Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Chapter 210: Chapter 212: Attacking Five Kingdoms (part 1)

Deeper in the forest, beneath a crumbling cliffside.

The sky is darkening. Night creeps in under the dying canopy, swallowing the last traces of sunlight. Flickers of red still stain the horizon—embers of a kingdom burning behind them.

A ragged group moves through the underbrush. Not in formation. Not like soldiers.

Like survivors.

Commander Ric limps slightly, one arm wrapped tight in a bloodied bandage. His armor is dented, scorched, and half-missing—torn away during the retreat from the palace gates. But his eyes stay sharp. Focused.

Behind him, his daughter stumbles. She’s no older than ten, hair matted with soot, cheeks streaked with dried tears. She clutches a doll that smells of smoke and ash.

”Daddy...” her voice is small, trembling. ”I don’t wanna die.”

Ric stops.

Just for a moment.

He crouches down and takes her hand gently. ”You won’t,” he says softly. ”You hear me, Ella? I’ll get you out of this. No matter what.”

She nods, barely, but her lip quivers.

His eldest—Darin, seventeen, wiry but hardened by weeks of marching and fear—steps forward. He places himself between Ella and the woods ahead, back straight, jaw clenched.

”Don’t worry, I will protect you,” Darin says. ”I will keep you safe. I swear it.”

Ric looks at him.

For a second, the commander disappears, and only the father remains—shoulders heavy, heart raw.

”You’ve grown,” he murmurs.

Darin doesn’t reply. His grip tightens on the rusted sword he carries—more weight than blade at this point.

Around them, five soldiers remain. All wounded. All exhausted. One of them, a Captain, leans against a tree, blood leaking through his side. ”We should keep moving, Commander,” he says through grit teeth. ”They’re tracking us. I can smell them again.”

”I know,” Ric replies. He rises slowly, eyes scanning the shadows.

”We’ll rest once we hit the riverbend. If the map’s right, there’s an old fort ruin there. We dig in. Just for the night.”

”What if the map’s wrong?” another soldier asks quietly.

”Then we keep running,” Ric says. ”Until our legs give out. Or until I kill that bastard chasing us.”

A silence falls over the group. The kind only people who’ve lost too much know.

Then Ella speaks again, quieter this time. ”Is Mommy... watching us?”

Ric swallows hard.

Darin lowers his head.

”...Yeah,” Ric finally says, voice tight. ”She is. And she’d want us to keep going.”

He places a hand on Ella’s head.

”So that’s what we’re gonna do.”

He turns to the others. ”Let’s move.”

They vanish into the trees, swallowed by mist, hunted by monsters, clinging to hope.

That same despair echoes across the ruins of Moryos.

From the ash-choked fields to the shattered watchtowers, it’s the same scene repeating: groups of soldiers and civilians scrambling for escape, some vanishing into the forests, others caught by patrols with no mercy to offer.

For every one that slips through, five more are dragged from hiding, surrounded, or slaughtered outright in the mud. The screams fade quickly. The kingdom is dying—its people being bled out piece by piece.

But not all hope is extinguished. Small knots of resistance break through the borders, carried by sheer desperation.

----

Near the southern border of Moryos, in the blackened remains of a fortress overlook.

The air is thick with tension. Smoke from distant fires mixes with the scent of damp earth and cold wind. Night is falling fast, casting long shadows over the war-hardened border fortress that Veyrith and Astram now command.

They stand atop the battlements, cloaks whipping in the wind. Below, monstrous troops patrol the outer wall—serpents, scaled beasts, and horned warriors moving like a tide waiting to surge.

A faint pulse of magic flares on the comm-stone embedded in Astram’s gauntlet.

He taps it.

A crackling voice emerges—calm, deliberate, and familiar.

Gander.

”You two will attack Arland,” he says without preamble. ”Varkas and Gorath will hit Irovia. Lysaria and I are moving toward Silvaran. Mhazul’s taking Rithamar alone. And the Bonepiercers... they’re going east. Rhyssor.”

Astram’s brow furrows. The scale of it hits all at once.

”...So we’re attacking five kingdoms at the same time?”

”Correct.”

Veyrith leans on the cold stone wall, arms crossed. ”That’s a bold move. Even for us.”

Astram nods. ”Is it wise to split our strength that thin?”

A pause.

Then Gander answers—calm, but with a hint of grim satisfaction.

”These kingdoms are weak, unprepared. We’re not fighting unified nations—we’re swatting flies. Cleaning the edges of our territory before we move in deeper.”

Veyrith chuckles under her breath, the sound sharp as a blade drawn. ”So it’s not war. It’s pruning.”

”Exactly,” Gander replies. ”This isn’t the hard part. This is the foundation. Once they fall, the heart of the continent will panic. And when they started to group... we’ll already be inside the gates.”

Astram’s expression darkens. He stares toward the horizon, where faint lights flicker—Arland’s border towns, unaware of the shadow creeping toward them.

”Understood,” he says finally.

”Good. Start your march tonight. Crush any resistance before it has a chance to rally. No mercy, no delay.”

The comm-stone dims. The connection ends.

The wind howls through the ruined parapets.

Veyrith exhales, steam curling from his lips. ”Five kingdoms at once. We’re making history.”

Astram’s eyes glow faintly in the dark. ”We’re ending it.”

And in the night, five fires begin to rise—each one a signal that the conquest has truly begun.

-----

Irovia, Capital City. In a quiet neighborhood tucked between old stone streets, inside a modest home where warmth still clings to the wooden walls, a mother hums softly as she pulls a blanket over her daughter.

The girl, no more than seven, looks up at her with wide, uncertain eyes.

”Mommy,” she whispers, ”they said monsters from the other continent are coming... and they’re killing everyone.”

The mother freezes mid-tuck, the color draining from her face. ”...What?”

”My friend told me,” the girl continues, innocent and grave. ”He said his family’s leaving Irovia. They packed already. He said the monsters are mad at us... because we made them slaves.”

She frowns. ”Is that true? Did we make the monsters angry?”

The mother forces a smile—shaky, thin.

”Sweetheart... don’t think about that. It’s just stories, okay? Children shouldn’t worry something like that.”

”But Lino said it’s not a story. He said his dad heard it from a soldier. He said the monsters burn cities down. Even the people hiding.”

The mother’s throat tightens. She brushes the girl’s hair gently, her voice quiet. ”Just sleep, baby. I’m here. You’re safe. Nothing’s going to happen to us.”

”...Promise?”

”I promise.”

The girl nods and closes her eyes.

The mother stays there for a moment longer, trying to believe her own words.

Then—

Light.

The room flashes white, as if the sun itself exploded outside the window. The mother’s head jerks toward the glow—eyes wide, lips parting in stunned silence.

Outside, the sky isn’t night anymore.

It’s fire.

Colossal flames hurtles down from the heavens, trailing smoke and embers like the tail of a vengeful comet.

There’s no time to scream.

The fireballs slams into the city—

—crushing towers, shattering stone, igniting streets—

—and one of them, burning bright as judgment, descends directly toward their home.

The girl opens her eyes just in time to see her mother reach for her.

Then everything goes white.

The house erupts in fire.

Their bodies are ash before the sound even catches up.

All across Irovia, others rise from their beds, hearing the first explosions, the roar of flames, the shaking earth, but for the mother and her daughter, the war ends in a single instant.

The fireballs finish falling.

The city’s great outer wall—pride of Irovia, built of white stone and enchanted silver—is now a smoking crater. Towers lie in rubble, their guards turned to blackened silhouettes mid-scream. The blastwave has shattered rooftops miles inward, and the wind that follows smells of scorched flesh and molten metal.

And then comes the ground shake.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Thunderous.

A monstrous figure walks through the haz. His silhouette is broad as a war wagon, his every step cracking stone beneath his boots.

Veyrith.

He stops just before the breach, looking down at the ruined city, flames licking the skyline.

Astram floats down beside him, descending. He surveys the devastation with silent calculation.

Veyrith cracks his neck.

Astram smirks. ”The wall fell faster than I expected. You want the honors?”

Veyrith’s laugh is a low, rumbling boulder-roll. ”Always.”

He draws his axes.

And roars.

”CHARGE!”

From behind them, a tide erupts, thousands of monster-kin pouring through the breach. Hulking ogres, scaled troopers, warbeasts with bone-armor plating. Magic-fused berserkers roar into the flames, blades already slick with earlier blood. Spellcasters chant behind them, weaving shields of black and gold.

The monsters surge like a tidal wave through the opening, and the battle for Irovia truly begins.

In the city square

Irovian garrison forms a ragged defense at the plaza. Royal guards, conscripted militia, a handful of mages.

Captain Selra, missing her left eye and leaning on a scorched spear, bellows above the chaos.

”Hold the line! Protect the civilians! Archers, form ranks—NOW!”

They do.

Arrows fly.

They barely slow the monsters down.

A serpent-kin cleaves through three spearmen with a single tail whip. A fire mage attempts to cast, but a warhound leaps onto her, tearing her throat out before the spell finishes. The lines collapse within seconds.

And then Veyrith himself slams into the front.

His first axe swing cleaves through a guard tower. The second cuts down six defenders in a blur of blood and shattered steel.

Then, a sudden crack splits the sky.

It’s not thunder.

Above the city, the clouds tear open—not with flame or smoke, but with light.

And descending from that light, faster than any spell, faster than thought itself, is a figure wreathed in radiant energy. White and gold stream from his form, cloak fluttering like a banner of divine wrath.