Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

The figure lands—

With an impact like judgment, he strikes the ground between the fleeing civilians and the charging monsters. Pavement shatters. The shockwave flattens tents, cracks walls, and sends even ogres staggering back.

He rises from the crater, and the light dims just enough to reveal him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clad in plated armor of silver and royal blue, etched with glowing runes. A crimson cape snaps behind him, singed at the edges but whole.

His gaze is fixed.

Cold.

Burning.

Marshal of Irovia a Tier 6 champion of the Crown.

The soldiers behind him gasp, some with relief, some with awe.

He speaks with quiet fury, his voice low but resonant, carried by the magic rippling from his very presence.

"Monster... I will kill you. I will avenge the innocent who died today."

The silence that follows is broken only by Veyrith's slow, sharp laugh.

Veyrith steps forward, axe dripping red. He lifts it and taps it against his shoulder, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and contempt.

"With your strength? That'll be hard to achieve."

He tilts his head, grinning wide enough to show his sharp fangs.

"But since you said that… then let me say this—"

He spreads his arms, flame and shadow dancing across his scaled armor.

"I will kill all of you humans. For every innocent monster you enslaved. For every one you butchered and burned and laughed at while chained."

Astram lands beside him silently. His eyes narrow at Kael. No emotion. Just calculation.

"Irovia will be your grave," Veyrith finishes.

And then—

The marshal moves.

In a blur of light, he closes the distance, spear in hand, the tip blazing with condensed mana. His thrust is aimed directly at Veyrith's throat—fast enough to pierce steel in a blink.

But—

CLANG!

Veyrith twists, his axe rising to intercept the blow. Sparks explode as steel meets steel, the force of the clash rippling through the broken plaza like a quake. Cracked tiles shoot into the air, and wind bursts outward in concentric waves.

The marshal skids back three paces, eyes narrowing. "Good reflexes."

Veyrith grins, his shoulder twitching from the impact. "You're faster than the last one. Let's see if you last longer."

He lunges.

Axe whirl, The marshal pivots, parrying the first, sidestepping the second, then countering with a rising spear slash that aims for Veyrith's gut. The monster twists mid-motion, letting the blow graze his scale-plated waist. Blood sprays—but just a line. A warning.

Veyrith doesn't stop. He slams his foot down, cracking the ground, and brings his right axe upward in a brutal arc.

The marshal blocks, but he's forced back again—his boots carving twin gouges in the stone.

Astram watches for only a second more before lifting his hand.

A soft mist curls from his fingertips.

However, before he can attack, a second figure slams down behind the first Marshal—ice cracking beneath her armored heels.

The second Tier 6 of Irovia.

She's leaner than her counterpart, her armor a pale silver etched with runes that pulse with pale sapphire light. Her presence is sharp—like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Her helmet is off, revealing hair the color of frost and eyes that gleam with blue fire.

She doesn't speak to Veyrith.

She speaks to Astram.

"You're the one who froze our northern border," she says flatly.

Astram finally turns his head, his voice calm. "And if I am?"

"I will kill you," she says through gritted teeth. "You killed my family and destroyed my hometown."

Astram raises a hand—and the ground beneath her erupts in a blast of ice. Jagged spears of frost shoot upward, trying to impale her.

But Vessra leaps.

She spins midair, landing lightly on a rooftop—her blade glowing with heat, already countering the cold.

The duel begins.

Below, Veyrith is laughing—pure, brutal joy in the sound. His axes grind against Kael's spear again and again, their movements too fast for normal eyes to follow. Every swing of Veyrith's weapons sends shockwaves out across the plaza—toppling debris, ripping apart the cobblestones. His power is monstrous—raw, wild, unchained.

----

Far to the east, in the heartlands of the kingdom of Rhyssor—

Dawn never comes.

The sky over the eastern reaches is choked with black clouds. Ash rains softly over the fields, and the forests have gone silent—no birdsong, no wind, only the slow, unnatural creak of death inching closer.

On the horizon, a black tide marches.

The Bonepiercers Legion.

Their numbers are impossible to count.

An endless, shifting army of undead monsters—stitched horrors, skeletal giants, rotting beasts reanimated with cruel artistry. Some crawl, dragging the broken chains of past lives. Others hover, eyes burning with violet flame. Winged ghouls circle above, scouting ahead with shrieks that freeze blood.

They march without banners. Without cries. Without mercy.

At their head stride twenty towering figures—each a Tier 6 commander. Their presence bends the air, warps the soil beneath their feet. Their magic is wrong—like the smell of spoiled flesh and rusted iron, like memories you forgot for a reason.

One of them—a knight whose armor is fused to his decaying body—raises a blade formed of bone and shadow. He doesn't speak. He wills the charge forward.

And Rhyssor breaks.

Villages vanish in silence. The Bonepiercers don't pillage. They erase. Homes crumble without a trace. People disappear without screams. Whole battalions sent to the borders vanish from scrying stones in minutes.

A terrified priest reports what little he can before his voice cuts off mid-chant.

"…they don't fight like soldiers… They… devour the mana from the land itself. The crops are dead. The rivers run black. We can't cast—we can't—"

The transmission ends.

In Rhyssor's capital, one of the five marshal s of Rhyssor grips the edge of the war table, his knuckles white. Generals whisper behind him, none willing to say what's now clear.

This isn't a battle.

This is a cleansing.

The silence in the war chamber is suffocating.

Only the sound of distant bells tolling—funeral bells—echo through the palace corridors. Messengers kneel, panting, dust-covered and blood-splattered, while officers pore over maps that grow more meaningless by the hour. Red lines become obsolete before the ink dries.

The marshal turns slowly toward the others. His face is lined, not with age, but with the weight of knowing. Three of his comrades—Tier 6 powerhouses, the pride of Rhyssor—are already dead. Cut down one after the other in desperate attempts to stall the advance of the undead.

And still the Bonepiercers come.

"They're not heading toward our defenses," one general whispers. "They're bypassing every strongpoint. It's like… like they already know where everything is."

The marshal doesn't respond at first. Then, slowly, he raises his head.

"They do," he says quietly.

Gasps ripple through the room.

But before outrage can take hold, a tremor runs through the floor. Subtle, but unmistakable. The chandeliers sway slightly. Dust falls from the stone ceiling.

Another tremor follows. Heavier. Closer.

"No," someone breathes, voice cracking. "They're here—already?"

"They moved through the cursed swamps," another mutters. "No sane force would try that route. No scouts ever made it back. We didn't even bother fortifying—"

"Because they don't breathe," the marshal snaps. "They don't rest. They walked through poison and death because it's what they are."

A sudden shriek—inhuman, metallic—rips through the night outside.

And then a sound like a thousand bones snapping at once.

The war table shakes. A servant screams in the hallway before being cut short—so suddenly, so absolutely, the room freezes.

The remaining two marshals lock eyes.

They don't speak for a moment.

Then the older one turns sharply toward the Tier 5 general standing at attention beside the map table, face pale but steady.

"You. General," the marshal says.

The general straightens. "Yes, Marshal."

"You're to escort the royal family to the western passage. Don't take the roads. Use the old undercroft tunnels and stay clear of the watchposts. Don't stop for anything."

Haerik doesn't hesitate. He salutes, fist to heart.

"I understand. I'll see them safely out. Even if I have to carry each one on my back."

"Do it." The Marshal nods once. "Your orders are to succeed—even if the capital falls."

The younger Marshal steps forward. His voice is low and calm, but his eyes burn with silent fury. "If you fail… our kingdom will truly fall."

"I won't," The general promises. Then he's gone—already running, already shouting orders to his men as the doors slam behind him.

The chamber feels colder now.

The walls creak. Faint moaning echoes from beyond the palace—a sound like the city itself is weeping.

The two marshals remain.

There's nothing left to say, and yet, one of them exhales a slow breath and chuckles without humor.

"Well. I suppose this is it."

The older one nods, his expression like stone. "Time to do what we were born to do."

"Die?" the younger one says, almost joking.

"No," the elder replies. He draws his blade, the runes along its length flickering weakly, like a candle before it dies. "Buy time."

The younger marshal grins—a grim, resigned thing. He unbuckles his cloak, lets it fall, and rolls his shoulders as golden energy coils around his arms. "Then let's make it expensive."

A distant tower explodes.

The sky outside the windows glows a sickly purple. Screams, now closer. The Bonepiercers have entered the outer wards. The palace itself is next.

But the marshals walk—not run—through the great doors of the war chamber and into the darkened halls beyond, where shadows now shift in unnatural ways.

One of them speaks softly, as the distant thunder of war draws near.

"If we fail here… make them bleed for every stone."

And together, they vanish into the storm.