Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

The rulers exchange tense glances, pride warring with the instinct to bow lower.

Then, with a sweep of his gauntleted arm, the commander turns and gestures toward the great doors of the palace. The massive door open slowly, their carved reliefs of beasts and battles illuminated by firelight within.

Boots thud against polished stone as the tier 6 commander strides ahead, leading them through the massive archway and into the echoing corridors of the palace. The air is colder here, the weight of the structure pressing down as if the walls themselves were alive.

The five rulers follow in silence, their entourages were left behind outside. At last, Chief Gorvak of Ironfang clears his throat, his gravelly voice breaking the silence.

"Sir… if you don't mind me asking," he rumbles, as he studies the broad back of the armored giant, "what rank are you? With that kind of aura, you must be one of the Marshals, yes?"

The commander does not slow, his voice steady, carrying through the corridor like rolling stone.

"I am not a Marshal. I am only a commander."

The words hang in the air, heavy. The rulers exchange startled glances.

King Ravok narrows his eyes, disbelief slipping into his tone. "Only a commander? A tier 6 like you? In our lands, one of your strength would sit beside the throne itself."

The commander lets out a low chuckle, the sound echoing against his helmet. "Then your lands are small." He glances back, crimson eyes gleaming faintly. "From what I heard, there are only five Marshals in His Majesty's kingdom. Each one… far beyond me."

The rulers fall silent, the enormity of that truth settling like a boulder in their chests.

Selira, tilts her head slightly, her voice calm but edged with curiosity. "If tier 6 is merely a commander… then what does that make the generals?"

The commander finally stops in the vast hallway, torchlight flickering across the crimson plates of his armor. He turns slightly, his helm casting his expression in shadow, but his voice carries clear, steady, and sharp.

"Well," he says, "being a general… there are two paths."

The rulers lean in without meaning to, their breaths tight.

The commander raises two thick fingers.

"The first—become a general as a tier 5. But for that, you must be close to His Majesty. Trusted. Connected."

The second finger lowers, knuckles creaking against the gauntlet.

"The second—for those of us who came later—you must climb. Accumulate military points in campaigns. Then, and only then, if you reach peak tier 6, you may be considered for the rank of general."

The words roll into silence, the kind that digs under the skin.

King Ravok blinks, his lips parting in disbelief. "Peak… tier 6? Just to be considered?"

The commander's smirk curves beneath the helm, faint but cutting. "That's right." His voice drops into something colder, amused. "To be honest… in this war, only the generals are dispatched. Just the generals."

He sweeps his gaze across them, letting the weight of his words sink in. "And already… your continent is in chaos."

The rulers freeze, the enormity of what he implies slamming into them.

Chief Gorvak's teeth grind as he mutters, "So this—" he gestures at the commander, at the oppressive aura of tier 6 radiating off him—"isn't even enough for a general?"

The commander lets the silence answer for him.

Selira's lips tighten, her eyes sharp as glass. "A tier 6… is only a commander." She breathes out slowly, disbelief curling into something darker, fear.

King Malrik narrows his eyes, his voice low and bitter. "In this continent, a tier 6 could rule. And here… you are but a commander."

The commander tilts his head, that faint smirk never leaving. "Now you begin to understand."

The five rulers glance at each other, the same thought carved across their faces:

What kind of kingdom have we come to kneel before?

Selira breaks the silence, her voice softer than before, but edged with something that sounds almost like awe.

"His Majesty… perhaps he comes from the main continent."

The commander doesn't even turn his head. His voice, calm and iron-bound, cuts through the hall.

"No. But in the future, the main continent will kneel before His Majesty."

The words crash against the five rulers like thunder.

For a heartbeat, none of them breathe. Their minds race with the same unspoken thought:

What a mad thing to say.

The main continent—spoken of only in hushed legends, a place of gods and being far beyond mortal grasp. Their backwater land is nothing but a distant fringe. Even their empire, mighty as it seems, would be nothing but ants there. Everyone knows this.

King Ravok clenches his jaw, his voice barely above a whisper. "To claim even the main continent…"

Chief Gorvak said lowly. "It's lunacy."

Malrik does not speak, but his eyes narrow, weighing the commander's tone—not as bluster, but conviction.

The commander does not elaborate, and the silence grows heavier as their footsteps echo across the polished stone.

Finally, the air shifts. They approach the end of the hall, where two colossal doors rise before them—black steel and obsidian carved with spirals of runes that pulse faintly like living veins. Each door is tall enough to swallow a fortress gate, and the pressure they exude makes the rulers' knees weaken.

The commander steps forward, his gauntleted hand pressing against the runed surface. The colossal doors groan open, their sound like stone mountains splitting.

"Announcing," his voice booms through the vast chamber, carrying like thunder, "the leaders of Ironfang, Blackspire, Wesia, Calon, and Raedel—here to offer their submission before His Majesty."

The five rulers steel themselves as best they can. Pride clenches their jaws, but the moment the doors open wide, their breaths catch.

Lining the great hall are ten soldiers in gleaming golden armor, their helms wrought with monstrous visages, their weapons resting like towers against their shoulders. The pressure radiating from them leaves no room for doubt—every one of them is tier 6. Between them, like a river of steel, march tier 5 elites, each standing rigid in perfect formation. The sheer display of discipline and strength is ceremonial… yet suffocating.

King Ravok of Wesia whispers harshly, "Ten… tier 6 soldiers… as guards?"

Selira's sharp eyes dart over the line. Her voice trembles though she forces composure. "And each of them shines with killing intent. These are no showpieces. They are warriors."

Chief Gorvak mutters under his breath, tusks grinding. "This… this is insanity. In our land, one of them could destroy a kingdom. And here—they stand in rows, like common sentries."

The Blackspire king's lips thin, but he says nothing. The silence that grips him is not disbelief—but fear.

Then their eyes shift forward, to the throne.

Upon the obsidian dais, seated upon a throne carved of black crystal veined with gold, rests Alix—the King of Monsters. Shadows cling to him like a second cloak, his very presence bending the air. His gaze is calm, piercing, detached.

But what truly drives the rulers' hearts to ice are the four figures flanking him. Two on each side—monsters whose auras roar like oceans. Each one is a peak tier 6, their killing intent so sharp it feels as though a single thought could unravel their very lives.

The five rulers feel their spines stiffen against the instinct to kneel. Their pride screams to stand tall, yet every instinct tells them to bow.

King Ravok swallows hard, his voice low as he leans toward Selira. "Each of those four… I can feel it. Any one of them could wipe us out."

Selira's eyes never leave the throne. Her voice is calm, but her knuckles whiten against her robes. "No… not just us. Our whole nations, clans."

Chief Gorvak's tusks grind as sweat beads down his temple. "Then what in the abyss does that make the one sitting on the throne?"

The Mhazul's voice cuts the air, sharp and commanding.

"Kneel before His Majesty, Alix—the King of Erevaris Kingdom."

The words reverberate through the chamber, leaving the five rulers with no air to breathe.

The moment the words crash through the vast chamber, the five rulers don't even think. Their bodies move before their pride can resist, survival instinct seizing control.

One after another, they drop to their knees, the sound of armor and cloth striking the polished floor echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling.

Their entourages, shaken to the core, follow in a clumsy wave of submission, heads pressed low.

As if rehearsed, the five rulers speak in unison, their voices heavy with fear and forced reverence.

"We greet His Majesty."