Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

The crowd stays locked onto the central clash—Velira and Dvrick exchanging savage blows under a sky of broken mana and fire. The arena rumbles. Screams and gasps echo like thunder.

But in the far corner of the stage—just outside the spotlight—a different kind of fight is happening.

No magic projection is tracking it.

No camera orb hovers overhead.

But a few sharp-eyed spectators near the lower stands have noticed.

"Hey," one guy mutters, leaning forward in his seat, squinting past the haze and dust. "That guy over there—do you see him?"

His friend blinks, confused. "Huh? Who?"

"There." He points. "That one. Look—he's fighting two people. Two low-level Tier 5s."

The friend squints, then his eyes widen. "Wait… what? You're right. And he's not down yet?! What the hell—"

The first guy shakes his head slowly. "It's weird. His movements look… clumsy at first, like he's gonna get hit—then suddenly he dodges. Perfectly. Just at the last second."

They both lean closer, lips parted.

Down on the arena floor, in the jagged shadow of a collapsed stone spire, the fighter in question exhales slowly. His hair is a mess. His coat is ripped at the sleeve. But his eyes are clear—focused.

Two enemies circle him. Both are armed. Both tier 5. Their auras pulse with heat and pressure.

He doesn't flinch.

One of them lunges forward with a blast of fire magic, twin scimitars blazing red.

The other sweeps low with a wind blade, aiming for his legs.

The fighter leans—just slightly.

The scimitars barely miss his neck.

He turns.

The wind blade tears past his shoulder, grazing fabric.

He ducks.

BANG!

His elbow drives into the ribs of the fire-user. The scimitars fall out of rhythm. He kicks backward—catching the other fighter in the knee and breaking their stance.

The crowd doesn't see it.

The camera orbs are locked on Velira, Dvrick, Gresren, Solven.

But that small corner of the arena—that moment—is pure, practiced chaos.

A third voice, an older man nearby, murmurs under his breath, "That... that's not just instinct. That's prediction."

One of the others stares. "But he's only Tier 4. Middle-level Tier 4 at best. How the hell's he—?"

Back to the center of the battlefield—

The smoke begins to settle.

The clamor of the crowd dies down as a brutal silence creeps into the arena.

Gresren lies motionless, face-down near a fractured chunk of stone, his shield beside him.

Solven kneels a short distance away, one dagger buried in the ground to prop himself up, the other long since knocked from his hand. Blood seeps from a gash across his chest. His chest rises and falls. Barely conscious.

Only Velira remains standing.

Barely.

She drags her bow back up with trembling arms, sweat and blood streaking her cheeks. Her breathing is ragged, and one leg shakes with every step.

She turns slowly.

And there, standing calmly in the center of the cracked and crumbling platform, is Dvrick.

He's wounded—his coat slashed, one arm dark blood—but he's composed. Mana still swirls steadily around him, dense and cold like coiled smoke.

He lifts his blade again.

The runes along its curve glow darker now—sinking from red to black, and from black to void.

He looks at her—no mockery, no gloating. Just finality.

"It's a good fight, Velira," he says, voice low but steady. "You pushed me harder than I expected."

He raises his sword with both hands.

"In all of Ereborn," he says, voice carrying clearly through the arena, "my clan alone has mastered the true form of Dark Element Combat. And now…"

His blade points to the sky.

"I'll show you the technique passed down only through the blood of the Nighthorns."

Darkness flares from the blade—first a ripple, then a roar.

The mana in the air drops, like gravity thickening, pressing against everyone's lungs.

Velira's eyes narrow. She takes aim.

"Come then."

Dvrick speaks a single word.

"Tier 5: Oblivion Bloom."

And the world darkens.

The ground beneath him cracks, and black roses—shadow-formed and unnaturally still—burst upward from the broken stone in a perfect circle.

Velira fires.

The arrow disappears into the field of black petals.

Not deflected. Not blocked.

Erased.

"What—?!"

Too late.

The field expands in a flash—BOOM!—a dome of collapsing light and dark, tendrils of black flame lashing outward from Dvrick's blade like serpents.

Velira leaps back, firing again—"Tier 4: Wind Pierce! Tier 5: Sky Split!"—but every arrow vanishes into the blooming chaos.

She tries to Wind Step.

The darkness grabs her ankle mid-flash.

She tumbles.

Slams into the ground, coughing blood.

Dvrick moves—fast. He appears behind her in a blink, blade arcing down in a shadow trail.

Just as the blade is about to fall on Velira, something slams into Dvrick's senses.

His body freezes mid-strike.

A skill—no, not just a skill. Something dangerous. Something lethal.

His instincts scream.

He jerks back, cancelling the finishing blow. Shadow mana recoils around him.

A split-second later, a streak of faint red light rips through the air where he had just stood. It passes harmlessly now, flickering out against the far wall of the arena.

Dvrick lands lightly and narrows his eyes.

"What the…?"

He glances toward the source.

And sees a boy.

A young man—maybe nineteen, maybe eighteen. Messy hair. Scuffed boots. His cloak is dusty, sleeves torn. He's got no noble crest, no engraved armor, no visible aura. He just stands there, calmly lowering one hand, as if he barely bothered to try.

The crowd is still stunned from the last exchange. The camera orbs haven't even shifted yet.

Dvrick's brows pull together.

"…You." His tone is measured, confused but alert. "Who are you? One of Ashedge's recruits?"

The teen—Alix—smiles faintly. "You could say that."

Dvrick's eyes sharpen. "Where are my two teammates? The ones sent after you and that monster slave?"

Alix tilts his head, pretending to think.

"Oh, those guys? They're over there." He jerks a thumb behind him. "Sleeping. Probably having nice dreams, too."

Dvrick's eyes flick to the far edge of the arena. And sure enough, just behind a shattered wall, lie his two low-level Tier 5s recruit—unconscious. Still breathing, but bruised, bleeding, and very much down.

A flicker of something unreadable passes across Dvrick's face.

"You're saying…" he says slowly, "you defeated both of them. As a middle-tier Tier 4?"

Alix shrugs. "I was lucky. They started arguing. Got in each other's way. Classic mistake."

From the ground, Velira lifts her head with effort. "Al…Alix…?"

Her voice cracks.

She stares at him—wide-eyed, bloody, confused.

"How did you survive?"

Alix gives her an innocent blink. "Oh, you mean back there? I don't know. Those guys just kinda… fell over. I think they tripped."

Even in pain, Velira squints at him.

"…You're lying."

Dvrick watches Alix with a deeper frown now. His senses are screaming again—but not from anything visible. Not mana pressure. Not killing intent. Just a strange, nagging wrongness. A gap between what is seen… and what is real.

Because the attack he felt earlier—

That wasn't Tier 4.

That was death.

And yet this boy in front of him? He reads as nothing more than a strong recruit—maybe promising, but nowhere near threatening.

Still, Dvrick doesn't lower his blade.

He studies Alix with new caution.

In the stands, those few spectators who noticed Alix's earlier fight begin shouting now.

"HEY—LOOK OVER THERE!"

"Zoom the camera! That kid—he just stopped Dvrick!"

The projection orb above finally swivels, locking on Alix for the first time.

The crowd gasps.

The announcer's voice crackles, shocked.

"W-What the hell is happening in the Ashedge Clan?!" the announcer blurts out, voice rising above the swelling roar of the audience. "First, three Quasi-Tier 6 weapons… now this—a mysterious recruit who just interrupted a Tier 5 finisher from Dvrick Nighthorn himself!"

The arena explodes in confused shouting and frantic speculation.

Dvrick's stance tightens slightly, his dark blade humming with suppressed mana.

But Alix ignores him.

He walks calmly toward Velira, who's still kneeling, struggling to rise.

"Velira," Alix says quietly, his voice cutting through the chaos like a thread of steel. "Do you really want to win?"

Velira's eyes widen. She stares at him, lips trembling.

"…Yes," she whispers. "Yes, I want to win."

Her voice shakes—but not from fear.

"Because if we don't… My mother's condition—she won't survive another year."

Her hands grip the stone. Her head bows.

Tears run down her cheek, mixing with dirt and blood.

"If you can help me win… I'll do anything. Anything you ask. My clan—my family, they'll give you whatever you want."

The silence that follows feels impossibly heavy.