Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Panic ripples through the ranks. Some soldiers glance toward the massive, sealed gateway at the back of the chamber—still closed. No obvious way out. No teleport circles. No escape.

But Alix doesn’t flinch.

He reaches into his cloak, fingers brushing across something cool and ancient.

Then, he pulls it out.

A talisman—simple in shape, but etched with delicate, pulsing runes. It glows faintly in his palm, the light steady even as the world around them trembles.

No one speaks.

They all stare.

”What… is that?” Brakar mutters, eyes narrowing.

Alix lifts it so they can see. ”This,” he says calmly, ”is our way out.”

The air stills. Even the debris seems to hang suspended for a moment.

”It’s a teleport talisman,” Alix explains, voice carrying clear across the chamber. ”One-time use. Designed to carry a group out of sealed realms—if the lock isn’t set by a higher being or something worse.”

Everyone turns toward Alix, stunned.

Murmurs ripple through the crowd like wind through dry grass.

”A teleport talisman that can teleport a group?”

”Is something like that even exist?…”

”Where did he get something like that?”

”Did he make it? Or… was it given?”

No one speaks louder than a whisper, as if afraid the talisman itself might vanish if they questioned it too much.

Alix doesn’t explain further. He simply activates it.

The runes on the talisman ignite with golden-blue light, then rise like burning leaves from his palm—swirling upward in a vortex that expands fast. It forms a dome of shifting energy, enveloping every soul within the collapsing chamber.

And in the space between one breath and the next—

They vanish.

The world returns.

The air is fresh. The sky is endless blue.

A vast stretch of plains greets them—wind rolling over green grasses, wild and unbroken, stretching to the horizon. There are no landmarks. No cities. No walls. Just open land and sky.

The soldiers blink.

Many fall to their knees, dazed. Some grip the earth as if to convince themselves it’s real.

”We’re… outside?” someone breathes.

”No wards… no seals…”

”It’s just grass.”

Lathar scans the horizon, hand instinctively on his sword. ”Where are we?”

Alix, standing at the front, doesn’t look back.

He gazes out toward the far distance—his eyes calm, unreadable.

”You’re safe now,” he says. ”That’s what matters.”

The wind rustles the grass. The silence holds.

Then Alix speaks again.

”You’ll wait here. A ten-meter giant will arrive to fetch you. Don’t be alarmed—it’s loyal to me.”

The soldiers stir.

”A… what?”

”A giant?!”

Brakar lets out a low whistle. ” A real giant, you just keep surprising us?”

Lathar steps forward, voice cautious. ”Ali—I mean, Your Majesty… are you going to…?”

Alix turns his head slightly.

His voice is calm—quiet, but resolute.

”Yes,” Alix says. ”I’m going to end this.”

The words fall like iron.

The murmurs stop.

Even the wind seems to pause.

Then he adds, ”But if Veyrith is willing to submit… to become my subordinate rather than my enemy—I’ll spare him. That choice is his to make.”

Lathar clenches his jaw, a flicker of hesitation flashing in his eyes. Then he drops to one knee, head bowed—not in fealty, but in earnest plea.

”Then let me come with you,” he says. ”I served Lord Veyrith for years. If anyone can reach him… if there’s a chance to change his mind, I’ll find it.”

Alix watches him quietly for a breath.

Then nods once.

”Very well.”

Without another word, Alix lifts into the sky, his cloak trailing behind like a shadow cut from the wind. Lathar follows a beat later, rising with practiced ease, his silhouette streaking into the heavens beside his sovereign.

The others watch in silence.

---

Deep within the Valgros Kingdom – The Royal Crypt

The stone walls quake.

Dust rains from the high, arching ceiling as the Crypt groans under its own weight. Pillars—ancient and runed—shudder as though the breath of a giant passes through them.

King Rewalt stumbles, catching himself against the cold stone. His eyes are wide, frantic.

”The seals are destabilizing!” he growls. ”We have to stop this—if the tomb collapses—!”

Prince Asdri stands at his father’s side. ”Father. What is happening?!”

Their voices echo, swallowed by the trembling chamber.

A moment later, figures rush through the corridor behind them. Mana licks the air like the scent of lightning before a storm.

Veyrith, his jaw set and eyes sharp, strides forward with Svira just behind him—her expression unreadable, her gaze flickering across every crumbling sigil like she’s memorizing them. Astram is at the rear, slower, flanked by his loyal men: Carwel, tall and grim-faced, and Tandu, whose eyes flick around warily like a beast ready to pounce.

”You’re losing control of the crypt,” Astram says flatly. His tone isn’t accusatory—it’s a simple observation, clinical and cold.

Rewalt wheels on him. ”This tomb is older than my bloodline! You think I’d risk it lightly?! Something’s happening inside.”

Veyrith halts in the middle of the chamber, his massive frame casting a long shadow in the torchlight. Cracks spiderweb beneath his boots as another tremor shakes the ground. His golden eyes flick toward Rewalt—narrowed, unreadable.

Then, voice low but heavy with weight, Veyrith asks.

”What will happen to my people inside… if the Crypt collapses?”

The question hangs in the air like a blade.

Rewalt hesitates. Just for a breath. Then, he draws in a shaky inhale and answers,

”Everyone inside will die... I read that what lies inside the Crypt… is an entire realm unto itself.” His voice is brittle now. ”A sealed dimension, within the folds of this tomb. If the structure falls—if the seals fracture—the realm inside will collapse with it. Nothing will survive.”

The words land like a thunderclap.

The air stills. The tremors pause—as if even the Crypt itself is holding its breath.

Then, the temperature drops.

So fast. So sudden. Frost blooms across the stone in jagged veins. The torchlight dims, flickering wildly.

And in a blink—Astram is no longer at the rear.

He’s in front of Rewalt.

A gust of displaced air ripples outward as the general materializes, hand gripped around the king’s throat, lifting him clean off the ground.

Rewalt chokes, his feet dangling inches above the trembling floor. His crown slips, clattering against the stone. Asdri, wanting to act, finds himself frozen in place by Astram’s overwhelming aura.

Astram’s voice is low—too low for a man so filled with rage. But it carries. Every word a threat carved from iron.

”If anything happens to my commanders,” he breathes.

He leans in, voice colder than the ice curling up the walls.

”I will raze your kingdom to the bedrock. I will slaughter your people and burn your cities. Not even your dogs will live.”

Rewalt gags, struggling against Astram’s grip—but doesn’t speak. He sees it. This isn’t a bluff. This isn’t theater.

This is death—caged only by the thinnest leash of control.

Veyrith steps forward.

And the rage in him is no quieter.

His crimson aura crackles with furious energy. His great hand curls into a fist at his side, claws grinding against his gauntlet.

Veyrith’s voice is like thunder rolling low across a storm-swept plain.

”Humans,” he growls, glaring down at Rewalt, ”you better have a way to stop this from collapsing. Or I’ll let Astram follow through on his promise—and I’ll help him.”

Svira stands at his side, face like carved stone, her mana already beginning to shimmer subtly around her fingers.

Rewalt wheezes as Astram finally loosens his grip, letting the king crumple to one knee. The old man coughs, then raises his eyes—still wide, but not pleading. Determined.

”I do,” Rewalt gasps. ”I do have a way… But I need your help.”

He pulls something from within his robes—a shard of dark crystal shaped like a jagged fang, pulsing faintly with sigils. As he raises it, the air around it hums, reacting to the mana in the chamber.

”This is the key,” Rewalt says. ”It was forged with the original seal. It can stabilize the internal realm... if we can infuse it with enough raw power.”

Another tremor rocks the chamber, more violent this time—a crack shoots across the floor, slicing between Veyrith’s feet.

Rewalt continues, louder now. ”But I can’t do it alone. Not even close. I need all of you—channel your mana into the key. With Veyrith and Astram’s power, with your subordinates—all of you being Tier 6 or higher—we might be able to hold it together.”

”Might?” Astram echoes, his tone sharp. ”That’s not good enough.”

”It’s the only chance we’ve got!” Rewalt snaps, finally showing a flash of fire in his voice. ”We either try—or everyone inside dies. Including your soldiers, your people!”

A silence settles again.

The kind that tests men.

Tandu steps forward beside Astram, his fingers already crackling with shadow-bound energy. ”Say the word, my lord,” he says quietly.

Carwel just nods, expression unreadable, but mana already rising from his skin like smoke.

Astram exhales slowly. Rage still burns behind his gaze—but he turns, just slightly, to glance at Veyrith.

The beastkin lord meets his eyes.

And nods once.

”Fine,” Astram mutters. ”But if this fails—”

”It won’t,” Veyrith cuts in.

Then, he steps forward, planting himself beside Rewalt and the key. The ground trembles again, and this time, the cracks start climbing the walls—threads of ruin etching toward the ceiling.

Rewalt shouts over the rumble, ”Now! Channel it! Focus your mana into the crystal!”

One by one, the others step forward.

Veyrith places his palm near the shard, his crimson aura flaring around him like a rising sun. Svira follows, fingers weaving intricate signs that direct her essence in clean, precise lines. Astram steps in next, arms crossed but power surging from his very skin, raw and cold.

Carwel. Tandu.

All of them.