Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

”I heard the pay’s triple if you join the auxiliary force,” says a goblin scout, eyes wide. ”They’re hiring anyone who can fight. Even mercs!”

A tall, antlered monster leans against the counter, scoffing. ”Triple? I heard five times. And loot rights are shared. You imagine what the humans in Ereborn are hiding? New weapons, enchanted armor, vaults full of relics.”

A female ogress slams her gauntlet on the job board, eyes burning.

”Doesn’t matter. I’ve been waiting for this day. We’re finally going to fight a human. I heard humans are satisfying to flatten.”

------

In the Kingdom of Moryos, the kingdom that guards the natural portal connecting continents, the sky hangs thick with haze, tinged violet by the strange energy that pulses from the rift. The fortress built around the anomaly, towers high with black-stone walls and endless arrays of siege weapons. At the very top of the eastern watchtower, two guards peer through telescopic lenses at the distant distortion.

The portal—a massive crack in space—hovers above a scorched canyon, wide enough to swallow a mountain. It hums faintly, like a breath held too long.

The younger guard, leans against the railing, exhaling sharply through his nose.

”Sigh… When was the last time someone tried to come through that thing?”

His older companion, adjusts the focus on his lens and shrugs. ”Ten years ago, wasn’t it? Some… thing came through. Don’t remember what it was. Just that it made the sky scream.”

The younger soldier grunts. ”Right. That monster. Fought the king himself, didn’t it?”

”Yeah,” the older soldier says, eyes still fixed on the portal. ”Didn’t last long, though. Three minutes, maybe. Then it turned and ran.”

The younger soldier chuckles dryly. ”Our king doesn’t mess around. That thing was probably lucky to escape.”

They lapse into silence. Only the low thrum of the rift and the occasional gust of wind breaks the quiet.

Then the older mutters, ”Still… been too quiet lately.”

-----

Back in Caeland, inside a massive war tent adorned with maps and enchanted light crystals, the war council continues.

Astram has just finished recounting his experience with the Moryos king, and the room feels heavier for it.

Gander exhales slowly, fingers brushing across a parchment marked in red and black ink.

”This is the report from the scouts I sent,” he says, voice measured but grim. ”Moryos commands an army of five hundred thousand. Ten confirmed Tier 6 combatants, stationed strategically across the fortress and surrounding cities.”

A tense silence falls over the war table.

Veyrith raises an eyebrow. ”Didn’t realize the other continent was so far ahead of Caeland.”

Astram nods slowly, gaze distant. ”They are progressing fast, while we’ve been fighting among ourselves.”

The two exchange a look—silent, but sharp. A mutual understanding passes between them.

”We were frogs at the bottom of a well,” Astram mutters.

Veyrith doesn’t deny it.

Gander folds his hands behind his back. ”If we don’t break Moryos with our first strike, everything unravels. The rest of Ereborn continent will unite. Every kingdom, every force… they’ll come down on us at once. We’ll lose the initiative.”

Astram clicks his tongue. ”So we don’t just win. We crush them.”

A slow smile curls on Gander’s lips. ”Exactly.”

He turns toward the large shadow standing quietly at the back of the tent.

”His majesty, send someone to help us,” Gander says.

The figure steps forward. The ground shudders with each step—heavy, deliberate. The tent seems to darken just slightly.

What emerges is not merely a warrior—but a calamity given form.

The monster is massive, standing nearly four meters tall, with skin like cracked obsidian etched with glowing crimson veins. Two colossal war axes rest across his back, each blade nearly the size of a grown man. His eyes burn like twin furnaces, molten and ancient. Horns curve upward from his temples, jagged and asymmetrical, as though torn and regrown through centuries of battle.

Black chains hang from his waist like trophies. Scars line his arms—old, deep, and proud.

Gander smiles faintly. ”Meet Mhazul.”

Veyrith’s gaze lingers on the towering monster now fully visible beneath the glow of the war tent’s enchanted lights. His expression remains composed, but his fingers curl ever so slightly on the edge of the table.

Astram doesn’t say anything at first. He studies Mhazul—measures the way the monster’s presence seems to fill the entire space, how even the air seems heavier around him. That aura... it’s not just power. It’s pressure.

’He’s stronger than that human king.’ Astram realizes. And that fact doesn’t sit poorly—it steadies something in him.

Veyrith breaks the silence first.

”…So this is the reinforcement His Majesty sent,” he says lightly, his tone unreadable. ”Wasn’t expecting something that walks like a natural disaster.”

Astram snorts under his breath. ”Guess that makes two of us.”

Mhazul doesn’t respond. He simply plants one of his massive war axes into the earth beside him. The thud shakes dust from the ceiling. His eyes—still burning—scan the room slowly.

Gander doesn’t seem the least bit concerned. ”He’s gonna take care of that peak Tier 6 king during the assault.”

Mhazul finally opens his mouth. His voice is deep, rough, and grating—like stone grinding against bone.

”I will take care of that human trash.”

Veyrith smirks faintly. ”Well, at least you’re more polite than you look.”

Mhazul tilts his head, his gaze fixing on Veyrith for a long second. Then, he chuckles—low and guttural. ”You’re brave. Or stupid. Maybe both.”

”Both,” Astram mutters with a half-smile.

Still, beneath the banter, Veyrith and Astram feel the same thing, relief.

Relief that the kingdom they’ve knelt to, the king they’ve sworn to follow, is deeper than they imagined. Stronger. More dangerous. This monster—Mhazul—is proof of that.

[Status Window – Mhazul

Name: Mhazul

Race: Bloodgnarls

Tier: Peak Tier 6

Level: 699

Class: Warcaller]

----

A breeze rolls across the high spires of the eastern watchtower, whispering against the black-stone walls. The younger soldier squints through his scope, chewing absently on the end of a dried reed.

”Same damn sky every day,” he mutters. ”Violet haze, creepy hum, and absolutely nothing—wait…”

He straightens. Slowly.

The portal—usually pulsing gently with a slow, lazy rhythm—begins to shimmer violently. The edges ripple like disturbed water. The color bleeds deeper, from soft violet to a pulsing, sickly red.

He blinks. ”Hey… hey, what is happening?!”

The older soldier jerks upright and yanks his lens around to face the rift.

A low growl seems to echo from the crack itself—no wind, no beast. Just sound. Wrong and alive.

The old guard’s face goes pale.

”That—that only happens when something’s coming.”

He slams a fist on the signal plate beside the railing.

”RING THE ALARM! NOW!”

Before the young soldier can move—before he can even reach the alarm crystal—a shape flickers behind him.

Then another.

Two shadows materialize like liquid nightmares. Not climbing, not flying. Appearing. One is long-limbed and hunched, its arms ending in scythe-like claws that whisper through the air. The other is squat and broad, a brutish figure of dense, mottled flesh with glowing eyes and a maw that never quite stops smiling.

A wet crack splits the silence.

Blood splashes the stone railing.

The young soldier doesn’t even cry out. His body folds, eyes wide in confusion as his throat opens wide in a spray of red. The older one turns—hand still on the alarm plate—but he only gets a glimpse of steel teeth before they close around his head.

A second later, the tower falls quiet again—unnaturally so.

Below, the rift tears open.

Not just wide—but deep.

From the bleeding light of the dimensional wound, the first of them step through.

Massive war drums echo like thunder. Footfalls follow—thousands of them—shaking the canyon floor.

The Seven Generals emerge.

Mhazul steps out first, his war axes slung across his back, eyes burning as they sweep across the horizon. Crimson veins pulse brighter along his skin as his aura ignites.

Behind him, Gander, Lysaria, Veyrith, Astram, Varkas, Gorath.

Then come the armies.

Three million soldiers. Trolls, ogres, goblins, giants, and a lot more. Infernal elves and skinbound revenants. Monster spellcasters whose magic bleeds light and shadow. Siege beasts the size of a mountain, crawling with riders and cannons.

The land groans beneath the weight of the invasion.

Mhazul slams the war axe into the ground. A massive pulse of crimson light explodes from his body—spreading through the horde like wildfire.

[Tier 6 Skill: Battle Cry of Ash and Flame]

The air roars with the sound of every soldier exhaling as one. Muscles swell. Eyes blaze. Weapons shimmer with new power.

Their strength surges. Their speed sharpens. Their pain dulls.

Lysaria grins, already turning away. ”You know the plan. Split the kingdom. Hit them where they can’t rally.”

Astram cracks his neck. ”I’ll take the southern cities. Leave the border forts to Varkas.”

”I’ll go east,” Veyrith says smoothly.

Gander nods. ”Good. Gorath, you take the Bonepiercers and massacre everything on your path. Kill their morale.”

Gorath grunts. ”I’ll bring you their heads.”

Mhazul finally speaks. His voice cuts through the air like falling stone.

”I will got to thier capital.”

Gander turns to the legion.

Gander raises his arm high, the red light of Mhazul’s buff still flickering along his fingers like lightning trapped beneath skin. His voice booms across the field, carried by magic and the hush of countless monsters gone still.

”Tonight, we break them,” he says. ”Not just their walls. Not just their armies. We shatter their pride, their unity, their hope. By dawn—Moryos will belong to us.”

A ripple moves through the horde—quiet at first, then rising. Growls, cheers, the clatter of weapons against shields. Screech, revenants hiss like steam through bone. It’s not chaos. It’s hunger. Controlled, focused.