Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

A moment of stillness.

Then Mhazul steps forward.

No signal is given. No horn sounds.

The warlord doesn’t wait.

He moves like an avalanche. The ground trembles beneath each thunderous footfall as he strides toward Veylan’s Watch—the massive fortress guarding the rift. Built from blackstone and reinforced with enchantment, the fortress is carved into the canyon wall like a jagged crown. Ten kilometers wide. Five thick layers of defense. Thousands of archers, mages, and enchanted artillery.

It was made to withstand a siege for years.

Mhazul stops at the edge of the canyon floor, gazing up at the towering walls. His breath comes slow and steady. Crimson veins glow brighter across his obsidian skin. The chains at his waist begin to rise, not from wind, but from pressure—magic coiling around him like smoke ready to ignite.

He lowers one axe.

Then he lifts the other skyward.

The air distorts.

[Tier 6 Skill: Ashrend Requiem]

The clouds above ripple as if struck. Magic explodes outward in a burning ring of crimson energy. The sky screams. Heat floods the canyon, searing the earth beneath his feet into glass.

And then—he swings.

One axe.

That’s all it takes.

A wave of crimson destruction erupts from the arc of his strike. A pressure front roars forward—compressed magic in physical form, shaped like a colossal axe. It carves through the air, the stone, the fortress—everything.

The wall splits.

From base to parapet, the western half of fortress is severed like parchment under a sword. The enchanted battlements shatter. The sigils—decades old—flicker and blink out. Towers crumble like dried bone. The shockwave tears into soldiers, reducing thousands into ash instantly. Bodies vaporize. Others are thrown like dolls into the canyon below.

The wave keeps going—into the inner layers, bursting through gatehouses and crushing barracks. Stone folds inward. Warbeasts chained inside the fortress scream and die before they can react. The heat melts metal into slag.

Half the fortress is gone.

The other half trembles, screams echoing inside as soldiers scramble to understand what’s happening.

An alarm finally sounds. Too late.

Within the fortress, Marshal Ros jolts awake. Sweat streaks down his temples. A Tier 6 marshal of Moryos—one of the strongest person of the continent—feels fear before he even opens his eyes.

”What was that?!” he growls, slamming aside the enchanted silks and pulling his blade from the armory rack beside his bed. The air stinks of ash. And blood.

A trembling aide bursts in. ”General—sir—the western wall is gone! Something… something’s here! It’s—”

A second impact rocks the fortress.

The aide vanishes in a spray of gore as a chunk of flaming debris crashes through the ceiling. Theros dives aside, rolling to his feet. He doesn’t wait. He sprints toward the outer wall, blade blazing with defensive wards.

Outside, Mhazul walks through the smoldering remains. His skin is bathed in firelight. Black chains whip in the air behind him, responding to his mood like living things. Dozens of defenders rush him from the breach—soldiers, knights, warcasters.

He doesn’t slow.

He charges forward and slams his axe into the ground again.

The earth cracks beneath his foot. Lava jets upward in a serpentine burst. It snakes along the ground like a living whip, swallowing a platoon of armored knights in molten fire. Those that survive are crushed under his next swing—limbs torn from bodies, screams strangled by falling stone.

Arrows bounce off him like pebbles.

Spells break apart against his aura.

One brave captain tries to meet him with a warhammer glowing with Tier 3 enchantments. Mhazul catches the weapon mid-swing with his bare hand. There’s a moment of silence—then he crushes the metal like clay, and drives the man into the wall hard enough to break the stone behind him.

Inside the fortress, Marshal Ros bursts into view atop the ruined upper level.

He sees the wreckage—the bodies, the flames, the red-skinned monster tearing through everything. His eyes narrow.

”You,” he snarls.

Mhazul turns slowly, his furnace eyes meeting Theros’s for the first time.

”A Tier 6,” he rumbles.

His voice echoes unnaturally, like drums in a hollow cathedral.

”Good.”

Ros leaps from the upper tier, blade drawn. Lightning bursts around him, his sword becoming a crackling arc of lightning. He roars mid-air, aiming to cleave Mhazul in two.

Their weapons clash.

A shockwave erupts. Dust, stone, flame—blasted in every direction.

The world pauses.

Then Mhazul grins—and pushes back.

Ros is thrown backward. He crashes into a ruined tower with a grunt, coughing blood.

He staggers to his feet. ”Impossible… You are a peak—!”

But Mhazul is already moving.

He vanishes.

Appears beside Ros in an instant, his second axe swinging in from the left.

[Tier 5 Skill: Consecutive Cleave]

The blade strikes everywhere at once.

Theros tries to block—but his blade shatters.

Blood bursts from his mouth as he’s slammed across the courtyard, bones shattering audibly. He hits the wall—slumps.

Mhazul looms over him.

”A weakling of a human,” he growls.

Theros lifts his eyes weakly.

Mhazul raises his axe.

And he brings it down.

CRACK.

The general’s body crumples.

The first tier 6… dead.

The army outside howls in triumph. The signal fires on the wall flicker and die.

Lysaria watches from afar, arms crossed, as the fortress burns.

She turns to the others. ”What a show-off,” she says, her voice calm.

Veyrith exhales. ”He made that look… easy.”

Astram chuckles softly. ”That wasn’t just some weak human, that was a level 650 Tier 6.”

Gorath lifts his massive hammer. ”Then let’s do our part, too.”

The Seven Generals split.

The continent of Ereborn will never be the same.

-----

A single night.

That’s all it takes.

The Kingdom of Moryos wakes up to fire.

Cities once cloaked in peaceful slumber are now veiled in smoke and screams. Streets overflow with panic—families scrambling barefoot over cobblestones slick with blood, trying to escape through alleyways already blocked by rubble.

The sky, once blue with dawn’s promise, burns with red. Black clouds roil overhead, born from burning districts and shattered spell towers.

In the capital, Morythall, bells ring. Not for prayer. For war.

”Wake the archmages!” a commander yells, shoving open the door to the palace’s war chamber, his armor dented and still glowing from a recent blast. ”Get every damn battalion on the eastern walls!”

”Where are the Marshalls?!” someone shouts.

”We are dead!” comes another voice, frantic. ”The eastern keep is gone! A mountain-sized beast crushed it!”

”No time! Sound the evacuation protocols! Move the civilians!”

From the scrying pool in the center of the war table, flickering images play—brief, broken visions from across the kingdom. A Tier 5 sky mage gasps, struggling to hold the enchantment together. Each scene is worse than the last.

A coastal city destroyed by a serpent-shaped monsters.

A cathedral in the northern highlands torn open by a spider-liked monsters—its priests impaled on their own silver relics.

And the fortress… what’s left of it.

Just fire and silence.

The pool snaps, shatters. The magic dies.

”Gods,” a knight whispers.

---

The royal palace, capital city of Morythall.

The king’s chambers burst open.

King Goell rises from his massive, gold-inlaid bed, already half-dressed by the time his chief steward bursts in—face pale, breath ragged, scrolls clutched in trembling hands.

”Your Majesty!” the man gasps.

”What is it?” Goell growls, his voice already taut with tension. ”What now?”

A second figure enters, blood spattered across his armor—one of the palace knights. He doesn’t kneel. He can’t. His legs are shaking too violently.

”Seventeen cities,” the knight breathes. ”Gone.”

Goell freezes.

”…What?”

The steward can barely speak. ”We received coordinated distress signals from each region, Your Majesty. Eastern, southern, and western territories… annihilated in a span of hours. Only three cities remain under our banner. Three!”

Goell’s voice sharpens to a blade. ”How?! Did the Confederacy launch an attack? Is this the Surn Empire? Did every force on the continent turn on us?!”

”No, Your Majesty!” the knight chokes. ”That’s just it… they aren’t human. They’re monsters. All of them.”

A long silence.

The king stares.

His breath hitches, barely controlled.

”…Monsters?”

”Yes, sire,” the steward says, voice cracking. ”Every scout report confirms it. Entire legions of them. Organized. United.”

”Impossible.” Goell’s voice is cold steel. ”The monsters are fractured. They’ve been scattered for centuries.”

Goell clenches his jaw. ”And the Marshals? What of them?”

The knight’s lips twitch. His eyes flicker downward. ”They responded immediately. All four were dispatched to reinforce the city of Vhalmorne.”

Goell steps forward. ”And?!”

”They… they never made contact again, sire.”

The air grows deathly still.

Goell’s knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the table. His voice comes quiet, nearly voiceless.

”…You’re telling me ten Tier 6 Marshals died in a single night?”

Neither the steward nor the knight answer.

The silence is answer enough.

Then—

BOOM.

A soundless explosion erupts within the chamber, not of force, but of pressure.

The very air groans.

King Goell’s aura flares.

Tier 6.

Peak.

Pure, suffocating dominance.

The floor cracks beneath his feet. The stained-glass windows behind him rattle. Light dims. Everyone in the chamber drops to their knees, chests tight, lungs squeezed shut as though the world itself has turned hostile to their existence.

Even the magic lamps flicker. One shatters.

”Get. Me. A connection.” Goell’s voice rumbles like the sky before a storm. ”Use relics. Use blood if you have to. I don’t care how. Contact them again.”

Suddenly, a voice rolls through the capital—deep, guttural, ancient.

It doesn’t come from the sky.

It comes from everywhere.

From the cracks in the stone.

From the marrow of the ground.

From within the minds of every awakened soul in Morythall.

A single sentence:

”Human king.”

Silence grips the palace.

”Come out and face me.”