Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

The world folds inward.

Corven's chest explodes outward—not from impact, but from absence. His core is devoured—his heart, soul, and aura pulled into a swirling pinprick of collapsing void at Zurrak's palm.

He doesn't scream.

There's no time.

His body collapses to the floor like a deflated husk. Still warm. Still wide-eyed. But gone.

Dead before he hit the stone.

Zurrak doesn't look at the body.

He turns—and lifts his hand.

Around the city, the signal echoes:

A single pulse of void magic—so faint it's barely more than a tremor.

To the Shadows, it means go.

And the massacre begins.

The first to die are the guards. Blades slide through their throats mid-sentence. Some vanish into alleyways, only to be found an hour later with their faces missing.

In the noble district, entire families are slaughtered in their beds—no screams, no struggle. Only blood on silk sheets and moonlight through open windows.

Priests vanish from the temples.

Mage towers flicker once—then explode inwards, their wards consumed by void runes etched silently in their foundations.

Scribes, generals, servants, lovers—it doesn't matter.

Zurrak walks among the bodies, untouched, his presence cloaked in something deeper than invisibility.

A void that rejects attention.

Every step he takes leaves behind a spot of fading unreality—a mark no one can clean, no matter how many years pass.

A lieutenant kneels before him as they regroup in the central square, soaked in blood but silent.

"General," she whispers. "The entire capital… it's done."

Zurrak's eyes close.

Then open—cold and endless.

---

Inside the cold, towering walls of the royal palace, the air hangs heavy with incense and the scent of scorched paper. Dim, flickering blue firelight casts jagged shadows against the stone walls of the Working Chamber—a labyrinth of arcane relics, hanging chains, cursed runes, and maps pinned with black nails.

At its center, surrounded by floating grimoires and hunched scribes bound in cursed silence, sits Gander.

He is draped in robes woven from threads of ash and bone. His right hand, too bloated with twisted veins, hovers over a scrying orb filled with shifting black fog.

His cursed magic pulses through the palace like tendrils, updating troop movements, spell barriers, and territory shifts. A ritual circle etched into the floor whines faintly with unstable power.

Then—a ripple.

A faint pulse of shadow forms beside him, and from it, one of the Shadows materializes silently. Cloaked, kneeling.

"Lord Gander," the Shadow whispers, voice barely above a thought. "We bring word."

Gander does not look up. His orb flickers once.

"Well?"

"Zurrak has consumed Falin. Corven is dead. No survivors. Grathum has shattered Dondor Kingdom. All Marshals are slain. The lion banners burn. And Virela's swarm has buried the eastern reach of Fidton City."

The orb crackles, confirming it—three kingdoms erased in less than a day.

"All in a single day… as expected from those three." His voice carries a note of admiration.

He tilts his head, as if listening to something only he can hear—perhaps the curses whispered by his own soul.

A pause.

Then a quiet, dismissive wave of his cursed hand.

"Dismissed."

The Shadow vanishes without sound.

Gander sits in stillness, the scrying orb dimming slightly in his palm. The scent of cursed parchment and iron lingers in the chamber as the silence returns—broken only by the distant hum of unstable runes crawling along the stone.

Then, softly, he speaks again.

"The next target is the Imlan Kingdom."

He leans back into the high-backed chair of flayed leather and bone, one finger slowly tapping the side of his jaw. Blue fire dances in his eye sockets beneath the mask.

"That means," he murmurs, voice dry and slow, "we're officially moving into Imperial territory."

Another grimoire creaks open beside him, pages flipping by themselves until they stop on a blood-marked map of the Empire's central border.

His tone hardens, more calculating now.

"The Empire's elite will start moving. Their affiliated forces. Tier 6 Spears."

He raises his cursed hand—embers drift from the joints.

"His Majesty… is out of gold."

The fire dims slightly in the chamber, as though even the cursed air holds its breath.

"No coins to revive the remaining peak Tier 6s."

He leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper, yet every rune in the room trembles with it.

"So we need to nimble them. Slowly. Cleverly. Take just enough—never too much at once. Bleed them of life, territory, and essence. A hundred lesser deaths before a single great one."

-----

A few days later – Kuyta, Capital of the Imlan Kingdom

Inside the war chamber of the royal palace, the atmosphere is heavy with tension. Tall stained glass windows throw muted morning light across a vast circular table surrounded by grim-faced warriors in gilded armor. Battle maps litter the surface, pinned with silver markers and red-thread routes—most of them torn, burned, or already crossed out.

King Rostel sits at the head, his silver-lined crown resting slightly askew atop his ash-colored hair. His royal cloak is undone, thrown over the back of his chair. The king's eyes are hollow from lack of sleep, but sharp with focus.

He looks across the table at his marshals—only four now, though once there were five.

His voice is low, rough. "So. What's the situation?"

Marshal Vaf, a tall, broad-shouldered, steps forward. The only high-level Tier 6 among them, his words carry weight.

"Your Majesty," Vaf begins, voice steady but tight. "The monster that killed Marshal Kinzic didn't strike us directly. That monster didn't set foot on our soil. But…"

He exhales, jaw clenched.

"The monsters already destroyed eleven towns. Five border villages gone just yesterday. Burned, swallowed, or simply vanished. Survivors are few. And terrified."

King Rostel's hand curls into a fist.

Marshal Selum, younger, leaner, but no less grim, speaks next. His green cloak is still stained with smoke and blood.

"Looks like they're not in a hurry to take us out all at once," he mutters.

Rostel leans back, brow furrowing. "What about reinforcements from the Empire?"

Marshal Vaf doesn't hesitate. "They've answered. Two of the Twenty Spears are en route. Ranked Nineteenth and Eighteenth. They'll arrive in three days. The Empire's vassals are also mobilizing. We'll be seeing support from the Aboweth Kingdom, the Watervale Clan, the Winddeath Clan, and now the the fifth in ranking the Ashedge Clan."

A beat of silence follows. Then the King exhales slowly.

"That's good," Rostel says, more to himself than anyone. "That's very good. Let's see how those damned monsters fare when they try a long war against the Empire."

He pauses, then looks around the table. The candles flicker in the silence.

"We'll prepare the capital to receive the Nineteenth and Eighteenth Spears. I want them properly welcomed—parade, banners, open gates. But more than that…" his voice sharpens, "I want them briefed the moment they arrive. Full sitrep. No politics. No ceremony. Just the truth."

----

The sky is overcast as twenty thousand armored soldiers march beneath the Ashedge Clan's banners. Dust rises with every synchronized step, a thunderous tide rolling toward Imlan Kingdom. At the center of the formation, a sleek, dark blue carriage glides over the packed dirt road, pulled by four beasts of war. Inside the carriage, soft cushions line the seats, and a faint enchantment hums beneath their boots.

Gresren leans forward with a smirk, his spear resting lazily against the wall. "Our young lady Velira is off in another world again," he says, teasing. "Let me guess… thinking of Alix?"

Velira blinks, visibly caught off guard. Her cheeks flush immediately. "Shut up, Gresren," she snaps, but there's no real bite in it.

Solven chuckles under his breath, arms crossed as he leans back. "He's not wrong though. You've been spacing out ever since he left. Who knows, we might see him in the war."

Velira folds her arms and looks away, embarrassed. "I was just… thinking. That's all."

Then, more seriously, she adds, "This is going to be our first real war. Aren't you guys nervous?"

Gresren shrugs, but Solven is the one who answers. "Well, yeah. Me and Gresren don't have the quasi-tier 6 weapons anymore."

He gestures toward her. "You've still got that bow, right?"

Velira nods, glancing down at the elegant, rune-lined case resting beside her. "Yeah. Father gave it to me as a reward."

Gresren stretches his arms behind his head with a grin. "Well, we got our reward too. The reason the two of us managed to break through to Tier 5 in the first place."

Velira lights up. "Oh, right! I haven't even congratulated you two yet!"

Gresren winks. "Thanks. I can't wait to test my new strength on something that screams."

Solven groans. "Can you not sound like a lunatic before a battle?"