Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

The roar of the crowd is still ringing through the coliseum when the golden orbs above begin to spin once more—resuming their slow dance through the air.

The announcer doesn't miss a beat.

"And now, brave citizens of the Empire… are you ready for the second match of the day?!"

The crowd answers in a single thunderous shout:

"YES!!"

"Then hold onto your seats!"

The orbs swirl faster, a pulse of magic crackling around them like lightning caught in a whirlpool.

And then—

BOOM.

Two emblems flash to life, brighter than the rest.

"The Kingdom of Tous…!"

The crowd erupts. Cheers explode from every section of the arena. Flags bearing the golden lion crest of Tous rise high. Horns blare. The chant begins instantly:

"TOUS! TOUS! TOUS!"

"…versus the Kingdom of Hrelm!"

Another wave of noise surges, though this one is more mixed—cheers, whistles, the sound of a proud but smaller group trying to rise above the Tous fans.

Gresren's eyebrows rise. "Tous? Rip to that Hrelm guy."

Velira watches quietly as the field begins to shift again, stone plates groaning and sliding into new formations.

The terrain now rises in a split design—one side a golden plain of sunlit rock and banners, symbolizing Tous's pride and discipline. The other, craggy highland terrain, darker, uneven—reminiscent of the iron-rich lands of Hrelm.

The announcer's voice booms over it all.

"On one side—your tournament favorites! The golden lions of the west! The pride of the capital! The number one ranked team in stage one with over four thousand points—the Kingdom of Tous!"

A squad of five strides out onto the platform, descending into the arena.

At the front walks their leader—a young man clad in white and gold armor, cape fluttering in the wind, sword resting at his hip. His golden-blonde hair is tied neatly back, his expression calm.

He doesn't wave.

He doesn't smile.

He just walks—and the air around him is steady. Commanding.

The Tous prince is flanked by two elite warriors from his kingdom: a heavy-shield knight glowing with defensive enchantments, and a cloaked archer whose arrows gleam with light magic.

Behind them, two recruited fighters chosen for strength. One bears a hammer enchanted with radiant force. The other, a tall man with a halberd and layered wind-armor shimmering across his limbs.

The crowd never stops cheering.

"And facing them—do not underestimate them—the iron wall of the north! The Kingdom of Hrelm!"

Another cheer rises, more concentrated this time—fans of the underdog roaring in support as five warriors step out from the opposite platform.

Their leader is tall, broad-shouldered, wearing deep red plate armor etched with black runes. His weapon is a spiked greathammer slung across his back. He walks like a boulder rolling downhill—slow, heavy, unstoppable.

Two warriors march at his side, another with a thick tower shield and mace, and a woman wielding a chain-blade that sparks with magnetic runes.

The last two are recruits—one dual-wielding short spears, the other a silent mage cloaked in iron-threaded robes, enchantments flashing faintly beneath his sleeves.

The chime rings.

BOOM.

The battle starts—and it ends fast.

The Kingdom of Tous doesn't just win—they dominate. The moment the chime fades, they explode into motion with clockwork precision. The shield-knight charges first, deflecting every spell and blow thrown his way like a walking fortress. The wind-armored halberd wielder swoops across the battlefield, faster than any of the Hrelm fighters can track.

The archer fires one glowing arrow—then five—then a dozen. Each one finds its mark, slamming into limbs and weapons, breaking guards and rhythm.

The golden prince moves like light incarnate. His sword gleams, not a single wasted swing, every strike forcing Hrelm's captain back. No wasted motion. No strain. Just control.

Within two minutes, Hrelm is on the ropes. By the fourth, their mage is unconscious, their mace-wielder disarmed. The chain-blade fighter yields. The crowd erupts as the last blow falls—a clean, radiant cut across the air that sends the greathammer spinning to the side.

Tous wins.

The announcer's voice explodes across the arena.

"What power! What precision! A flawless performance from the Kingdom of Tous! A textbook display of high-tier coordination! A complete shutout!"

Up in the viewing stands, Velira sits forward slightly, watching the field as it resets. Gresren's jaw hangs halfway open.

Alix leans back against the rail.

"That crown prince of Tous," he says quietly, "he's strong. Peak Tier 5."

Velira's arms are crossed, but her gaze never leaves the field. "Oh, you can tell?"

Alix doesn't answer.

She does.

"Prince Caldre has always been a genius. He's been above the rest of us since we were kids. Everything came easy for him—combat, command, strategy… Even his mana is terrifying. Cold, like he's not even trying."

Gresren exhales, arms resting over the railing. "His two companions are high Tier 5 too. You can feel it. That swordswoman and the archer? Monsters."

He jerks his thumb toward the field. "And those two recruits? Mid Tier 5. That's just unfair. How can they just recruit Tier 5s like it's nothing?"

Then he glances sideways at Alix. "Not that I'm complaining, of course."

Alix says nothing.

Doesn't even blink.

Just keeps watching the field as the Tous team walks off with calm, composed steps—like they'd never broken a sweat.

Velira finally turns away. "We don't need to compete with them." She says, voice firm. "Our goal isn't to beat Tous. Our goal is to stay in the top five."

Solven nods quietly.

Alix doesn't speak, but he glances sideways at Velira—just briefly.

She doesn't notice.

She's already looking at the orbs above the arena again as they start spinning once more.

"…Next match," she murmurs.

The golden orbs spin faster once more, their glow rippling across the sky like sparks caught in wind.

A hush ripples through the crowd.

BOOM.

Two new emblems flare into view.

"The Nighthorn Clan…!"

Cheers rise again—loud, but sharp. Respectful. There's a quiet tension that follows their name, like everyone knows not to cheer too loud around a wolf's den.

"…versus… the Ashedge Clan!"

For a split second, silence.

Then—

Gasps erupt across the coliseum. Murmurs swell like a wave.

Velira's eyes widen. "No…"

Gresren blurts it first. "This is bad."

Solven straightens, his hand tightening on the railing. "The Nighthorn Clan? That's the second strongest group in the whole tournament. Their power's not that far behind Tous."

Velira stares at the emblems in the sky, lips parted.

She doesn't speak right away.

When she does, her voice is low. "Even if we use our last trump card… it won't be enough. We'd still lose. And worse—we'd waste it."

Solven frowns, turning to her. "So what, we forfeit?"

No one answers.

Not yet.

Alix watches her in silence, his arms folded. His eyes narrow—not judgmental, just… curious. Amused. He's seen her in a fight. Now he wants to see what she does when the fight hasn't started but the walls are already closing in.

Beside him, Karnessa leans forward slightly, her fists balled at her sides. She doesn't speak either, but her expression is drawn tight.

She hates this feeling.

She hates it.

Her Tier 3 strength might as well be mud in a storm like this. She knows it. Everyone here knows it.

Velira slowly breathes in through her nose, then exhales, steadying herself.

"No," she says finally, quiet but firm. "We don't forfeit."

Solven raises an eyebrow. "Then what?"

Velira's gaze doesn't leave the arena floor. "We fight—but not to win. We hold our ground. Buy time. We show we belong here. That's all we need."

Karnessa said lowly. "You think they're gonna go easy?"

"No," she says. "But if we're smart, we can survive long enough to make it count."

She turns toward her team. Her jaw is set, and her voice hardens.

"We already made it into the top five. That means we're not weak. Let's remind them of that."

Alix watches her, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. Not a smile—just the flicker of interest.

Velira's spine straightens, and she steps away from the railing.

"We go."

The crowd begins to murmur as the platforms slowly descend.

Tension crackles in the air.

Then the announcer's voice cuts through it—louder, sharper, laced with gleeful disbelief.

"Well, well, well! Is this the end of the Ashedge Clan… or are we about to witness another miracle?!"

A few in the crowd cheer. Most stay quiet, unsure.