Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Alix tilts his head slightly, as if pondering it for a moment. His voice is composed, but his words are deliberate.

"I can agree to your first request," he says. "You'll command your forces."

Astram nods once, accepting.

Alix's gaze sharpens.

"But for your second request…" He pauses, voice hardening. "I want the two of you—you and Veyrith—to join forces. Conquer the entire Caeland Continent. Together."

The room stills again. Veyrith's eyes flick toward Astram, then back to Alix. His brow furrows, tension rising in his jaw.

"You already know our history," Veyrith says tightly. "We've warred for generations. I don't think our forces can work together—peacefully. There's too much blood between us."

Alix steps forward slowly, each footfall deliberate. His presence grows heavier, colder.

"That's not my problem," he says, voice low. "If you become mine—truly mine—then fighting each other will be considered treason."

His eyes glow faintly now, a crimson pulse beneath the silver hue. "And treason, under me, is punishable by death."

Silence.

Veyrith stares at him for a long moment, searching for any sign of bluff. But Alix's expression remains unreadable. Not cruel, not angry. Just... resolute.

Astram, too, watches carefully. He doesn't argue. He just nods—once, slow.

Veyrith follows suit a heartbeat later, his own nod short and reluctant.

Alix lifts one hand. A shimmer of power spirals around his fingers, and then—snap—a solid scroll materializes in his grasp.

No, not a scroll.

A parchment formed from strange, blackened fibers laced with threads of living mana. Runes glow faintly across its surface, shifting as though alive.

"This," Alix says, holding it out, "is a contract."

He steps closer, offering it between them.

"You'll write your names here—both of you. As long as you don't betray me, or scheme against everyone under me, you'll be fine. But if you do…"

He taps the page once.

"…your hearts will explode, and you'll die. Instantly. No exceptions."

A beat of silence passes.

Astram was shocked. "An item like that exist?"

Still, both reach for the parchment.

Astram slashes his name first, the ink forming of his own mana, binding immediately to the contract's edge.

Veyrith watches him, then breathes out slowly and does the same.

The moment the second name is etched, the contract glows once—blue, then red—before fading into Alix's hand and vanishing into motes of light.

A hush settles. Like the air itself is holding its breath.

Alix simply nods once.

"Good," he says. "Now go. Return to your lands. Consolidate your forces. Also I will send my own army to help you."

Astram tilts his head, a glimmer of curiosity in his eye. "And if we succeed?"

Alix meets his gaze without hesitation.

"Then I'll give you something even stronger than those books," he says. "I'll show you what lies beyond Tier 7."

Neither Veyrith nor Astram reply.

But neither of them look away.

------

The next day, Caeland Continent

Whispers spread like wildfire across Caeland.

In the northern highlands, deep within the territory of the fanged clans, a wyvern-kin elder murmurs to his kin, "Something's happened. Word is… the two greatest warlords—Astram and Veyrith—are now allies."

His younger kin laughs, sharp and skeptical. "That's impossible. They've been trying to gut each other for centuries."

But the elder only narrows his eyes. "It's not a rumor. I heard it from a scout who saw their banners flying side by side."

In one of Astram's cities—a volcanic basin lined with blackstone roads and flickering red lamps—a group of beastkin adventurers gather around a tavern table. The air buzzes with disbelief and speculation.

"Hey," one of them, a bear-like brute with twin axes strapped to his back, leans forward. "You hear what happened yesterday?"

"What?" a horned lizardkin replies, gnawing on a bone. "That another border town got flattened?"

"No," the bearkin says, shaking his head. "Lord Astram… he abolished slavery."

The lizardkin stops chewing. "...What?"

"I'm serious," the bearkin says. "No more slave markets. No more collars. His soldiers are even protecting goblin farmers from bandits now. It's like they've been—" He frowns, trying to find the word. "—reborn."

A feline rogue nearby hisses, "Tch. Bullshit. Astram? The same guy who used to execute deserters by boiling their bones? Why would he change?"

The bearkin shrugs. "Don't ask me. But I was in Barvahl city two days ago. Saw it with my own eyes. The slave pens are shut. Soldiers are walking in patrol lines, but they're… not hurting anyone. Just standing guard. It's weird."

The day after, a new declaration

News hits like thunder across the Caeland Continent.

From jagged peaks to fetid marshlands, the message echoes: Astram and Veyrith have declared themselves vassals to a king. Not a warlord. Not a chieftain. A king.

And not just that—

Their proclamation is simple and terrifying: "This continent will be ours. Surrender now… or we come to take it by force."

In the trading city of Craghollow, nestled at the edge of the central wastelands, a crowd gathers in the market square. Dozens of monsterfolk—gnolls, ogres, ogresses, serpentkin, troll-bloods—all stare at the projection hovering in the air. A magical illusion of Astram and Veyrith standing side by side, cloaked in ceremonial black and crimson, the announcement booming with terrifying calm.

A grizzled minotaur mercenary scowls, arms crossed. "Under a king, huh? The hell is this? Since when do those two bow to anyone?"

"Did you hear the tone in Astram's voice?" a kobold war-mage mutters. "Cold. Controlled. Like he didn't even want to say it—just had to."

"They said his name," a cloaked naga murmurs nearby. "Alix. The king of another continent. That's who they serve now."

A dry chuckle comes from a frost ogre leaning against a wall. "If Astram and Veyrith both bowed, this king must be something else."

"Doesn't matter what he is," the minotaur growls. "He's coming for us. We need to act."

Later, in a hidden cave deep within the spine-ridge mountains, seven banners are raised.

Seven tribes, seven factions—beastlords, mutant swarms, insect hives, blood cults, and wild sovereigns—have formed an uneasy alliance. They sit around a stone table, rough-hewn and reeking of old blood.

"The moment they said surrender or be crushed," spits a winged reaver, "I knew we had no choice. We fight."

AThe Mantiskin Queen clicks her mandibles. "Their strength is greater than ours. But our numbers are ten times theirs. If we strike fast—take out the Ember Claw's forward army before it consolidates—"

"We die," interrupts an old troll shaman. "You don't understand what we're facing. Astram and Veyrith were enough of a problem. But now? They follow a king who makes them bow."

The reaver snarls. "So what? We run? Hide like moleworms in the dirt?"

"No," says a deep, gravelly voice from the far end of the table. It belongs to a war chief clad in plated obsidian armor. His tusks are jagged, his eyes glowing with purple fire. "We fight. But not blindly. We unite. The only chance we have… is together."

A tense silence falls.

One by one, the leaders nod.

Meanwhile, in a ruined outpost near the coast, a scout limps back into camp, bloodied and wide-eyed.

"I saw them," she gasps. "The Ember Claw vanguard. Marching with Astram's black blades and Veyrith's flame beasts. Hundreds of thousands of them."

A general steps forward, fists clenched. "How far out?"

"Four days. Maybe less. They're not waiting."

----

In Alix's private chamber, the chamber is quiet.

Cool light from the evening moon filters through crystalline glass slats above, casting long, angular shadows across obsidian walls. Braziers flicker with steady blue flame, illuminating the polished stone floor. A faint hum of magic resonates around the room—subtle, but constant. Familiar.

Alix stands alone before the floating screen. Silver eyes reflecting the data glowing just inches from his face.

Alix

Level: 500

Population: 20,678,086

Required for Next Level: 30,000,000

Gold Coins: 300,090,637

His expression is calm, but thoughtful.

"…Fourteen million," he murmurs, folding his arms. "That's where I was just three days ago."

He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

"And now… over twenty million."

His voice is quiet, almost like he's thinking aloud rather than speaking to anyone in particular. "Astram's territory. Veyrith's. Absorbed into my dominion... and just like that, six million more under my banner."

He exhales through his nose—not a sigh, but something close. The numbers shift slightly as the screen flickers, updating in real time.

He doesn't look surprised by the influx of gold either.

"Gold jumped too. Over a hundred and thirty million now," he mutters. "They offered plenty… though I couldn't exactly bleed them dry. Still, they gave more than enough."

A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—brief, faint, gone almost as soon as it comes.

"At this rate…" Alix steps forward, the screen following him like a loyal spirit. "A few more cities fall. A few more banners raised. And I'll reach thirty million."

He taps his finger gently against the air, scrolling down to a hidden panel only he can access. [Level Progression Locked – Awaiting Population Milestone]

"I'll hit level 600."

Alix lowers his hand, letting the glowing screen linger in front of him. The numbers pulse, like a heartbeat. His eyes settle on the golden icon at the bottom right—Revival Protocol – Bonepiercers Legion.

He exhales, thoughtful. Then speaks aloud, calmly, as if confirming a decision he's already made.

"Now… with this much gold, I should be able to revive at least half of the total number of Bonepiercers."

He pauses, fingers moving through the interface, calculation flickering across his gaze.

"There were three hundred thousand of them originally."

He narrows his eyes.

"So that means… one hundred and fifty thousand." His voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. "That's what I'll bring back."