Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

One of the Ember Claw commanders—an older mage with jagged horns and burn-scored robes—steps forward quickly.

"Don't ask questions now," he barks. "Heal them first. They look like they're about to die."

The order cuts through the rising panic like a blade. Without hesitation, nearby mages drop to their knees, channeling pale green and golden light into the fallen. One Ember Claw survivor spasms as ribs knit audibly beneath his skin. Another begins to breathe again, shallow and fast, but alive.

Alix steps back slightly, letting the healers do their work. Lathar kneels beside one of the more conscious survivors—a lean, lizard-like fighter with his armor shredded and one eye swollen shut.

He speaks quietly. "What happened in there?"

The soldier coughs, blood flecking his chin. His voice is raw. "Forest… it dropped us in a forest. Couldn't see the edge. Damp. Too quiet."

Lathar doesn't interrupt. He waits.

"Then, beasts came," the soldier continues. "Big ones. Packs. Some alone, some with armor like stone. First wave was fast things…. Then came the burrowers. Then flying bastards."

He stops, wincing as a healer seals a jagged wound across his thigh.

"And the Astram soldiers?" Lathar asks, voice low.

The soldier's jaw clenches. "That's the problem."

He looks at Alix now, voice bitter.

"We weren't just fighting beasts. We were watching our backs the whole time, making sure none of them tried something. They didn't trust us. We didn't trust them. First three minutes, no one said a word. Just fighting."

A pause.

"Then it broke. One of theirs got cornered—we had a clean shot to save him. But, no one moved. One of ours got knocked down… they also let it happen."

He swallows hard.

"No coordination. No leadership. Everyone just trying to survive on their own. That's why it turned into a slaughter."

Another survivor groans nearby, barely conscious, but nods weakly.

"They turned their backs on us, and we turn our back on them" someone else mutters—one of the other five Ember Claw, his voice thick with rage. "Didn't even pretend to help. Then ran when the big one showed up."

Lathar's face darkens, but he only says, "Did anyone try to lead?"

The wounded soldier licks blood off his cracked lips and looks Lathar straight in the eye.

"No. No one led, because no one could. The beasts inside…" he shakes his head slowly, trembling, "they're not the kind you can just react to. They're relentless. Fast. Smart. They flank, corner, split groups. A few of us? Even with a strong ones, we don't stand a chance."

He gestures weakly toward the dome, still pulsing faintly with that strange fog.

"It needs all twenty. Coordination. Timing. If even one link breaks… it's over."

The silence that follows is thicker than blood.

Lathar rises slowly to his full height, his worn black armor glinting under the rune-light. He takes a deep breath, glances at Alix, then scans the crowd.

He raises his voice.

"Commanders," he calls out, calm but firm. "Gather. Now."

There's a moment of hesitation. One of the younger Ember Claw commander, a burly man with a spiked mace on his back, frowns and glances to the side.

But they move.

Because it's Lathar.

He's not just a veteran. He's one of the first commanders to ever join Ember Claw—before the name even meant anything. One of the few to reach peak Tier 5 and still walk among the rank and file.

Even Astram commanders eye him warily. They don't move, but they don't interrupt either.

Brakar grunts and cracks his neck. "Finally."

The commanders of Ember Claw gather near Lathar, boots echoing against the dark stone. Their expressions are hard, tired, but attentive. Across the chamber, a group of Astram commanders watches with quiet intensity—four of them. One steps forward.

He's tall, lean, with silver-etched black armor that gleams with controlled mana. A crimson cape drapes across one shoulder, partially hiding the long blade strapped to his back. His eyes are cold, intelligent, and the rank sigil etched into his collar is unmistakable.

Peak Tier 5.

He walks alone toward Lathar.

No guards. No escorts. Just presence.

Alix watches closely from behind, arms crossed.

The man stops five paces from Lathar. The crowd shifts slightly, tension rippling like a drawn bowstring.

Then the Astram commander inclines his head. Just enough to be noticed. Not enough to seem subordinate.

"…Commander Lathar."

Lathar doesn't move for a moment. Then, he returns the nod.

The name draws a few murmurs. Varn—The Steel Vein. Known for tactical brilliance, ruthless efficiency, and being impossible to kill. Even Brakar goes quiet.

Varn doesn't waste time. "We both know what the outcome will be if we go into the next dome like the last. Mutual slaughter."

"Agreed," Lathar says evenly.

Varn tilts his head slightly. "Then let's speak plainly. Our two sides have spilled blood for over twenty years. No truce. No ceasefire. And no trust."

"None," Lathar agrees. "But the beasts don't care about our grudge."

There's a long pause. Then Varn says, voice flat but not hostile, "I lost those good warriors in that dome. Because your soldiers hesitated. Because mine did too."

Lathar doesn't flinch. "So did I."

Another silence. This one stretches longer.

Then Varn speaks, quietly. "I propose a temporary alignment. Not peace. Not forgiveness. But cooperation.

Lathar considers that.

Then nods. "Agreed."

Varn extends a hand. It's not a dramatic gesture—just practical. Like two merchants making a deal over blood and bone.

Lathar takes it.

For a moment, the commanders of Ember Claw and Astram are frozen in place, watching this quiet, impossible sight. Alix sees the mix of disbelief and calculation in their eyes. Some don't like it. But none interrupt.

-----

Back outside the crypt…

The wind stirs dust around the silent stones, brushing against armor and banners alike. The entrance to the tomb pulses faintly, its light flickering at irregular intervals, like a heartbeat deep beneath the earth.

Astram leans against a crooked obsidian stone jutting from the ground, arms crossed. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are locked on the tomb's mouth.

"Hey, human king," he says suddenly, voice casual, but loud enough to carry. "Do they usually take days if someone goes in that crypt?"

Rewalt, seated on a weathered stone step with a thick fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders, looks up.

"That's what the textbooks in my kingdom's archives say." He gestures lazily with one hand toward the tomb. "Every time it opened before, the entrants either died, came back broken, or… took days. Sometimes weeks."

Veyrith arms behind his back, lets out a sharp breath. "Then we can only go back. It's not like we'll wait here for days in this cursed wind."

Rewalt said. "Then allow me to offer you a place to wait."

Astram arches a brow. "Good."

He doesn't say thank you, and Rewalt doesn't expect it.

----

After the agreement, everything moves with the grim momentum of necessity. Wounds are treated. Ranks reorganized. Tension between the Ember Claw and Astram doesn't vanish—but it hardens into a brittle alliance, something sharp and useful.

Groups made up of a mix between Ember Claw and Astram forces are teleported. When they emerge, it's not as tragic as the last time.

The monolith begins selecting the next participants.

Without warning—within the blink of an eye—Brakar vanishes, along with nine of his soldiers.

Across the field, a mirrored flash devours one Astram commander and nine of theirs. They're simply gone.

The world reappears in pieces.

Damp leaves. Distant birdsong. A faint breeze.

Brakar grunts, landing in a half-crouch. Around him, his Ember Claw elites appear besides him.

They're in a forest. Broad-trunked trees rise like silent towers around them. The air is sharp, fresh… and clear.

No fog. No strange echoes. Just a still, watchful silence.

Brakar straightens slowly, sniffing the air. The thick musk of soil, sap, and old bark fills his lungs.

No fog.

He glances around. His Ember Claw squad all veterans, check their gear without a word. One mutters a sharp phrase and ignites a short flare of flame between his palms, as if to confirm his power's intact. Another, a sharp-eyed woman with obsidian tattoos, scales the nearest tree with clawed gauntlets and vanishes into the canopy.

Brakar scans the clearing again. His eyes narrow. "Fan out. Defensive wedge. I want vision in every direction."

Before anyone moves, a sound cracks through the still air—ten more pulses of displaced space.

Just next to them, ten figures shimmer into place. The silver-etched armor gleams even in the forest's filtered light.

Astram.

Their commander—a gaunt man with pale gold eyes and layered robes that ripple with Wind affinity—raises a single hand to halt his squad. The two groups face each other, tension rolling off them like heat from a forge.

Brakar doesn't raise his weapon. Yet.

"Wonderful," he growls.

Brakar's lip curls. "Name?"

"Commander Thales."

But before more words can be exchanged, the air changes.

A sharp crack, like stone splitting under pressure.

Then another.

From the eastern treeline, something massive lumbers into view. It looks almost like a boar, if a boar had bone-plate armor grown directly from its back and six tusks curving in spirals from its jaw. It snorts once, shaking loose gobs of steaming moss.

Then more movement. A chittering swarm of long-bodied beasts, like wolves crossed with centipedes, slinks between the roots.

From above, wings slice through the canopy. Shadows glide over the clearing.

"Positions!" Brakar roars, and in the same breath, the air ignites around his fists.

—Combat begins.

One of the Ember Claw mages steps forward, voice low and furious.

"Tier 4: Scorch Line!"

She slams both hands to the ground, and molten light races outward in a straight line—lava-hot mana carving a trench of flame through oncoming beasts. Several centipede-wolves screech as they catch fire mid-lunge, their bodies curling before collapsing in smoldering heaps.