Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Chapter 256: Chapter 258: How To Fight A Tier 7? (part 2)

Alix closes his eyes.

And remembers.

The crypt beneath the ruined temple. The air thick with dust and death. Then the guardian appeared—Tier 7, in form if not in truth.

A corpse given false life. Quasi-Tier 7.

Even now, the memory makes his hands curl into fists.

He’d fought it without items. Without buffs. Just raw skill, strength.

And it was barely enough.

Alix exhales slowly, his eyes still shut, the memory vivid and visceral.

Every strike back then had felt like carving stone with a blunt knife. Every block, like stopping a mountain with bare hands.

He opens his eyes.

”That thing...” he mutters, voice low, rough.

He turns away from the wreckage and sits at the edge of the reinforced platform, sword resting against his shoulder. The room is quiet now, save for the crackle of residual mana dancing in the air.

”That wasn’t even a true Tier 7,” he mutters into the silence of the chamber. ”That’s the only reason I managed to kill it with just Tier 5 strength.”

Alix lowers his head, frowning. ”Law.”

That word—unfamiliar, and yet painfully clear.

Tier 7. The threshold where skills begin to bend the fabric of the world itself. No longer just element, motion, force. But intention. Concept.

Suddenly, there’s a knock.

Alix doesn’t move from where he sits on the platform. His breathing has calmed, but the frustration still lingers behind his eyes. With a flick of his fingers and a slight mental nudge, the heavy chamber door unlocks and swings open with a low creak.

Draya steps inside, holding a silver tray. Her movements are light, but her gaze immediately sweeps across the destruction—shattered dummies, cracked stone, glowing scorch marks. She says nothing of it.

Instead, she bows slightly and speaks in her usual calm tone.

”Your Majesty, Sir Gander has sent a report,” she says. ”He marked it as urgent. I thought you should see it immediately.”

Alix doesn’t answer at first.

Draya walks forward and sets the tray down beside him. A tall glass sits atop it—glowing faintly with a swirl of mana-rich juice.

She glances at him. ”Also... the juice. To replenish your energy.”

Alix lets out a breath—something between a tired sigh and a faint laugh. ”You really never miss, huh?”

Alix picks up the glass and takes a sip. The chill hits immediately—sweet, sharp, and soothing. He exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.

”Alright,” he says, setting the glass down. ”Let’s see what Gander has for me.”

Draya pulls the report from a scroll case tucked beneath her arm and hands it over.

Alix unfurls the report and begins reading, his eyes scanning the parchment quickly but with focus. Draya remains quiet, standing a respectful distance away, hands clasped behind her back.

Minutes pass.

He finishes the last line, then folds the parchment slowly, his fingers drumming once on the edge of it.

”I suppose it’s not easy for Gander to manage all of this,” Alix mutters, his tone more thoughtful than critical. ”But he’s doing better than I expected—holding the line, coordinating Tier 6s, countering enemy pushes... and still thinking ahead.”

Draya gives a small nod. ”It’s impressive.”

Alix stands, stretching his shoulders, then glances toward her. ”Write back to them,” he says. ”Tell Gander I approve their plan. They have full authority to move when ready.”

Draya bows her head slightly. ”Right away, Your Majesty.”

----

Early Morning – Imlan Royal Palace

The cold snap of dawn is broken by a sudden, violent bang against the grand oak doors of the royal bedchamber.

King Rostel jerks awake, his heart thudding, half-lost in a dream of a victory just yesterday.

Another bang. Louder. Urgent.

He throws the covers off and storms toward the door, flinging it open.

Marshal Vaf stands on the other side, still in his armor, helm under one arm. His face is pale and drawn, eyes bloodshot from no sleep.

”Your Majesty,” Vaf says, voice taut with urgency. ”The report just came in. The monsters... they’ve already breached almost all the territories of the kingdom.”

Rostel stares at him. ”What?!” he roars, disbelieving. ”Just yesterday, we were winning!”

”I know, sire,” Vaf says quickly. ”But everything turned overnight. They moved faster than expected—no regroup, no rest. Three separate fronts collapsed in under six hours.”

Rostel steps back, dragging a hand down his face. ”The Two Spears—where are they?!”

”They’re preparing the defenses now, along with the three clan representatives. Sir Bulad and Lady Caizie are personally going to defend the capital city.”

”How did this happen overnight?” Rostel demands, his voice cracking.

Vaf hesitates before answering. ”Two confirmed peak Tier 6 monsters, Your Majesty. Our scouts were wiped out just trying to bring us that intel.”

Rostel slumps into a chair near the hearth, his crown slightly askew, forgotten.

”We’re done for,” he whispers. ”Is my kingdom really going to fall to monsters? After everything we’ve built?”

Vaf drops to one knee in front of him, slamming a fist against his chestplate.

”Your Majesty—listen. Sir Bulad sent word. They’ve already requested reinforcements from the Empire. Two Peak Tier 6s are en route from the capital. All we have to do is hold... for three hours.”

”Three hours,” Rostel echoes, barely breathing. ”That’s all?”

”Yes, Your Majesty. Three hours. The Spears believe we can manage that.”

Rostel looks up at him, eyes bloodshot, but with a flicker of steel returning to his voice.

”Then by the gods... we will. Wake the nobles. Call every able commander to the throne hall. If we’re to fall, we’ll fall standing.”

Vaf stands with a firm nod. ”Yes, Your Majesty.”

”And tell the people,” Rostel adds, rising shakily to his feet. ”Tell them their king still breathes. Tell them the Spears are holding the line. And the Empire is coming.”

”Yes, sire!”

Vaf turns and rushes out, boots echoing through the marble halls.

Rostel remains by the window, gazing out toward the east—where the ridge looms in the morning fog.

”To think... just yesterday I was toasting victory,” he murmurs.

---

The city should be waking slowly. Shops opening. Bread baking. Children running along cobbled streets.

But not today.

Today, the streets are filled with armor-clad soldiers. Barked orders. Walls reinforced with magic barriers and runestones. Dust in the air. Faces pale with exhaustion and tension.

The central plaza, usually a market hub, has turned into a temporary command post.

Barricades. Crates of weapons. Scrolls passed hand to hand. Sweat-slicked adventurers sit on overturned barrels, sharpening their blades. Tier 2s. Tier 3s. A few Tier 4s remain. Most of the Tier 5s are already gone—they simply chose to live.

Because today, Kuyta is a death zone.

A grizzled veteran named Brinn—missing two fingers on his left hand—leans against a shattered fountain, puffing on a smoke pipe, looking across the square. Around him, a dozen adventurers sit or stand, uneasily watching the horizon.

A young swordsman, no older than twenty, paces.

”The Empire’s going to come, right?” the boy asks, voice uncertain. ”They’ll send reinforcements?”

Brinn exhales a thin line of smoke and grunts. ”Yeah. Eventually. That’s what king Rostel said.”

Another adventurer—a woman with a crossbow slung over her back—snorts. ”Hell, they’ll only come if this city still exists when they get here.”

The boy falls silent. His grip tightens on his sword.

Brinn glances around at the group. ”Anyone still here isn’t in it for coin anymore. Most packed up and left last night.”

He jerks his chin toward the barricades. ”You lot still here? You’re here ’cause you’ve got something left in this place. Family. Pride. Or just plain stupid.”

A chuckle ripples weakly through the group.

Then a quiet voice speaks from the back. It’s an old healer, sitting cross-legged on a crate, robes soot-stained and torn. ”I was born here. Never left. This city fed me. Raised me. I ain’t gonna watch it burn while I run like a coward.”

A younger woman—the archer—mutters under her breath, ”You think we can win?”

Brinn eyes her.

”No,” he says flatly. ”But we can buy time. Hold long enough for the empire’s reinforcement to arrive. Hold long enough for the civilians to evacuate.”

----

In the eastern barracks – Ashedge Clan Quarters

The barracks are loud with movement—soldiers preparing for deployment, commanders shouting orders, and mages scribbling defensive glyphs across the stone walls. But inside the largest tent at the heart of the compound, the noise fades beneath thick canvas walls and silence thick with tension.

Velira stands tall in front of her uncle, fists clenched at her sides. Her storm-gray eyes—so like Hadrik’s—burn with frustration.

”I can fight,” she says. ”Uncle, I’m ready. I’ve trained for this—”

”I know you’re ready,” Hadrik cuts her off, voice deep and unwavering. ”But that’s not the point.”

He stands by the tent’s war table, arms crossed. The map in front of him is littered with markers, each one a pocket of chaos and danger.

”You are the heir of the Ashedge Clan,” he says. ”I won’t gamble your life—not when the clan’s future depends on it.”

Velira steps closer. ”Then let me choose what kind of leader I’ll be. One who hides when her people bleed? One who watches from the sidelines while others give their lives?”

”There’s a difference between bravery and recklessness, Velira,” he says. ”This war isn’t about honor. It’s survival. You’re too valuable to lose here.”

To the side, two figures shift uncomfortably—Gresren and Solven, Velira’s closest guards and companions.

Gresren, the older of the two, rubs the back of his neck and sighs. ”Velira... let’s just go. You know how firm Sir Hadrik is. Arguing won’t change his mind.”