Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Chapter 242: Chapter 244: Zurrak In The Move

Grathum surges forward like a falling star—both hammers raised high.

Each hammer is unlike any earthly weapon—crafted from obsidian and bone, glowing with deathflame, the heads pulsing with chained runes that scream when they move.

The three Marshals leap down from the wall to meet him, boots slamming into cracked stone.

The First Marshal—the high-level Tier 6—narrows his eyes. ”He’s fast.”

The younger one, curses. ”He’s already—!”

BOOM—

Halgrom blurs.

He crashes into the ground where the three Marshals stood—except they’re already gone, scattered in three directions. A massive crater forms beneath his impact, sending fractured stone flying like shrapnel.

”NOW!” shouts the First Marshal.

Streams of pressurized water shoot from his hands, spiraling through the air like twin serpents. They slam into Halgrom’s flanks from both sides—hissing, cutting, pushing.

But Halgrom doesn’t move.

He turns his head, steam rolling off his armored hide, his glowing eyes locking onto the first marshal.

”Cute,” he growls.

The Second Marshal strikes from above—a cascade of fire descending in a whirling inferno, like a comet dropped from the heavens. The flames swirl around his blade as he plunges it toward Halgrom’s back.

KRANG—

Halgrom lifts his massive arm and catches the blade with his bare hand. Flames rush over his fingers, but he doesn’t flinch. He grips the blade—and yanks the Second Marshal forward.

”GAAH—!”

He’s flung into the air like a ragdoll—slamming through a ruined watchtower. Debris collapses in his wake.

The Third Marshal charges from below—his gauntlets shattering the stone as he summons the earth itself. The ground ripples under his feet, and spikes of jagged stone erupt upward in a dome around Halgrom.

The ground tries to close on the monster.

But—

CRRRKKK—BOOM!!

With a flex of his legs and a roar, Halgrom explodes out of the earthen trap, sending boulders flying. One slams into the Third Marshal, who shields himself with a pillar—barely surviving the blow.

Halgrom laughs—low and cruel.

The First Marshal soars overhead, hands flashing with glowing seals. Blue rings of magic spin in the air as torrents of water rain down like lances. He’s controlling the water with precision, striking every joint, every weak point.

The momentary distraction gives the Second Marshal time to rejoin—his armor charred but his eyes burning.

”Eat this,” he snarls.

With both arms extended, he detonates the air around Halgrom in a violent spiral of scorching heat, the flames twisting into the shape of a phoenix. The firebird screeches, wings spread wide, and dives straight into Halgrom’s chest.

BOOOOOOM—!

The shockwave melts nearby stone. Smoke and flame swallow everything.

The Marshals regroup for a second—panting, bruised, watching the smoke.

”Did we get him?” the Third Marshal asks, wiping blood from his cheek.

”No,” says the First Marshal, grim. ”He’s still standing.”

The smoke clears.

Halgrom walks out of the flames. His chest rises slowly, but he’s grinning. And worse—he’s enjoying this.

He cracks his neck. ”That almost tickled.”

CRACK—

He vanishes—and appears behind the Third Marshal, fist cocked back.

”Too slow.”

CRUNCH—

”BROTHER!” the Second Marshal yells—but he’s already moving, blade igniting again.

He slashes upward—a wave of fire arcing toward Halgrom’s face.

But Halgrom steps through it.

And grabs him by the throat.

The Second Marshal gasps, legs kicking.

”You three are nothing but trash. You’re not even worth the effort of using my skills,” Halgrom snarls—then slams him into the ground hard enough to crater the stone.

The ground quakes.

Dust rises in a wide plume as the Second Marshal’s body bounces off the cratered floor, coughing blood, eyes rolling.

”Second!” the Third Marshal grits out, forcing himself to his feet. His shoulder’s dislocated, blood trickling down his temple—but he growls and lifts both fists again, gathering the earth underfoot.

”Don’t stop!” shouts the First Marshal. ”We fall here, the city burns.”

The Third Marshal roars, slamming his fists into the ground. Spires of jagged rock spiral upward—dozens of them—then hurtle toward Halgrom like a barrage of missiles.

FWSSSH—FWSSSH—FWSSSH—

Halgrom moves through them like a ghost.

He ducks one, smashes through another, catches a third mid-air and throws it back. The boulder slams into the Third Marshal’s barrier—and cracks it in half.

Before the Marshal can react, Halgrom is there.

One hand on his face.

”You should’ve run.”

BOOM.

He drives the Third Marshal through three layers of stone, leaving a trench of broken masonry.

The First Marshal’s face is tight with fury—but behind his eyes is despair.

He launches forward with a cry, water forming a coiling spear in his hands, its tip vibrating with deadly pressure.

Halgrom doesn’t dodge.

He welcomes the charge.

The Marshal lunges, thrusting straight for the gap in Halgrom’s scorched chestplate.

The spear strikes—

THUNK.

Halgrom catches it with one hand.

Crushing it.

Water explodes in all directions as the spell collapses. The First Marshal’s eyes go wide—just as a black fist smashes into his gut.

CRACK.

He spits blood—then another blow lands. A punch to the jaw shatters bone. Then Halgrom grabs his arm and twists—the sound of snapping ligaments echoing.

The Marshal screams.

Halgrom slams him down, one-handed, into the ground.

He lifts the Marshal again—by the throat—and drives his hammer into his chest.

BOOOOM.

The impact echoes like thunder. Flesh breaks. Ribs crack. The First Marshal’s body goes limp.

One breath.

Two.

No more.

Halgrom drops him like broken armor.

Then he turns.

All three Marshals lie crumpled on the ruined stone.

Their bodies twisted.

Burned.

Bleeding.

Lifeless.

”Hm, that’s a good warm up.” Halgrom murmurs, brushing blood from his first.

A new sound fills the air—the screams of the city.

------

Kingdom of Falin – Capital City: Zark

The streets of Zark are quiet tonight.

Lamps flicker along the stone avenues, casting pools of warm light against the marble columns and golden statues. Guards patrol in lazy rotations, their armor loose, their pace slow. In the nobles’ quarter, music plays faintly in the distance—soft strings and laughter echoing from behind silk-draped balconies.

Nothing seems out of place.

And that is exactly how Zurrak wants it.

Perched like a phantom on the spire of the Temple, Zurrak watches the city below with eyes like swirling storms—amethyst and pitch-black, ever-shifting.

His clawed fingers rest against the edge of the gargoyle’s head, unmoving.

He can see Corven now—standing on a balcony two towers away, speaking to a courier. Still armored. Still vigilant. Still pretending he’s worthy of the title Spears Of The Empire.

Zurrak tilts his head.

”Just a high-level tier 6.” he murmurs.

His voice is layered and quiet, like a whisper dragged through a canyon of shadows. Each syllable lingers unnaturally, as though the night itself listens when he speaks.

A moment later, a ripple pulses in the air behind him.

One by one, figures emerge—flickers of cloaks, glimmers of blades, the soft rustle of footsteps that never quite touch the stone. The Shadows have gathered—ten thousand strong.

All of them killers without names. Eyes like fading stars. Aura so thin it vanishes even from Tier 6 detection.

Zurrak doesn’t turn.

He simply raises a finger—and all of them halt.

Ten thousand silent breaths.

The city below sleeps, unaware.

Zurrak’s eyes remain locked on Corven—still conversing with the courier, who bows and departs. A few guards laugh nearby. Somewhere, a dog barks.

Still too peaceful.

But not for long.

Zurrak speaks without looking back.

”Positions.”

In an instant, the shadows scatter—melting into rooftops, slipping down walls, vanishing through chimneys and cracks in the cobble. Within seconds, the capital is infested.

Every district. Every manor. Every guard post.

The trap is already sprung—they just haven’t realized it yet.

Zurrak finally moves. He lifts one hand and traces a glyph in the air with a clawed finger. It glows—violet and void-black—and pulses like a heartbeat before vanishing.

Then he whispers.

”Tier 6 Skill: [Eclipse Maw].”

The world responds.

Shadows ripple.

The sky above Zark darkens—not visibly, but spiritually. Something vast and unnatural opens in the air behind him—an invisible tear in space, stretching into the void between realities.

A presence awakens—something older than magic—and begins to feed.

Black sigils burn beneath Zurrak’s feet. A circle forms, but it isn’t made of runes—it’s made of absence, a ring of unreality devouring light and sound.

The entire block goes quiet.

Even the wind dies.

Zurrak vanishes from the spire—and appears just behind Corven, silent as breath.

Corven doesn’t sense it until it’s too late. He turns slightly, frowning.

And freezes.

”Wh—”

Zurrak’s hand is already pressed to his back, fingers splayed like claws, void energy surging.

”Die in silence.”