Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Vask steps closer, voice tight with urgency. "Your Majesty—please. Tell us. What is happening?"

Emperor Varnen sits very still. The weight of the room seems to rest on his shoulders; the lines in his face are sharper, his eyes ringed with sleepless hollows. He breathes once, a long, tired inhale, then begins.

"It started last week," he says, each word careful. "I called a meeting with the Spears to coordinate a response, how we push back the invasion. Suddenly, the portal that links our continent to the main one… it began acting strange. Flickering, spitting raw mana."

Varnen's hands curl slowly into fists on the arms of his chair. His voice grows heavier with each word.

"As soon as I reached the chamber, the portal was gone—shattered, like it had never been whole. And there he was. That man… Vernoso. Lying on the ground, bleeding, broken. At first, we thought he was a victim of the collapse."

The Stormveil master leans forward, his eyes sharp despite the strain in his body. "But he wasn't."

Varnen shakes his head, his jaw tightening. "No. He rose. He whispered something—I still cannot say if it was a word, a chant, or simply his will. But when the sound touched us, half of my Spears fell where they stood. Their life force… drained, as though the marrow had been stolen from their bones."

Vask's claws click against the stone floor, his eyes narrowing. "And you could do nothing? Not even you?"

The Emperor's laugh is short, bitter, a ghost of the pride he once carried. "Nothing. That is the truth. We threw everything at him—skills, relics, formations—but his presence swallowed it all. I learned then what it means to stand beneath a Tier 7. To him, we are nothing but an ant."

The Stormveil master closes his eyes, his voice little more than a whisper to himself.

"Is Tier 7… truly so far beyond reach?"

Vask's eyes narrow to slits, his claws flexing against the polished stone. His voice cuts through the heavy silence.

"So… he comes from the main continent." His tone is low, dangerous. "From the way he acts—how he takes what he wants, how he treats us like livestock—he must be a wanted man. Someone cast out."

Varnen lifts his gaze, the faintest flicker of sorrow in his eyes. "Wanted or not, it doesn't matter. Power of that scale has no chains but its own. And for now…" His voice dips, hollow and resigned. "…we are bound by his."

Adro snaps his head toward him, fury breaking through the dread in his face. "So you'll just bow? Hand over our lives, our legacies, because some arrogant vagrant?"

The Emperor's jaw tightens, but he doesn't rise to the insult. Instead, he speaks with the weight of a man cornered by inevitability.

"He made a promise. When he recovers his full strength, he will deal with the monster crisis. And after that… he will leave."

Vask's breath catches. "And you believe him?"

"I don't," Varnen admits, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. "What can you do? Until tomorrow, we wait."

----

Dawn breaks over Duskwatch with the taste of iron in the air. Alix's forces slides across the plain endlessly. Heavy boots, scaled mounts, monstrous vanguards, and the long carriages that rattle with mana-stone siege engines. The sky is still bruised from the night; smoke and ash drift in ribbons above the camp.

They meet Duskwatch's outer lines already bristling: palisades, caltrops, trenchworks. Men and women in dusky cloaks move like a living net across the earth. But one thing is wrong — the banner at the command tower bears the clan sigil, yet the familiar figure who should stand beneath it is missing. In his place, a boy no older than twenty paces into the world and duty, masked by grim focus, giving orders to everyone.

Ravok's shadow cuts over them. He floats a little higher, massive stone-plate arm glittering with the dust of a hundred wrecked fortresses. He spots the empty tower and sneers. "Kid—where is your father?" His voice is blunt, like a hammer.

The young commander's jaw tightens. He does not answer. He straightens his shoulders, as if his silence is a blade.

Gorvak drifts down, grin split wide but cruel as ever. His voice booms across the plain, loud enough to rattle helmets and stir horses. "Are you lot planning something clever? Doesn't matter. You're all going down today."

The five leaders exchange a look — small, precise.

"Then begin," Selira says. Her voice is cool and ordered. "Strike now."

The field explodes.

First, the siege lines answer, Alix's mana-stone engines—sleek, black barrels set on great wheeled platforms—crack like thunder. Their crews chant, fingers threaded with conduit-runes.

Mana-stone cores glow hungry, and the barrels vomit elemental fire, a spear of condensed lightning that lances the sky, a sulfurous bolt that slams into the first wave and blooms into fire like a second sun. The ground shakes under the recoil, birds flee in a panicked swirl.

On Duskwatch's wall, the clang of warning bells echoes like a heartbeat. Hezor grips the stone battlement so tightly his knuckles pale. His eyes flick toward the horizon where the monster horde churns like a black tide, endless and unrelenting.

He turns to the man beside him—his uncle Greg, the clan's strongest warrior. The older warrior's face is lined and grim, his armor dented from years of war.

"Uncle," Hezor says, his voice hoarse, strained from sleepless nights. "Still no word? No news from my father?"

Greg exhales slowly, resting his heavy axe against his shoulder. "No. The last I heard, he marched with the other leaders to the Empire. After that—silence."

The younger man's throat tightens. He looks back out over the seething enemy ranks, claws of fear curling in his chest. "What am I supposed to do?" His voice cracks, almost breaking. "I don't know how to lead them. If he doesn't return—if he's gone—"

Greg lays a calloused hand on his nephew's shoulder, grounding him. His voice is steady, like stone against a storm.

"Then you do what you must. Not what you want, not what you fear. What you must. These people need someone to stand. If your father cannot return, then you stand in his place. And know this—" He lifts his axe, its edge catching the dawn light. "I'm here. I'll fight at your side, until the last stone of Duskwatch crumbles."

Suddenly, a boom rips through the dawn. The shield above Duskwatch shudders, rippling like glass struck by a hammer. Crimson cracks crawl across the barrier for a breath before the wardstones flare, knitting it back together.

The mages along the wall stagger, blood spraying from their lips as they clutch their staves tighter, runes burning beneath their feet.

"Hold it!" one archmage rasps, his hands trembling. "Don't let it collapse!"

The barrier steadies, but faint threads of smoke rise from their robes.

Hezor grips the battlement, his chest tightening. "They're targeting the shield directly…"

Another boom. Another quake. Dust rains from the parapets. The sky flashes as the siege engines unleash again, and again the barrier bends. The mages cough blood in unison, some collapsing to their knees.

Greg snarls, slamming the butt of his axe into the stone. "Damn it—they won't last long like this!"

Then, movement. The five leaders of Alix's vanguard surge forward, each aura swelling like a storm. Flames, earth, and storm writhe around them as their attacks lance toward the shield, their combined strikes cracking it further.

Hezor's breath hitches. "They're joining the barrage." His voice hardens, young but resolute. "If the shield falls now, the city dies."

He straightens, turning toward the assembled veterans at his back—Duskwatch's remaining Tier 6 warriors, eyes burning with grim fire.

"Stop them!" he shouts, his voice carrying over the chaos. "Hold the leaders back at any cost! Buy the mages time!"

The warriors roar in answer, vaulting over the wall and streaking into the sky on bursts of mana. Weapons blaze, skills ignite, their bodies colliding with the enemy like thunder.

Greg plants a hand on his nephew's shoulder, eyes fierce. "Stay on the wall. Command your men. If you fall, Duskwatch falls with you."

Hezor nods once, jaw set. "I'll hold the line. Go, Uncle."

Greg grins, wolfish, and kicks off the battlement. His massive frame arcs into the air, his aura flaring like a bonfire. He swings his axe with both hands, intercepting Selira's crimson blaze mid-flight, splitting the sky with sparks.

"You traitors!" Greg bellows. "If you want my clan, you'll cut through me first!"