Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Chapter 241: Chapter 243: Grathum In The Move

”You!” the Marshal shouts above the roar of the wind, voice carried by mana.

”Who are you?! Are you with the invaders?”

She does not answer.

Her gaze remains locked on him—impassive. Unflinching. As though he were already beneath her concern.

”Answer me!” the Marshal demands again, flaring his aura further. The pressure from his Tier 6 power pulses like a war drum, shaking tiles loose from nearby rooftops. ”By imperial law, I demand your intent!”

Still nothing.

Then, wind gathers—sudden and violent.

A sharp whirl splits the air just above her right hand. A weapon begins to form—not drawn, not summoned from a sheath, but born from the very storm around her.

A sword.

A massive greatsword of wind, translucent and jagged, nearly as long as she is tall. Its edge buzzes with raw elemental force, shaped more like a cleaver than a blade, pulsing with barely-contained destruction.

The Marshal’s eyes widen.

”Tch—!”

But he reacts a heartbeat too slow.

BOOM—

The sword fires forward, not thrown, not swung—launched like a bolt of thunder. It pierces the air with a shriek, faster than any arrow, trailing arcs of lightning behind it.

In the split second before impact, the Marshal tries to raise his defense—but the sword reaches him first.

CRACK—THOOM!

The elemental blade crashes into his chest, driving him down like a meteor. The impact shatters his barrier instantly, then impales him with brutal force, sending his armored form hurtling down from the sky.

BOOM—!

He slams into the stone plaza below. The ground explodes in a plume of dust and wind. Stone cracks spiderweb outward in all directions. Nearby soldiers scream and stumble back.

When the dust clears—

The Marshal lies in a shallow crater, body still, his once-imposing form pinned through the chest by the vanishing remnants of wind. His sword lies beside him, cracked. His eyes stare skyward, unblinking.

Dead. Instantly.

Gasps and screams erupt through the plaza.

A captain drops to his knees.

Fidton erupts into chaos.

The Marshal’s death sends shockwaves through the ranks—not just of fear, but of complete disbelief. A high-level Tier 6 crushed in a single strike. Not even time to parry. No counterattack. Just a clean, unstoppable kill.

And then—

The sky howls.

Black specks appear beyond the storm front—first dozens, then hundreds. Winged shapes wheel and dive in the air above, their forms twisting in unnatural patterns. Some are sleek and reptilian with jagged wingbones and glowing eyes.

Others are batlike with membranous wings, dripping venom from hooked fangs. And some are stranger still—fused with weapons or armor, bound in iron and bone like twisted warbeasts forged by nightmare.

”Monsters! They’re everywhere!” a soldier yells, stumbling backward, sword raised.

”They’re flying over the wall—!”

”Archers! Mages! To your posts—NOW!”

The commanding general, his voice breaking through the panic, bellows orders from the city tower as streaks of fire and lightning begin to arc upward from the battlements. Pillars of magic clash against the diving enemy.

One flying beast—a crimson-scaled wyvern—dives into the front line, shrieking with a sound like metal scraping stone. It tears through two armored knights before slamming into the ground, scattering bodies like dolls.

Another—an insectoid horror with crystal-like wings—blasts a concussive pulse of sound that shatters nearby windows and ruptures eardrums. Blood sprays from soldiers’ noses as they collapse, disoriented.

The general draws his blade. It glows with gold-etched runes, and with a snarl, he leaps from the tower, slamming into the beast with full force.

CLANG—BOOM!

A shockwave explodes outward, knocking back both soldiers and monsters.

”Form ranks!” he roars, standing over the crushed remains of the creature. ”Shield formations on the ground! Tier 5s—TAKE TO THE SKY!”

------

Dondor Kingdom — Capital City, Present Moment

The sky above the capital blackens unnaturally, eclipsed not by clouds, but by sheer presence. Pressure thickens the air like a suffocating blanket. Civilians scream, fleeing through streets in blind panic, while horns blare from the palace walls.

A deafening boom rolls across the horizon.

Then—

CRAAACK—

A rippling thunderclap, not from the sky, but from the earth. From outside the capital’s outer walls.

A crimson glow flashes across the skyline like a second sunrise—followed by an explosion that shakes the city’s foundation.

At the outermost barrier of the kingdom’s capital, shimmering like a dome of golden light, the defensive shield hums—thick with ancient enchantments layered over centuries.

Hundreds of thousands of monsters fill the plains outside. A horde that stretches to the horizon. Trolls with clubs of bone. Wolf-riders mounted on scaled beasts. Flying insectoid horrors.

And at the front of it all—Grathum Ironsurge.

He towers above the legion like a walking disaster. His magma-veined skin glows brighter with every breath. In each of his hands, he holds a siege hammer so large they seem forged from fallen stars.

One of his tusks curls upward like a blade. He grins.

”...Been a while since I broke a kingdom.”

His molten breath wafts outward, melting the stones beneath his feet.

Behind him, the monsters quiet—waiting.

Grathum raises one hammer.

He slams it into the ground once.

BOOOOM.

The earth shatters. Cracks split the land in every direction, magma gushing forth like blood from a wound. The temperature spikes instantly. Heat ripples like waves over the battlefield.

The capital shield flickers.

Grathum raises both hammers.

He brings them down in one thunderous strike—aimed directly at the city’s shield.

CRRRRRAAASSSHHH—

The world screams.

A pillar of flame erupts from the ground like a volcanic cannon, racing upward in a blazing spiral. The moment it strikes the shield, the barrier trembles like a living thing.

The runes etched across the sky begin to distort. The golden light flashes once—then fractures.

”No—” a mage gasps from atop the wall, eyes wide. ”The shield—!”

KRSHHHH—GLASS-SHATTERING SCREAM—

The capital’s shield doesn’t fade.

It shatters.

In an instant, the golden barrier explodes into shards of hard light, cascading across the sky like broken glass caught in the wind. The magical recoil knocks dozens of defenders from their posts. Bell towers collapse. Stone cracks. Flags burn.

The city is exposed.

”THE SHIELD IS DOWN!” someone screams from the wall.

”ALL UNITS TO THE INNER PERIMETER!”

Panic spreads like wildfire through the defenders. Tier 3 and 4 officers bark orders, but their voices are drowned beneath the rising chorus of monster howls.

At the center of it all, Grathum takes a single step forward. Each movement is a quake.

He slams his hammers together once. Sparks of molten rock rain down around him.

Then he roars—deep and guttural, filled with rage and joy.

”BREAK THEM!”

The monster horde erupts. Tens of thousands charge in unison, howling and snarling and flying toward the shattered city walls.

From the tower, a general is overlooking the situation.

”Gods have mercy...” he whispers.

His aide stumbles forward. ”General! Orders—?!”

Velric’s voice tightens. ”Send every Tier 5 to the breach points. Tier 4s reinforce the mage lines. Evacuate civilians to the catacombs—”

A new tremor shakes the tower.

In the southern bastion wall

The tremor passes, but the air stays thick with dread. Smoke billows from the ruins of the shattered gate. Screams echo like dying hymns.

From atop the bastion wall, the three Marshals stand shoulder to shoulder, staring out past the burning wreckage.

There—emerging from the swirling fog of ash and flame—Grathum strides into view.

The ground wilts beneath his feet. Each step leaves behind a wake of withering grass and frost-rimed stone. He stands tall, fused with living armor, his ribs exposed and pulsing with black fire, great wings folded across his back like a shroud.

The First Marshal, clenches his jaw.

”...You think we’re gonna survive fighting that thing?”

The Second Marshal snorts, his voice bitter with honesty. ”To tell you the truth? Not a damn chance.”

The Third Marshal, a younger man, lets out a chuckle—shaky, but defiant.

”You two are awfully calm for a couple of men about to die.”

The first marshal doesn’t look away from Grathum. ”If only that bastard hadn’t fled...”

The second marshal spits over the edge. ”Wouldn’t have mattered. Even with four of us, I don’t think we’d win this.”

The third marshal breathes out. ”Alright, enough small talk. That monster’s here.”

The air howls.

Grathum roars.

It’s not just a sound—it’s a wave, a pulse of death magic that rolls out like a tide. Soldiers collapse from sheer pressure. Arrows in mid-air disintegrate. The wind dies.