Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Chapter 363: Chapter 362: Bakwell City

A young adventurer with a torn sleeve stumbles forward. His sword is nicked and bent, his face streaked with ash and tears.

”C-Captain Ronan...” he says, voice cracking. ”What... what do we do now?”

Ronan opens his mouth.

No words come.

He looks around instead.

At the soldiers sitting with their backs against trees, staring at their hands as if they don’t recognize them anymore.

At the adventurers who still grip their weapons even now, knuckles white, eyes darting at every sound.

At the bloodied armor, the empty stares, the quiet sobs that no one bothers to hide.

These are people who hunt monsters for a living.

People who boast about kill counts.

People who laugh around campfires after clearing a village of monsters.

And now—

Now they look like prey.

A middle-aged soldier suddenly laughs, short and broken.

His laughter turns into choking silence.

Another adventurer whispers, voice hollow, ”I begged one of them to stop. It looked at me... like I was livestock.”

No one corrects him.

Because no one can.

Ronan finally speaks.

”Sit down,” he says, voice steady by force of will alone. ”Treat your wounds. Drink water if you have it.”

They listen immediately.

Not because he shouts.

But because he sounds like someone who still knows what he’s doing.

As people settle, Ronan walks a few steps away, hands slowly unclenching at his sides. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been gripping his sword until now.

----

Night blankets Plison City in a wash of warm light and noise.

From the high window, Alix watches it all unfold.

Lanterns float through the streets like drifting stars. Firelight flickers against stone walls. Monsters of every shape and size crowd the plazas—laughing, drinking, boasting loudly about the battle. Some beat drums made from hollowed bone. Others raise mugs and roar to the sky, celebrating survival, victory, and the simple fact that tonight, they are not the ones being hunted.

The city is alive.

Alix rests one hand against the window frame, his expression calm, unreadable. The glass reflects his eyes.

”They’re celebrating like children,” he murmurs.

Behind him, the air stirs.

The terrifying dragon that dominated the battlefield is gone, replaced by a small, round creature hovering lazily in the air, no bigger than a house cat. Two tiny wings flap gently at his sides, and his eyes shine with an innocent, almost playful gleam.

He tilts his head slightly, a hint of pride slipping into his voice.

”Master,” Zevran says, ”did you like my performance earlier?”

Alix doesn’t turn right away. His gaze remains on the city.

”You played your role well,” Alix replies. ”You pushed that human exactly to the edge without breaking him.”

Zevran’s lips curl into a satisfied smile. ”Good. I made sure he believed it too. Fear mixed with humiliation, humans never forget that feeling.”

A faint ripple passes through the room.

Something fluffy floats up from the shadows near the ceiling.

It looks like a small ball of white mist, edges soft and constantly shifting, like compressed cloud. Two tiny dots of light glow within it, pulsing slowly. It bobs in the air with no visible effort.

Mero.

He drifts closer to Alix, hovering at shoulder height.

”Hmph,” Mero grumbles, and unmistakably annoyed—completely mismatched with his appearance. ”Celebration. Noise. Lights. Useless excitement. Back in my era, victory meant silence and proper consolidation.”

Zevran snorts. ”You’re just a grandpa, Mero.”

Alix allows himself a faint smile.

From below, the roar of the city surges again, aughter, clashing mugs, drums beating in uneven rhythm. Fireworks burst above the rooftops, scattering sparks across the night sky.

Mero rotates slowly, peering out the window.

”They really celebrated like we already conquered the kingdom.” he says flatly.

Zevran stops floating around and settles near the window ledge, sitting cross-legged in midair.

Mero turns back to Alix. ”So. What’s next, Master?” His tone sharpens.

Alix looks back out at Plison City.

Alix’s gaze hardens.

”We move on Bakwell City,” he says calmly.

The noise outside feels distant now, muffled by the weight of his words.

Zevran blinks. ”Bakwell?” His wings flutter once. ”That city... it’s huge. From what I remember, it’s one of the kingdom’s most important cities.”

”It is,” Alix replies. ”And filthy.”

Alix said. ”Bakwell,” he mutters. ”Slave city. Breeding pens. Chains stacked higher than walls.” he continues. ”At least three hundred thousand monster slaves. Laborers. Gladiators. Test subjects.” His voice remains even, but the room grows colder. ”They’re resources, kept alive only because humans find them useful.”

Zevran’s playful expression fades.

”...Three hundred thousand,” he repeats softly.

”When we strike Bakwell,” Alix says, ”we don’t just destroy a city. We open the cages.”

Alix continues. ”Some will be weak. Some broken. But all of them will be filled with nothing but hatred.” His eyes sharpen. ”All of them will become part of us.”

Mero’s lips curl upward, this time sharp and eager. ”So our army doesn’t just march... it multiplies.”

”Yes,” Alix answers. ”Bakwell is the spark.”

---

Dawn breaks over Plison City.

The celebrations of the night before fade into disciplined movement and controlled chaos. Streets that were filled with laughter now echo with marching steps and shouted orders. Monsters line up in ranks—scaled warriors, horned brutes, beasts of fur and chitin, eyes sharp and bodies brimming with killing intent.

Banners rise.

Not symbols of clans or races.

But Alix’s mark.

At the central plaza, the four generals stand at the front.

Vordon plants his halberd into the stone with a heavy thoom that silences the crowd. The ground trembles faintly in response, as if the city itself listens.

Behind him, Ruk rolls his shoulders, cracks spreading across his skin like veins of stone. Varesh stands with arms crossed, lightning flickering lazily around his fingers. Erel’na perches atop a broken pillar as she watches the army below with cold interest.

Thousands upon thousands of monsters stand ready.

Vordon steps forward.

His voice carries—deep, steady, impossible to ignore.

”Today,” he says, ”by the orders of His Majesty, Alix.”

A ripple moves through the ranks. Backs straighten. Weapons tighten in grip.

”We march on Bakwell City.”

A low growl spreads like a wave.

Vordon raises his halberd, pointing toward the distant horizon.

”That city has chained our kin. Broken them. Used them like tools and toys.” His eyes burn. ”Three hundred thousand monsters wait there, in cages.”

The growl turns into roars.

”We will tear down their walls,” Vordon continues. ”We will shatter their collars. We will burn their slave pits to ash.”

Ruk slams a fist into his palm. ”Anyone who stands between us and them dies.”

Lightning cracks overhead as Varesh speaks coldly, ”No mercy for slavers.”

Erel’na’s voice hisses softly, yet cuts just as deep. ”Let their fear be the key that opens every cage.”

Vordon takes a final step forward.

”Today,” he roars, ”we attack Bakwell City—”

He brings the halberd down.

”—AND FREE EVERYONE!!!”

Monsters howl.

Weapons clash.

Mana surges.

----

Bakwell City wakes under a pale, early morning sun.

The streets are clean, cobblestones polished and shining from frequent scrubbing. Merchants line the avenues, their stalls brimming with luxury goods, silks dyed in unnatural colors, intricate jewelry, exotic spices imported from distant lands. The scent of baked bread and roasted meats drifts through the air, mixing with the faint tang of fresh water from the canals that run like veins through the city.

Nobles and wealthy citizens stroll openly, fanning themselves, laughing at small jokes, inspecting the merchandise. Every few blocks, slave auctions are underway.

Well-dressed buyers examine the slaves like merchandise, running fingers along muscles, testing obedience, whispering prices with cold calculation. All monsters, some tall, some short, some with wings or fangs, stand restrained, eyes downcast, silent but wary.

A human noble with silver hair bends close to a cage of chained wyvernlings. ”Ten thousand gold each, no less,” he mutters. ”Healthy, strong. Perfect for the gladiator pits.”

The auctioneer, a rotund man in fine clothes, nods eagerly. ”Naturally, sir! All creatures inspected by the city lord himself. Premium quality.” His grin stretches unnervingly wide.

In the center plaza, a group of young slaves practices sword drills under the watchful eye of a muscular overseer. Their movements are sharp but mechanical, more repetition than learning, more obedience than skill.

A chain rattles as one of the young monsters stumbles. ”Hurry! Faster!” the overseer snaps. He cracks his whip against the cobblestones, its sound echoing through the city square. The children flinch, eyes wide, but continue.