shakes leaves from branches. The beasts suddenly freeze. As if called to heel. Then scatter, vanishing into the forest’s edges like smoke pulled by wind.

Silence.

Then the trees part.

It lumbers forward—massive and deliberate. At least fifteen feet tall at the shoulder, its frame quadrupedal, its back ridged with jagged obsidian plates. Its face is covered by a skull-like mask fused directly into its flesh. No eyes. Just glowing crimson slits beneath the bone.

Its presence presses down on them like gravity. Mana thickens. The very forest seems to groan beneath it.

Brakar’s voice is low. ”That’s not Tier 4.”

Thales’s eyes narrow. ”No. That’s a peak Tier 5.”

The soldiers shift—but none of them step forward. They’re spent. Bloodied. And they know. This fight is beyond them now.

Brakar glances at the wounded, at the standing. Then at Thales. ”They’re done.”

Thales nods, grim.

Brakar steps forward, axe resting across one shoulder. He exhales once—then rolls his neck, cracking it loud enough to echo.

”Guess it’s just us, then.”

Thales floats forward until he’s beside the brute of a man. ”Try not to die, Ember.”

Brakar smirks. ”You try not to run, wind-boy.”

The beast growls, low and deep. Its breath carries heat. And something else—like corrupted mana, old and rotting.

Then it charges.

The ground craters beneath it with the first step.

Brakar meets it head-on.

-----

Outside, it’s been twenty minutes.

The silence around the monolith is heavy, broken only by the occasional shuffle of armor, the crackle of a campfire, or the distant cries of beasts deeper in the crypt. The air is still, but tension simmers in every breath.

Lathar stands near the edge of the staging field, arms crossed, eyes locked on the monolith.

He exhales slowly. ”Twenty minutes. Think they’re still alive in there?”

Alix stands a few steps away, posture relaxed but gaze sharp. ”They are.”

Lathar glances sideways. ”You’re sure?”

Alix doesn’t look at him. ”If Brakar were dead, the monolith would’ve reacted. We’d know.”

A beat of silence.

Lathar shifts, clearly itching for more than vague confidence. ”What do you think happens after we finish all five stages?”

Alix’s eyes narrow slightly as he finally turns his head. ”We don’t know. But seeing how both Astram and Veyrith are going all out…” His voice trails off, then continues flatly, ”They might have an idea. Something worth the risk. Worth the bodies.”

Lathar huffs a laugh and shakes his head. ”You could at least call him Lord Veyrith. Show a little respect. You’re already a commander.”

Alix shrugs, not unkindly. ”I only joined because we all want the same thing. Title doesn’t matter. Goal does.”

Before Lathar can respond, the monolith hums—low at first, like a distant horn—then pulses with a flash of white-blue light.

Everyone in the staging zone snaps to attention. Weapons half-raised. Healers pause mid-chant. Mages squint toward the light.

Then—

Fwomp.

A gust of wind rushes outward from the base of the monolith as twenty figures materialize.

Brakar stands at the front, armor scuffed, streaked with ash and blood. One shoulder is torn open, flesh darkened from a burn, but he still holds his axe steady.

Thales floats beside him, robes singed and torn at the hem, blood staining one side of his face. His breathing is shallow but composed.

Behind them, the other soldiers slump. Some clutch wounds. One is being half-carried. Another is on a conjured stretcher of wind, barely conscious.

Lathar steps forward, eyes scanning the group. ”You made it.”

Brakar snorts. ”Barely.”

One of the Astram soldiers limps past the monolith’s base, looking around at the others with wide, astonished eyes. ”No one died,” he murmurs. ”Since the second stage started… that’s the first time a full group came back alive.”

The words ripple through the gathered soldiers like a wave. Even the Ember Claw troops blink, some turning to each other in silent surprise.

Brakar doesn’t react to the praise. He turns, waving over two of his warriors. ”Tend to this two warriors. Their ribs are cracked. Get that burn salve on his arm—don’t wait.”

The mages snap to it without hesitation. Packs open. Potions hiss. Bandages tighten around wounds. Their movements are brisk, efficient. This is what survival looks like.

Lathar strides forward with a lopsided grin, nodding once in respect. ”Nice job, Brakar. You didn’t let a single one of them fall.”

Brakar huffs, the corner of his mouth twitching. ”Didn’t think I’d ever fight side by side with our enemy to survive, but here we are.”

Thales, still steadying himself with a flicker of mana, gives a dry chuckle. ”The feeling’s mutual.”

Then the monolith hums again.

Another group of twenty is chosen, half Ember Claw, half Astram. They vanish in a rush of light—like sparks scattered by wind.

The soldiers left behind don’t relax. If anything, their jaws tighten.

Minutes pass.

And then they return.

Not all of them.

Another group goes in. More time. More losses.

Another group goes in. More time passes. More losses.

An hour slips by.

Until finally, it’s Alix and ten others from his unit—they’re the last ones remaining.

A blink of light. A pulling sensation, like the world turns inside out for half a breath.

Then—forest.

Alix lands lightly, boots crunching down on wet leaves. The sky above is a green haze, thick with canopy and mist. Mana vibrates faintly in the air—like something old sleeps just beneath the roots.

He exhales once, eyes narrowing.

A second later, flickers of light surround him. In twos and threes, the rest of the Astram squad flashes into place—warriors, mages, one scout crouching with blades already drawn.

Boots hit dirt. Weapons unsheath. Quick glances all around.

They’re not alone.

To his right, another ripple. More figures appear—cloaked in deep gray and indigo armor, the unmistakable shimmer of Astram crests across their pauldrons.