Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

Alix continues with a faint smirk, "From what I can see, we're not the worst here, but… not exactly top fifteen either. A few of these groups could wipe us with a warm-up swing."

Velira hums. "You're not wrong."

"So what is it?" he presses, watching the crowd ripple with excitement as another team enters the lineup. "You've got something planned. You're not acting like someone coming here just to survive."

"I can't tell you," she says, her voice quiet but certain. "Not yet. But just know this—my clan is going all in this time. Every weapon, every piece we've hidden away since my clan's fall. This is it for us."

Alix studies her a moment, then simply nods. He thought. "Alright. Let's see."

They come to a stop as the formation settles into rows, twenty clans wide, facing the massive golden gate that will lead them into the arena proper.

Around them, the energy is electric—cheering, flags waving, even magical illusions of favored champions projected into the air for the audience. The roar of the crowd spikes suddenly as a new group arrives at the edge of the staging ground.

A tall, silver-haired young man steps into view, surrounded by armored elites in navy and gold. His cloak is long and flawless, embroidered with the sun-emblem of the Tous Kingdom. The women in the crowd scream.

"Is that—?" Karnessa blinks, staring.

"Yeah," Solven mutters. "That's him."

"The Crown Prince of Tous," Gresren adds with a low grunt.

"The empire's golden pet," Solven mutters dryly. "He shows up and half the crowd forgets anyone else exists."

The prince waves once, casually, and the entire west side of the coliseum erupts with cheers. His team moves with practiced ease—polished armor, controlled smiles, perfect formation. Every gesture screams discipline, training, and arrogance.

"They've placed in the top three every Selection," Gresren adds. "Last year, they won."

"And now," Solven says, tilting his head at the stadium, "they treat him like he already won."

The prince glances across the platform—and for a flicker of a moment, his gaze passes over the Ashedge Clan. His smile doesn't falter, but his eyes linger a half-second longer on Karnessa.

Karnessa meets his gaze for a breath, then looks away.

The moment hangs for just a second too long—then the stadium's atmosphere shifts.

A blare of magic-enhanced horns silences the crowd in a single sweeping note. A hush spreads through the seats like a ripple across water.

A voice rings out from above, clear and amplified by the runes embedded throughout the coliseum.

"All rise. His Imperial Majesty, Sovereign of the Bregion Empire, Lord of the Eternal Flame—Emperor Varnen Eltharion—arrives."

The golden gate at the apex of the stadium wall opens slowly, flanked by banners bearing the imperial sigil—a phoenix rising through a sunburst of flame. The Emperor's procession steps forward—elite guards clad in white-enameled plate, gold trim flashing in the light. Behind them, atop a high platform that glides forward on silent magic, stands a tall, imposing figure.

Emperor Varnen.

His robes are regal yet stark—deep crimson threaded with black and gold. His presence is commanding, every movement deliberate, his face calm but unreadable beneath a circlet of silver flamemetal. His gaze sweeps across the coliseum.

Velira straightens. Every clan stands tall. Even the Tous prince inclines his head in formal respect.

The floating platform stills in the center of the stadium. Then the Emperor raises one hand.

Silence.

His voice fills the coliseum—not with force, but with clarity. It is steady, powerful, and utterly controlled.

"Seventy-eight generations."

He pauses. His voice echoes softly in the charged stillness.

"That is how long the Imperial Selection has endured. Seventy-eight trials of blood and steel. Seventy-eight years of ambition, pride, and sacrifice."

He surveys the twenty gathered factions.

"Each of you stands here not just as warriors, but as symbols. Of your kingdoms. Your clans. Your people. Behind every blade drawn, there is a history. A hope. A thousand voices waiting to be heard through your victory—or your fall."

There's no theatrics to his tone, no passionless recital. He speaks like a man who believes every word he says.

His gaze passes across the rows again—lingering for a beat on the Tous prince, then drifting to the lesser-known clans, including Ashedge.

"Let the proud prove themselves. Let the forgotten rise. In this arena, there are no heirs. No excuses. Only strength."

A brief pause—then his voice sharpens just slightly.

"And to those who believe their position untouchable—remember: the empire watches not only the victor… but those who dare to challenge them."

The crowd stirs, the tension tightening.

"Give us a Selection worth remembering," Emperor Varnen says, his voice dropping lower.

"Or leave this arena forgotten."

He lowers his hand. The horns sound again—lower, longer.

The moment the Emperor lowers his hand, the floating platform begins to glide backward—smooth, silent, and final.

As the platform vanishes behind the high gate, the coliseum exhales all at once. The crowd erupts into cheers again, the echo of the speech still lingering like a weight on every shoulder.

Gresren cracks his neck with a loud pop and exhales hard.

"Damn," he mutters, eyes fixed forward. "That speech just gave me strength. Like I could punch a wyvern in the teeth."

A snort of laughter comes from the group standing next to them, five warriors draped in gray-blue armor, their clan emblem shaped like a wolf's fang.

One of them—a tall, wiry man with half-shaved hair and a lazy grin—leans over just enough to be heard.

"That so?" he drawls. "Too bad speeches don't change your ranking. You're still gonna be last. Especially now that you brought a monster slave."

A few of his teammates chuckle. Another adds mockingly,

"Maybe if you beg hard enough, she'll carry your whole team."

Gresren bristles, fists already clenching. "Say that again—"

But before he can step forward, a hand lightly touches his shoulder. Alix's voice cuts through, cool and steady.

"Don't waste your energy," he says.

The Wolf Fang group just grins wider, feeding on the tension. One of them smirks. "Listen to your new recruit. He knows you'll need every scrap of strength just to crawl out alive."

Karnessa narrows her eyes, but stays silent. Solven lets out a slow exhale, clearly resisting the urge to escalate.

Amid the low, charged murmurs of the arena, Alix shifts slightly, his tone casual as he looks up at the upper ring of the coliseum where the Emperor once stood.

"The emperor's quite young," he remarks thoughtfully.

Karnessa glances at him, her expression surprised.

"Yeah... I've only heard of him in stories."

Velira nods once, speaking calmly. "He's only around a hundred. Barely middle-aged by Tier 6 standards." She pauses. "But he's already peak Tier 6. And more importantly—undisputed. No other power within the empire dares challenge his rule."

Karnessa whispers, more to herself, "A hundred… From what I can remember, a Tier 6 can live up to two hundred years…"

Suddenly, the announcer's voice booms through the air once more.

"Now—participants, listen carefully!"

Instantly, the entire formation snaps back to attention.

The announcer's voice rings with clarity, laced with excitement and command.

"The first stage of the competition begins now!"

A murmur spreads through the crowd. The twenty formations stand still, listening.

"This round will test your ability to survive, hunt, and strategize under pressure. You will all be teleported into a single, massive arena zone—a wild region where beasts roam free and danger hides in every shadow."

A pause, just enough to build tension.

"But beasts are not your only concern."

Karnessa straightens, her eyes narrowing. Around her, others do the same.

"We have released several monsters into the zone. They will hunt you. They will not care for your name, your status, or your title. They exist for one purpose only: to eliminate the unworthy."

A low ripple of unease spreads through some of the newer groups. The veterans only steel themselves further.

"Every beast or monster you defeat will earn you points. The stronger the enemy, the more points you gain. Some creatures are worth one point. Others…" The announcer chuckles. "...could win or lose you the round entirely."

Gresren mutters under his breath, "So we're going in blind and bleeding."

"And yes," the announcer continues, "you can attack other groups. Steal their kills. Steal their points. Nothing is off-limits—except killing. Should any participant come within lethal range, they will be forcefully ejected and disqualified."

Solven mutters dryly, "Good news. We just need to be strong without dying."

The announcer continues, "The competition will last for a day. Your points will be tracked in real-time. At the end of the timer, only the top ten teams will advance to the next round. The rest…"

A long pause.

"...will go home."

A shimmering circle of light appears beneath each team's feet—sigils pulsing with teleportation magic. The arena starts to quiet, tension crackling like static.

The announcer speaks one last time.

"Let the first stage begin."

And in a blink—

The light consumes them.