Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

The battle erupts into chaos.

The air above Duskwatch is alive with violence — bolts of lightning, gouts of flame, jagged boulders of condensed earth. Every second, the shield that blankets the city ripples under the combined assault. It looks less like a ward and more like a glass dome pounded by titans.

Selira’s fire spreads like wings, her figure cutting sharp against the dawn sky. ”Burn through it!” she commands, and her flames lance downward in serpentine arcs, hammering the barrier.

Greg meets her head-on, his axe roaring with golden light. He cleaves one of her fire-serpents apart, the strike scattering sparks across the clouds. ”You won’t pass me, witch!”

Below, Gorvak plummets like a meteor, claws glowing molten. Two Tier 6 defenders intercept him, swords glowing with layered enchantments. He laughs when their blades clash against his hide, the force shaking the wall. ”Good! Dont die fast, at least!”

On the eastern flank, Ravok hurls a fist of solid stone the size of a house. It slams into the barrier, spiderweb cracks racing outward. The ward flares, but the mages stagger, their bodies shuddering under the strain. One collapses outright, his staff rolling from nerveless fingers.

”Reinforce!” the archmage screams, veins bulging on his neck. ”Keep the channels steady—if the shield breaks, we’re finished!”

Hezor grips the battlement until his fingers ache. His voice shakes, but he forces it into a command. ”Archers! Loose! Focus fire on the siege crews! Don’t let them reload!”

Arrows streak from the wall, whistling through the smoky air. Dozens find their mark, felling ogre engineers and scaled beasts hauling mana-stone shells. For a heartbeat, the assault falters.

Inside the carriage, the roar of battle is only a distant thunder, muffled by steel and velvet. Alix sits with one hand resting against the armrest, his crimson eyes fixed on the trembling glow of Duskwatch’s shield in the distance. The dome ripples under every strike from his vanguard, but it still holds.

His voice cuts the silence, calm and final.

”Mhazul. Go and break the shield. We don’t have all day here.”

The giant doesn’t hesitate. He bows his head once, the chains on his axes rattling as he turns.

”As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Mhazul steps out of the carriage, the dawn wind tugging at his dark cloak. The battlefield below is chaos—fire and lightning clashing against the shield, warriors screaming as they hurl themselves into the sky. But when Mhazul moves, it’s as though the noise bends around him, dulled under the weight of his presence.

He rises into the air, his silhouette enormous against the pale morning light. The leaders below—Selira, Ravok, Kaelen, Gorvak, Malrik—pause mid-battle and look up. Even the defenders feel the shift, their guts tightening as the heat in the air changes.

The Tier 6 mages along the wall gasp, their mana threads trembling.

”W-what is that…?”

”His aura—it’s burning through the shield—!”

Mhazul stops above the city, one massive hand resting on the chained haft of his axe. Lava-colored light seeps from his skin, tracing glowing veins across his arms and chest. His voice booms across the battlefield, low and final.

”Fall.”

The ground shudders as he lifts his weapon. The axes aren’t just steel—they’re stone-bound iron, forged to withstand the wrath of a volcano. Chains rattle as he crosses them before him, aura igniting.

His words rumble like the opening of a fissure.

”Lava Burial.”

The sky darkens. Heat thickens until even the clouds above start to curl and blacken. Then it comes—an eruption, as though the heavens themselves split open. A torrent of molten fire cascades downward, not as rain but as a river. Lava and flame, chained together by his will, pour in a single stream onto the shield dome.

The barrier screams. Cracks ripple across its surface, glowing white-hot where molten fire strikes. Mages collapse instantly, vomiting blood as their channels are overrun by raw, burning force. Those who stand stagger, hands locked on their staves, trying in vain to redirect the impossible pressure.

The defenders cry out, some shielding their eyes from the searing light. The air itself burns to breathe.

”Hold it—!” the Tier 6 mage rasps, but his body is already breaking, skin blistering, veins bursting.

The dome fractures. Once, twice—then the cracks spread like lightning across glass.

With a final roar, Mhazul slams both axes downward. Chains lash, dragging the molten torrent with them, and the entire barrier shatters in an explosion of fire and light.

The shield is gone.

Smoke, ash, and molten stone rain across the walls as the protective dome collapses into sparks. Screams echo from the battlements. The defenders stagger back, eyes wide, horror etched into their faces.

On the battlefield, Selira and the others grin savagely. The path is open.

Mhazul lowers his axes, their chained heads dripping with molten flame. His aura dims slightly, but his voice is still iron.

”It is done, Your Majesty.”

From the carriage in the distance, Alix does not rise, does not cheer. He simply inclines his head once, eyes glinting crimson as he watches the broken city before him.

”Advance,” he says softly.

And like the tide, his army surges forward.

The moment the command leaves Alix’s lips, horns blare across the battlefield. The sound is deep, rolling, and it seems to make the ground itself tremble.

The sight of the shattered shield spreads through Duskwatch like poison. Soldiers on the wall drop their weapons in disbelief, staring at the empty sky where their dome of light had stood. Their voices are broken whispers.

”The shield… it’s gone.”

”No… no, it can’t be—”

”We’re finished…”

Morale cracks like thin ice.

The horns echo, long and low, carrying across the ruined plain. For a heartbeat, the battlefield freezes—both sides staring at the broken sky where the shield once blazed. Then the silence shatters.

From the frontlines, Alix’s monsters roar as one, a guttural sound that shakes the dawn air. Ogre-behemoths pound their chests, scaled drakes unfurl their wings, and the lesser fiends howl until the stone walls themselves seem to flinch. The tide surges.

Duskwatch’s gate—iron-banded oak, reinforced with runes—trembles under the first impact. A giant, armored beast with tusks like spears slams its bulk into the doors. The wards flare, but only weakly; without the shield above, their strength bleeds away.

”Again!” bellows a troll captain, its hammer already dripping gore.

The monsters obey. Siege weapons thunder, blasting against the gate. Horned war-beasts hurl themselves forward, splintering the timbers. At the third impact, the wards shriek—then shatter.

With a roar that drowns out the dying morning, the gate explodes inward, iron and wood splintering in all directions.

”Inside! Tear them apart!” howls the troll commander.

The flood begins.

Monsters and humans pour through the breach like water through a shattered dam. Hulking ogres swing their clubs into ranks of spearmen, scattering men like dolls. Spider-limbed horrors scramble over the rubble, tearing into archers before they can nock a second volley. Lesser fiends dart and leap, jaws closing on throats, dragging screaming men into the dirt.

On the walls, the humans falter.

”The gate’s down!”

”They’re inside—pull back! PULL BACK!”

”We can’t hold them—”

Panic spreads faster than flame. Soldiers stumble backward, some throwing their shields aside as they flee into the streets. Others fight desperately, only to be cut down by monsters twice their size.

Hezor stands on the battlements, his knuckles white against the stone as he watches the tide break through. The sight below is a nightmare—his men trampled under claw and fang, the gate shattered, the city breached.

”No… no, damn it!” he growls, chest heaving. His voice cracks, but he forces it into a shout that carries across the crumbling defenses. ”Fall back! To the inner wall! All units, retreat!”

His captains hesitate, disbelief in their eyes. ”Young lord—if we give them the outer wall—”

”They already have it!” Hezor cuts him off, his glare burning. ”Do as I command! Pull them back now, or we’ll lose everything!”

Horns blare again, this time from within the city, signaling retreat. The battered soldiers latch onto it like drowning men to driftwood. Shields rise not in defiance but in defense, formations stumbling back through the streets, every step pursued by howling monsters.

Hezor grips his sword and looks skyward. His uncle’s aura burns like a beacon above the chaos, locked in combat. Blades of light and arcs of flame clash, thunder cracking with every collision.

For a heartbeat, Hezor feels a surge of hope. ”Uncle…” he whispers.