Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

The next day

Royal Capital, Luminaris

Grand Assembly Hall.

The massive bronze doors of the Assembly Hall stand open, sunlight spilling across polished marble floors. The hall is enormous, wide enough to host a thousand, tall enough.

Today, it feels suffocating.

Nobles in elegant robes stream inside, their footsteps echoing sharply.

Countesses whisper behind jeweled fans.

Viscounts speak in hushed, worried tones.

Marquises share fleeting glances that betray fear.

None of them have been summoned like this in decades.

And a royal summons from a bedridden king…

Unthinkable.

”Why were we called so urgently?”

”I heard something’s happening in the Duke’s territory.”

”No, that can’t be it. I never gotten any reports, and I’m close to lord Charles’s territory.”

”Then why the king? Why now?”

”Did something happen to His Majesty’s health?”

”I heard Marshal Stegran left his palace at dawn. Imagine that! He hasn’t come to a council in fifty years!”

”Wait—Stegran too? That means all three Marshals—”

”Impossible. Don’t tell me all three actually responded?”

More nobles enter.

The Grand Assembly Hall grows louder by the minute.

Whispers crawl across the crowd like sparks across dry leaves.

No one sits.

No one relaxes.

Every noble senses it—

Something is terribly wrong.

A sudden ripple cuts through the buzzing hall.

A knight announces loudly from the entrance:

”Marshal Dargan has arrived!”

A heavy pressure rolls into the hall like a shockwave.

Dargan strides through the bronze doors, wearing a red fur-lined coat that barely covers his scarred chest. His towering frame makes even the taller nobles shrink. His eyes sweep across the crowd with lazy arrogance, as if searching for something—someone—to amuse him.

Immediately—

”Marshal Dargan!”

”Greetings, Lord Dargan!”

”An honor, Marshal!”

Nobles rush forward like moths to flame, bowing their heads, trying to brush his attention.

Dargan ignores them all.

He cracks his neck, then sits at one of the long obsidian tables as if he owns the hall.

Another ripple—

”Marshal Vanthe has arrived!”

The temperature drops.

Vanthe glides inside with the elegance of flowing water. His dark blue robe trails like a river, lotus petals drifting in his wake as if following an unseen current. His expression is serene… lifeless.

Nobles hurry to greet him.

”Marshal Vanthe! A pleasure—”

”We haven’t seen you in the capital in—”

But Vanthe raises a single hand.

Silence falls instantly.

”I am here for duty,” he says softly. ”Not for pleasantries.”

The nobles bow, shrinking away from his cold aura.

Moments later—

”Marshal Stegran has arrived!”

Music seems to follow him, soft, alluring, unsettling.

Stegran enters with a smile that could charm a goddess and terrify a demon. His golden-red robe shimmers like embers. Handsome, elegant, yet dangerous, his gaze sweeps the hall like a serpent searching for prey.

Nobles practically trip over themselves to greet him.

”Marshal Stegran—!”

”Lord Steg—”

He meets each noble with a warm smile… but his eyes remain cold.

”So eager to flatter?” he murmurs, voice smooth as silk. ”At least wait until I speak before offering your praise.”

A few nobles laugh awkwardly.

No one dares speak again.

With all three Marshals present, the hall transforms.

The nobles cluster along the walls, intimidated by the overwhelming pressure emanating from the trio. They sit at the head table—three seats placed directly beside the King’s throne.

A symbolic statement.

A terrifying one.

Their status…

is not beneath the king.

And every noble knows it.

A new announcement echoes.

”Duke Charles has arrived! Accompanied by Sir Knight Virtil!”

The doors open.

Charles enters with long, steady strides, his cloak fluttering behind him. His expression is calm, but steel glints in his eyes. Behind him, Virtil walks silently, each step radiating a pressure that makes the air vibrate.

Nobles bow respectfully, but this time—

They keep their distance.

No one dares crowd the king’s brother… or the legendary knight.

Charles meets the Marshals’ gazes briefly.

Dargan smirks.

Vanthe’s eyebrow twitches.

Stegran gives a playful but sharp smile.

Virtil’s eyes narrow slightly.

He feels the tension like a blade pressed against the skin.

Charles walks to his designated seat, not among the Marshals, but to the king’s right side, where only royal blood may sit.

Virtil stands behind him like a shadow.

Then, the bronze doors close.

A hush sweeps the hall.

”His Majesty, has arrived!”

Two knights push open the smaller central door as Alden walks inside with slow, deliberate steps. He wears a simple white robe, a silver mantle draped over his shoulders. He looks frail, yes—but his eyes shine with sharp awareness.

The nobles rise to their feet instantly.

”His Majesty!”

Alden raises a hand gently.

”Be seated.”

His voice is soft,

weak,

yet filled with undeniable authority.

He walks toward his throne.

Virtil moves to help, but Alden subtly shakes his head.

”I can walk,” he whispers.

When he sits, the three Marshals rise briefly in acknowledgment, then sit beside him, their thrones nearly level.

Silence settles.

The massive hall stands still.

Alden lifts his gaze, looking over the sea of nobles, the Marshals, his brother… and finally Virtil.

Then he speaks:

”Thank you all for coming. I have summoned every high noble of this kingdom… because the matter before us is grave.”

Nobles lean forward.

Some swallow nervously.

Others clench their fists.

Alden continues.

”Today, we will discuss a threat that has already taken thousands of lives… and now threatens our entire kingdom.”

The hall erupts into frightened murmurs.

The Marshals remain perfectly still.

Alden’s voice cuts through the noise.

”The monsters has launched an organized invasion.”

Gasps.

Shouts.

Shock.

Alden lets the hall tremble in fear for a few seconds.

Then he raises a hand.

Silence falls like a blade.

Alden’s voice drops to a razor edge.

”It comes from the wilderness around Nam City.”

The words crack through the hall like ice. For a beat, no one breathes.

A gasp ripples through the nobles, a soft, horrified collective intake. Every face turns toward Stegran, as if sound itself could point a finger.

Stegran laughs first, a casual, soft sound meant to disarm, and lets it hang in the air. ”Is His Majesty suspecting me, then?” he asks, voice honeyed. The laugh dies halfway into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Around him, the nobles steal quick glances. Several adjust their clothing as if to hide trembling hands. A Countess clutches her fan so hard the ivory frame creaks.

Charles stands. He does not shout. He does not sneer. He speaks like an executioner reading a sentence.

”No one is pointing fingers, Lord Stegran,” he says, measured. ”But as the one who controls that territory and forbade any interference, do you not have responsibility to see the wilderness is tended? To ensure no threat grows unchecked?”

Stegran’s smile sharpens. ”Responsibility? You presume to lecture a Marshal who saved these lands?” he replies, though the barbs are softer than they once might be. He inclines his head to the assembled nobles as if that will soothe them. ”Nam City is under my watch because I want the recourses the can be found in that wilderness. I forbid meddling because curious eyes invite trouble.”

The murmurs return—this time sharper, anxious, blade-thin.

Charles doesn’t sit.

He places both hands behind his back, posture straight, voice steady.

”I received a report yesterday from General Jared,” he says. ”According to him… there is a possibility the monster race has a beast with a strength of quasi–Tier 7.”

The hall freezes.

The echo of his words seems to grind against the marble pillars.

Even the three Marshals, cannot completely hide the twitch in their expressions.

Dargan’s fingers tighten on the armrest.

Vanthe’s calm eyes narrow.

Stegran’s smile pauses, just slightly.

A noble breaks first.

A Marquis with trembling hands stands abruptly, voice cracking as he tries to maintain composure.

”H-How is that possible?” he asks, face paling. ”A quasi Tier 7? Does Lord Charles mean to suggest the monsters somehow… somehow tamed a Beast King within the wilderness?”

His voice shakes so violently the word Beast King almost fractures.

The hall erupts.

”What!? Impossible!”

”That’s just not an ordinary beast king, that’s a quasi-tier 7 beast.”

”Is this a joke? Those lowly monsters taming one!?”

”Silence!”

Virtil’s voice cuts through the panic like a sword being unsheathed.

Instantly, the hall turns deathly quiet.

Virtil steps forward, standing beside Charles like a drawn blade. His gaze moves across the nobles.