Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

A sudden pressure builds around Ruva.

The very air compresses against her skin—then flows with her breath, syncing to her movements. The runes flare again, brighter now, the pale blue glow swirling across her form like wind trapped in crystal.

The ground beneath her responds with tiny whirlwinds, and her blades begin to hum with a pitch higher than before—alive with kinetic force. Her cloak lifts slightly even without wind. She isn't just light anymore—she's fast and heavy, stable and fluid.

Her eyes sharpen.

"I feel so powerful," she whispers.

And then she moves.

In the blink of an eye, she's in front of the captain.

"Wha—?!"

[Tier 4: Wind Flash Drive]

A single step becomes a blur—air shattering behind her as she reappears mid-strike, her twin blades angled inward. One slashes high, toward his collar joint. The other cuts low, targeting the back of his knee.

Clang! Crunch!

The upper blade scrapes sparks—but the lower digs into a weaker joint, piercing through cloth and biting into flesh.

The captain staggers, snarling in pain.

"You—!"

punch reinforced with earth magic.

Ruva lets her legs fold and flows beneath it like mist, the ground erupting behind her from the force.

She rebounds off a nearby corpse cart and launches herself skyward.

[Tier 4: Wind Dive Fang]

Spiraling downward in a controlled descent, she channels the momentum into both blades. A vortex coils around her legs as she spins mid-air—one final burst of energy coursing from her boots into the strike.

She slams down on his shoulder.

BOOM!

The shoulder plate cracks.

The man roars—not just in pain, but in shock.

"You—! How are you so strong!!"

"Because, my big brother is rich!" Ruva breathes out, blades flickering with power as she lands behind him.

Click.

The last rune activates—stored energy surging from her pendant.

[Limit Surge Activation: Gale Circuit Overdrive — 60 Seconds Remaining]

For a moment, the battlefield stills around her.

Wind coils up from her heels like a silent cyclone. Her outline blurs—faster than the eye, stronger than before. Every breath she takes now fuels the magic. Her blades no longer just hum—they sing.

She steps forward.

Then vanishes.

Shing-shing-shing-shing—!

A blur of silver arcs, four slashes in under two seconds. The captain blocks one, parries the second—misses the third. The fourth cuts deep along his ribs.

"Gahhh—!"

He stumbles, coughing blood.

Ruva lands a few paces away, crouched, breathing steady.

With everything active… she can fight a low-level Tier 5.

The thought flickers in her mind, but she doesn't dwell.

Not now.

The captain howls, enraged, magic surging beneath his boots.

He lunges again, this time slamming the ground with both fists—[Tier 4: Shatterquake Zone]—an earthbound shockwave ripples outward in all directions.

Rocks rise, air splits, and even monsters are flung aside.

But Ruva?

She leaps—high, high enough to escape the radius.

Mid-air, time slows.

She can see everything now. His stance. His injuries. His exhaustion.

Her own heartbeat.

Her brother's voice again.

"Don't be afraid to kill. Be afraid of hesitating."

Ruva exhales.

Her eyes narrow.

She descends, blades crossed in front of her.

Wind roars around her.

And she strikes.

[Tier 4: Tempest Final Fang]

A full-force, two-blade spiral slash that shreds air itself—powered by everything: her armor, her runes, her weapons, and her will.

The captain raises his sword to block—

Too slow.

CRACK—!!!

His weapon snaps in half under the force.

The slash carves a deep X across his torso, slicing through armor and bone alike.

The man gasps once.

Then crumples.

Ruva lands behind him—kneeling, panting.

Her blades drip with blood and fading windlight.

Around her, the battle still rages. The wind begins to quiet. Her sixty seconds of overdrive slowly tick away.

----

The gates of Imlan Capital creak open, revealing a wide, polished stone road lined with armored knights and cheering civilians. Banners flutter from every rooftop—bright reds and silvers, the emblem of the Imlan Kingdom proudly displayed alongside the Empire's crest. Flower petals fall from balconies. Trumpets sound.

Velira's carriage rolls to a stop just past the threshold. She steps out first, blinking at the sea of people awaiting them.

A tall man clad in ornate black and silver armor immediately approaches, flanked by elite guards. He carries himself with precision, his helmet tucked beneath one arm.

"Lady Velira of the Ashedge Clan. Commanders Gresren and Solven," the general says respectfully, bowing slightly. "On behalf of the royal family, welcome to Imlan's capital. We are honored by your arrival."

Velira exchanges a quick glance with Gresren and Solven—none of them expected that level of deference.

That kind of bow doesn't come easily from high-ranking officers. And certainly not for outsiders.

She clears her throat. "Thank you, General. You're… very courteous."

"It's the least we can do," the man says with a light smile. "After all, the current Empire rankings speak volumes. Rank 5? That's not something we take lightly."

Solven leans slightly out of the carriage, eyes narrowing at the colorful streets ahead. "And what's all this then? Decorations? Parades?"

From where they stand, streamers crisscross overhead, and children wave from windowsills. People cheer as their carriage begins rolling again, now escorted on both sides by Imperial knights in formation.

Gresren tilts his head, scanning the crowd. "This can't be for us. No way." Catch the formatted version at M|V|LEM_PYR.

A parade float rolls by, depicting twin silver spears crossed over a mountain.

The general walks beside them now, gesturing with a nod toward the city's grand avenue. "Ah—no. This celebration is for the arrival of the Two Spears."

Velira blinks, eyes widening. "The Two Spears? You mean… the actual Imperial Spears?"

The general nods, keeping pace with the moving carriage. "Correct. The Nineteenth and Eighteenth are expected to arrive by nightfall. His Majesty ordered the city to give them a welcome worthy of the Empire."

Gresren whistles low. "Now that makes more sense."

Solven, ever the quiet observer, furrows his brow. "This'll be my first time seeing a member of the Spear in person."

"They rarely move unless the Empire calls them directly," the general says. "And when two of them show up together… well, that says everything about how serious this is."

Velira looks up at the sky, thoughtful. "I've only read about them. Each one is like a storm given flesh. Aren't they all Tier 6?"

The general glances at her, impressed. "High-level Tier 6, at minimum. Some say a few are brushing against the edge of Tier 7. Each one commands thousands. Their presence alone shifts battles."

Gresren mutters, "The Empire really plays on a different field."

Solven nods. "No kidding. Twenty of them. Just twenty—and it's enough to hold the entire continent."

As they near the palace gates, Velira grips her bow case tighter. Her voice is soft, almost reverent.

"Then tonight… we meet legends."

The general looks ahead toward the rising towers of the palace. The cheers grow louder, and behind them, the first bells begin to ring—the city's way of announcing the Spears' imminent arrival.

He says, almost to himself, "Legends, yes. But even legends bleed. That's why you're here too."

Velira doesn't respond, but her expression hardens.

They came to support the front.

The palace doors open with a groan of ancient, well-maintained wood, revealing a vast chamber of polished marble and hanging crystal lanterns. Massive pillars etched with golden vines line the throne hall, and at the far end, beneath a sunlit dome, sits the King of Imlan—robes of crimson and silver flowing around him, a golden circlet resting atop his brow.

Velira, Gresren, and Solven step through the threshold, guided by armored escorts.

As they approach the dais, the three stop in unison.

They bow.

Not just out of courtesy, but precision—fist to chest, left foot back, eyes lowered.

"Your Majesty," Velira speaks first, her voice clear but measured. "Velira of the Ashedge Clan, reporting as ordered."

"Commander Gresren,"

"Solven. Scout division," his tone more reserved but respectful.

King Rostel of Imlan regards them from his throne—an aging man with streaks of grey in his dark beard, but his eyes are sharp. Calculating. He doesn't rise, but leans forward slightly, studying them as if weighing metal on a scale.

"Three warriors from the Ashedge Clan," he says at last. "You honor our halls."

Velira lifts her gaze. Her voice is calm, firm.

"This war is the Empire's war, Your Majesty. And the Ashedge Clan will always stand beside its allies."

King Rostel's eyes linger on her for a breath longer. Then, a faint smile forms under his beard.

"Spoken with pride—and truth. Your clan has never failed to answer the call."