Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Chapter 246: Chapter 248: Bulad and Caizie

Velira bows her head respectfully. ”My uncle will arrive in two days, Your Majesty. He traveled separately.”

The king leans back slightly at that, interest flashing in his eyes. ”Ah. Hadrik?”

”Yes, sire.”

A deep chuckle rumbles from Rostel. ”Then I’ll be sure to clear my morning. I’ve long wanted to meet the man who shattered a tier 6 troll’s skull with one strike. Your clan’s fame is already considerable—but Hadrik... he’s a tale all his own.”

King Rostel rises slowly from his throne.

The hall quiets.

Even the fluttering banners seem to pause as the King of Imlan descends the marble steps of the dais—his crimson robes trailing behind him, boots striking firm against the polished stone.

”Come,” he says, his voice steady but solemn. ”Let us go and receive the Spears.”

No grand gesture. No trumpets. Just that simple sentence—and yet, the weight of it settles in the air like stone.

Velira straightens instinctively. So do Gresren and Solven.

The king gestures to a pair of attendants who immediately flank him, one handing him a dark, fur-lined cloak bearing the Empire’s symbol on the back—the coiled dragon and three-point crown. A formal cloak of audience. Reserved only for meetings with figures of equal or higher standing.

As he fastens it at the collar, the king glances to Velira.

”You’ve read of the Spears,” he says, walking now, motioning for them to follow. ”But books don’t capture the presence they carry. When you stand before them, you’ll understand why even kings bow.”

They pass through a side corridor—lined with old weapons sealed in display glass, the remnants of ancient campaigns.

”I’ve only met three in my life,” Rostel continues, voice lower. ”Each one different. But all of them... beyond.”

Outside, the sky glows orange with the last light of sunset. Bells echo faintly across the capital. Soldiers are already lining up on both sides of the palace steps, their armor polished, shields raised in salute.

The great square before the palace gates is filled with onlookers—nobles, commanders, citizens standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

And in the distance—

A slow, steady rhythm of footsteps. Marching.

Thousands.

The lead unit appears first—black-cloaked, silver-armored, their formation so perfect it’s unnerving. Standard-bearers hold up the sigils of the Nineteenth and Eighteenth Spears.

And between them, two figures walk side by side.

One is a woman—tall and sharp-eyed, her silver-blonde hair braided into a tight crown. Her armor is matte black with red-lined edges, and she wears no helmet. A thin sword hangs at her waist, humming faintly with contained energy.

The other is a man—broader in frame, older perhaps, but just as imposing. His spear is longer than he is tall, capped with a glowing obsidian tip. His steps carry weight, but not from tiredness—from authority.

Rostel stops at the edge of the palace steps.

Velira draws a sharp breath.

She can feel it—like standing before a gathering storm. The pressure. The density of their presence. Her instincts scream at her to kneel, to show reverence, to not even speak unless spoken to.

And she’s a Tier 5.

The Spears stop at the foot of the stairs.

Every soldier, every noble, every soul present bows.

So does Rostel.

He lowers his head. Hands clasped, left knee to the polished stone. The ruler of Imlan kneels without hesitation.

”By the Empire’s breath,” he says formally, ”I welcome the Nineteenth and Eighteenth Spears to the Kingdom of Imlan. May our lives serve your command.”

”King Rostel. You honor the Empire.”

The man follows, deeper voice like rolling stone. ”And we honor Imlan’s resilience. Rise.”

Rostel stands slowly. So do the rest. Velira keeps her posture rigid.

The Spears ascend the steps, and the woman turns her gaze toward Velira.

”You are from Ashedge,” she says. Not a question. A recognition.

Velira bows again. ”Velira, yes, my lady.”

A pause.

”I read your record. Very clean. Very fast.” Her tone softens only slightly. ”We’ll see if you live up to it.”

Bulad’s voice cuts through the moment—low, gravel-toned. ”Let’s go inside and start the meeting.”

Caizie, gives a single nod. Her eyes sweep briefly across the square, then to the palace doors, calculating, as if memorizing the layout before ever stepping foot within.

King Rostel gestures toward the entrance, stepping aside in a rare gesture of deference. ”Of course. The war table is prepared. You honor us by stepping into this hall.”

Inside the war room, the atmosphere is thick with urgency. The chamber itself is circular and stone-walled, with a massive table at its center carved from obsidian and embedded with veins of glowing blue mana-crystal. Maps, sealed missives, and troop markers litter its surface.

The three representatives—each alone, each marked by their own colors and crests—are already there.

They rise as one the moment the Spears enter.

The Aboweth Kingdom’s representative, a wiry man in deep green robes adorned with gold-thread trim, bows low. His voice is formal but fast, like a man used to walking behind kings.

”Welcome, Spears. On behalf of my King, I greet you with open arms. May our alliances bleed as one.”

The Watervale Clan’s envoy is a woman, older, with blue-colored eyes and braided hair streaked silver. She gives a curt nod, warrior-like and direct.

”I am Tresa of Watervale. You honor us with your presence. The moment you command, my riders move.”

The Winddeath Clan’s man looks younger—mid-thirties maybe—with long black hair tied back and two small axes strapped across his back. His cloak is stitched from the feathers of Winddrake falcons.

He grins slightly as he bows. ”Zorvan, Winddeath. We’ve been sharpening steel since we got the summons. Just tell us where to aim it.”

Bulad gives a faint nod to all three. His tone is simple, weighty. ”We’ll get to that soon.”

Caizie offers a short, assessing glance to each of them before speaking.

”Where’s the fourth?”

Velira steps forward before anyone else can.

”I’m standing in for the Ashedge Clan, Lady Caizie. My uncle arrives tomorrow.”

Zorvan tilts his head slightly. ”You’re Velkain’s blood?”

Velira gives a sharp nod. ”Velira Ashedge.”

Tresa studies her for a moment, then offers a faint smile.

”Congratulations, on making your clan Rank Five. That’s no small feat.”

Velira inclines her head, steady. ”Thank you, Lady Tresa. It was earned.”

Bulad doesn’t dwell on ceremony. He steps forward, casting his eyes down on the war map.

”Now. Let’s get to the matter. Where are the monsters? How many cities and towns have they taken?”

Marshal Vaf steps up from King Rostel’s side. He salutes briefly before speaking.

”Marshal Vaf, at your service.” His voice is gravel-thick and precise. ”Initial contact was made two weeks ago, along the borderlands near Falren. Since then, we’ve lost nine cities, fourteen major towns, and another twenty-three smaller settlements—either razed or abandoned.”

He points to each place on the map with a gloved hand, tapping red-marked tokens now crowded across the western quadrant.

”They split their forces—three vanguard arms. One heading south through the riverlands, another directly east toward our grain belts, and the third... the third went straight for the high roads, likely to cut off trade and reinforcement lines.”

”Total estimate?” Bulad asks.

”Over three hundred thousand casualties.”

The silence after hangs like ash.

Caizie’s eyes narrow as she leans in slightly, fingertips resting on the edge of the map.

”So almost half the territory of your kingdom is under monster control?”

Marshal Vaf exhales through his nose. ”Yes, Lady Caizie. They didn’t stop. They didn’t regroup. They moved as if they already knew the land.”

Bulad lets out a low whistle, gaze still fixed on the map. ”It’s amazing,” he says, voice rough with thought. ”The monsters on the other continent are this organized. Coordinated strikes, tactical formations, layered movements... That’s not instinct. That’s command structure.”

Zorvan grunts in agreement. ”They’re not beasts. Never were. People forget that.”

”If we hadn’t broken the monster tribes here and made them submit,” Bulad continues, ”this continent would’ve been divided in half by now. Maybe worse.”

A grim murmur passes around the table. Even the regional envoys, proud and battle-hardened, can’t argue with that.

Caizie runs her finger across the map slowly, stopping just before the eastern ridge line. ”This is where we draw the line, then. We give up no more ground. Not a town. Not a single path.”

Bulad nods. ”First step: we need to fortify the Imlan ridge line. I want at least five Tier 4s and two Tier 5s stationed at each choke point.”