Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Asdri lifts his hand high, palm glowing. "Cease! All units, pull back!"

Across the field, commanders on both sides echo the call. Horns sound. Shouts rise.

The storm stills.

Sorin lowers her blades, blood dripping from her chin. They all recalled thier units. Thurn recalls his swarm, skittering like a tide back into the trenches. Nyssara withdraws from the walls with her units, her shield dragging behind her, cracked but unbroken. Veltha slithers away, her eyes still glowing, mouth tight.

Ingra slumps down, breathing hard. "Finally…"

Pyke plants his axe and leans on it. "Thought I was gonna die at least three times."

Valia floats to Asdri's side, silent. Her magic is almost gone.

Asdri watches Gorath turn.

The general doesn't say anything more—just raises a hand, and the Bonepiercers begin to march.

Away.

Asdri waits until their shadows vanish into the smoke before speaking again.

"We've been defending this place for five days now," he mutters, still staring into the haze. "They hit, we hold, then both sides bleed and retreat."

Valia nods grimly. "Neither of us can break the other."

"Not yet," Asdri says quietly. "But the longer this goes, the more men we lose. We're buying time, not victory."

As the wounded are carried away and the fires smothered, the command tent is set up quickly on the edge of the ravaged field. The map of Valgros lies at the center, marked with fresh blood and ash-stained lines.

Ingra sets down her staff and glares at the war map. "Does your father have a plan?" she asks, her voice low but edged with fatigue. "If this keeps up… we'll be forced to fall back again. At this rate, we'll be fighting in the shadow of the capital walls."

Asdri doesn't look up right away. He traces a finger along the red markers encroaching from the east. Then he nods.

"He does," he says. "He's already on his way to the kingdoms across the sea—on the neighboring continent."

Valia, who's sitting near the edge of the tent, gently cleaning a bloodied dagger, lifts her eyes. There's worry in them. "Is that really okay?" she asks quietly. "You told us before… those kingdoms, they look down on Valgros. Aren't they just going to mock your father? Refuse to help?"

Ingra scoffs. "They'll see us as weak. Beggars in royal clothes."

Asdri finally looks up. He meets both their gazes steadily. "Don't worry," he says. "We're not going to them with open hands. We're bringing something they can't ignore. Something they want."

Ingra crosses her arms, one brow raised. "And what would that be?"

Asdri's lips twitch into a faint, grim smile.

"A weapon. One we've never used."

Valia frowns. "Wait… you mean—?"

He nods. "The relic I always told you all. Buried beneath Highspire. The one sealed generations ago."

Ingra's expression hardens. "You're serious. You said that thing hasn't been touched in over a thousand years. There's a reason it was sealed."

"I know," Asdri says. "But this is no longer about pride or tradition. We can't win this alone. And the moment the other continent hears we're willing to unseal it…"

"They'll come running," Valia finishes, voice quiet. "Even if just to keep it from falling into someone else's hands."

Asdri straightens, his armor creaking. "Exactly. It's a risk. But the time for playing fair ended when that giant Gorath stepped foot on our soil."

Silence stretches for a moment.

Then Ingra lets out a slow breath. "Alright. What do you need from us?"

Asdri leans forward over the war table, the flickering lantern light casting shadows across his dirt-smeared face. His hand rests near the mark representing the next city behind their current position—a small dot compared to the looming mass of enemy red.

"We still need to hold this line tomorrow," he says, his voice low but firm. "If we can't… we fall back to Braenhall."

Valia frowns. "Braenhall's barely fortified. It won't last for two three days, if they bring those Bonepiercers."

"I know," Asdri replies. "But it's the only fallback point we've got left before the capital."

Ingra paces along the edge of the tent, arms folded, lips pressed tight. "You think we'll even make it that far? They're pressing harder with every wave."

"That's why we can't break," Asdri says, looking up at both of them. "We fight tomorrow. We hold if we can. If we can't…" He exhales slowly. "Then we retreat. Buy more time."

----

The next day dawns in firelight.

Ash still clings to the sky, and the wind howls like a warning across the battlefield. The remains of yesterday's clash smolder quietly—blackened armor, shattered weapons, craters of dried blood. But there's no time to mourn. The next storm is already forming.

Atop a jagged bluff overlooking Fort Relan, Gorath stands like a mountain, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the distant enemy lines. His breath mists in the morning chill, despite the heat still simmering in the soil beneath his boots.

He speaks without turning.

"Varkas. Today, we break them. No stalemates. No retreats. We push them all the way to the next city."

Behind him, Varkas sits astride his dreadmaw, the beast shifting restlessly beneath him. His cracked helm gleams faintly in the sickly light. He scoffs, amused.

"As long as you get serious and stop holding back," Varkas says, gripping the reins tighter. "Last three times, you've been playing with them."

Gorath chuckles, low and rumbling. "Haha… you can tell?"

Varkas grins. "Of course I can tell."

"They're interesting, these humans," Gorath mutters, a glint of something close to admiration in his eyes. "Always cornered. Always bleeding. But they never stop pushing back. Makes for a good fight."

He finally turns to face Varkas, the wind snapping his torn cloak. His voice grows darker.

"But playtime's over."

Varkas leans forward, tapping the beast's flank. "Good. I'm tired of circling. Let's crush them."

Gorath narrows his eyes as he watches the enemy banners flicker in the distance. The air crackles with tension. His voice is low.

"You really like that beast of yours," he says, nodding toward the dreadmaw beneath Varkas. "Ever since you first found it."

Varkas chuckles, resting a gauntleted hand on the dreadmaw's armored neck. The creature snarls softly, eyes burning red.

"Of course I do," he replies. "Even if I can't get stronger anymore, this beast changed everything. It's like… I'm fighting with a second body now. My strength isn't just mine—it's ours."

He grins, the expression sharp behind his helm. "Sometimes, I think I could even take you down with it."

Gorath huffs a short laugh. Not mocking—just amused. "Ohh? Then we'll put that to the test… one day. When the war's done."

Varkas tilts his head. "Looking forward to it."

Gorath lifts a fist.

"But for now… we conquer this kingdom. For our king."

Varkas raises his own hand in response. No more words needed.

Two horns echo across the broken plains.

From the bluffs to the ruins, the Bonepiercers begin to move.

The dreadmaw rears up, roaring loud enough to shake the stones beneath it.

The sky is a tapestry of fire and steel.

As the horns cry out, both armies surge forward like colliding oceans. Spears lower, shields rise, and magic flares across the horizon in wild, chaotic bursts. The air splits with screams and war cries as metal tears into flesh.

The ground quakes beneath the charge.

And at the heart of the chaos—Asdri and his companions sprint directly toward the towering figure of Gorath.

He stands like a living mountain in the center of the field, ten meters of sheer muscle and stone-forged armor. As he moves, each step sends tremors through the soil. His warhammer, taller than most men, rests against his shoulder like a toy.

Asdri leads the charge, lightning coursing over his blade. "We end this today!" he shouts.

Pyke barrels in beside him, roaring. "About damn time!"

Ingra flanks left, her staff already aglow with frost. Valia hovers behind them, her eyes narrowed, runes glowing at her fingertips.

Gorath sees them coming.

He doesn't flinch.

He slams his warhammer into the ground—and the earth responds.

A violent shockwave ripples outward, throwing soldiers and stone alike into the air. Spires of jagged rock erupt from the ground in a twisting wall—but Asdri leaps through them, lightning flashing across his body. He slashes down hard—

Gorath raises his hand.

Stone forms a shield across his forearm just in time. Asdri's blade crashes into it with a sound like thunder splitting the sky. Sparks erupt, but the giant doesn't budge.

"You've gotten bolder," Gorath growls.

"And you're still slow!" Asdri retorts, ducking a massive swing of the hammer that cracks the ground beside him.

Pyke lunges in with a battle cry, axe raised high. He slams it into Gorath's thigh armor—only to be swatted away by a sweep of Gorath's arm like a man brushing aside a gnat. Pyke crashes into a boulder, coughing blood.

Ingra steps in, shouting, "Glacialis!"

A wave of frost sweeps across Gorath's legs, locking them in ice. For a moment—just a moment—he's still.

Valia raises both hands, golden chains of light spiraling into the air. "Divine Seal!"

The chains lash forward, wrapping around Gorath's arms and chest, glowing fiercely.

"Hngh," Gorath grunts. He strains—and the chains begin to crack.

Asdri doesn't wait.

He charges in again, lightning trailing from his blade like a comet. He slashes upward, then down—strike after strike, each one landing with enough force to echo across the battlefield.

Gorath growls, staggered slightly.

"Give me more," he snarls between strikes. "Is this all you've got? You won't take me down with this."

The chains shatter.

Gorath slams his fists into the earth again—and a stone golem bursts from the ground beside him. It's massive, crude, but fast—and it lunges straight at Ingra.

"Ingra, move!" Valia shouts.