Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

The stone platform settles with a low grind, and the two teams step into the arena.

The crowd leans forward.

At the center of the field, the heir of the Nighthorn Clan stands tall—Dvrick, wrapped in a black coat of scaled leather and cold iron, blades strapped across his back in an X-shape. His eyes, dark and unreadable, land directly on Velira.

"Velira," he says evenly, voice low but clear enough for the arena's magic to carry it, "our clans have been on good terms for years."

Velira keeps walking. No hesitation. Her boots echo against the stone.

He narrows his eyes slightly. "But I won't go easy on you."

Velira stops a few paces from him.

The arena's lights catch the dark metal of her armored coat, the bow slung over her shoulder reflecting a faint violet hue.

She meets his gaze without flinching. "Fine by me," she replies coolly. "It's not like I ever wanted you to."

Dvrick gives a faint nod—one of respect, maybe—but there's no warmth in it. The moment stretches, heavy and silent.

Then—

Clack.

Velira unslings her bow in one smooth motion. A low hum pulses through the air the moment her hand touches the grip.

Clack.

Solven draws his twin daggers—thin, curved, and gleaming like liquid silver under the sunlight. Blue veins of energy pulse along their edge, reacting to his aura.

Clack.

Gresren unhooks his massive kite shield from his back, planting its obsidian-blue edge against the ground. Runes light up across its surface like a constellation coming alive.

The crowd erupts.

Gasps. Screams. Then stunned silence.

A breath later, the announcer's voice cuts through the noise—shaky, incredulous.

"W-What?! What's this?! The Ashedge Clan… all three of their core fighters… they're wielding Quasi Tier 6 weapons!"

Cheers break out from pockets of the audience. Others simply sit stunned, unable to process what they're seeing.

"So that's why they reached fifth place in Stage One! They weren't bluffing after all!"

The magic projection above zooms in on the weapons—the grain of Velira's bow, carved from ancient wood, its runes faintly glowing with wind and starlight. The jagged silhouette of Solven's daggers. The layered magic patterns across Gresren's mountain-forged shield.

"The Ashedge Clan," the announcer bellows now, "is going all out this year!"

The arena shakes as the two teams take their final positions.

Across from them, Dvrick narrows his eyes. His teammates whisper to each other—two reach for their weapons, the others already channeling mana. Their confidence shifts slightly. Not gone—but checked.

Velira pulled the string, and an arrow of mana slowly formed.

Solven crouches, his stance low and predatory.

Gresren plants his shield, mana flaring in waves around him like a fortress waking up.

Dvrick watches.

He reaches over his shoulder slowly—gripping one of the blades across his back.

Dvrick draws the blade with a clean shhhnk—a wicked saber curved like a predator's fang, etched with dark crimson runes that flicker like blood in firelight. Mana rises around him like steam off a fresh kill.

And then he speaks—quietly, without mockery, but with iron certainty.

"You know," Dvrick says, his gaze fixed on Velira, "even with that weapon… your group won't be able to defeat us."

He steps forward once, his voice steady as stone.

"All it's going to do… is make your defeat longer."

Velira doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch.

Instead, she breathes in—and smirks.

"That's fine by me," she says. "I wasn't planning to make it easy."

The battle erupts.

DING.

BOOM.

Mana surges.

Dust explodes beneath their feet as both sides leap into motion.

Dvrick lunges forward like a shadow splitting from the earth—faster than his size should allow—his blade already swinging down in a black arc. Velira twists away just in time, her boots skimming the edge of his strike as it carves a groove through the stone platform like it's sand.

CLANG!

Velira lands and immediately rolls, a glowing arrow of compressed wind already forming over her bowstring.

She looses it—FWIP!—straight toward Dvrick's back.

He doesn't turn.

He just swipes behind himself, mid-step, and slashes the arrow out of the air.

The wind detonates, sending a blast of force in all directions. Dvrick slides with the gust, using it, twisting his hips to redirect his momentum—and launches himself at Velira again.

CLASH!

She blocks with her bow—not the string, the curve of the weapon reinforced with a pulse of mana. The impact jolts through her arms, the blow heavy enough to rattle her bones.

She grits her teeth and kicks off his chest, backflipping twice to gain space. The moment her feet hit the ground—THWIP THWIP THWIP—three more arrows sail toward Dvrick like a storm of blades.

But Dvrick doesn't retreat.

He rushes through them, his blade flashing—one, two, three—each arrow destroyed before it can explode.

The last detonation kicks up a blinding dust cloud—

Velira's already moving.

Wind Step—!

She vanishes.

The dust swirls empty for a beat—

Then boom—Velira appears ten meters above, bow fully drawn.

Her voice echoes across the arena.

"Tier 5 Skill: Skybreaker Fang!"

The arrow glows white-hot, spinning midair with violently compressed wind. It screams as it flies—FWOOM!

Dvrick looks up and braces.

Instead of blocking, he plants his feet, clenches his jaw, and raises one hand—his blade planted into the ground at his side.

BOOM!!

The arrow slams into the space just in front of him—exploding in a shockwave of bladed wind that tears the stone apart, flinging debris in every direction. The audience gasps as half the arena's tiles fracture.

The smoke coils upward.

Stone cracks hiss with residual heat. Dust drifts like ash over the ruined half of the arena.

And out of that haze—

Dvrick steps forward, his coat torn, blood running down his arm… but his eyes steady.

He lifts his saber again, black mana spiraling along its edge like flame drawn to a breath.

"She's really pushing him," someone whispers from the crowd.

And then the announcer's voice rings out again—louder now, charged with disbelief and awe.

"Unbelievable! Ladies and gentlemen—what we're witnessing right now is nothing short of historic!"

He pauses for a beat, letting the sound of wind and battle fill the silence.

"Velira of the Ashedge Clan, a low-level Tier 6, is fighting evenly against Dvrick Nighthorn, who stands at high-level Tier 6! The difference in base power alone should've ended this match already!"

Another shockwave blasts across the field as the two clash again—CLANG!—Velira slamming her mana-forged bow against Dvrick's descending blade. Sparks fly.

"But it's not just her skill…" the announcer breathes. "That weapon… that bow—."

The camera orb above zooms in on the faint starlight glow along the bow's spine as Velira flips back, nocking another arrow without pause.

"That's the power of a Quasi Tier 6 weapon, only a breath away from true Tier 6 legend"

Dvrick staggers from the rubble, bleeding now—but grinning.

"I should congratulate you, Velira. You made me bleed with just your low-level Tier 6 strength," he mutters.

Velira pants, blood soaking her waist. "Save your congratulations," she growls. "I'm not done yet."

Dvrick's aura flares.

The heat of their clash rips through the air—Velira dashes in again, relentless.

But across the arena, the scene is very different.

Gresren stumbles to one knee, his shield cracked along the top ridge, obsidian chips flying off with every strike. His opponent—a cold-eyed woman wielding a twin-headed axe—advances step by brutal step, her aura flaring in brutal, controlled pulses.

Middle-tier Tier 5.

She slams the axe down—

CLANG!!

Gresren blocks with everything he has, knees buckling from the impact. His own mana flares out, barely reinforcing the ground beneath his boots.

"Ghh—!"

He grits his teeth, veins bulging across his arms.

Behind him, the announcer's voice cuts through the roar of battle.

"Let's not forget! Even with Quasi Tier 6 weapons in hand… Solven and Gresren are only at peak Tier 4! That's a whole tier below the enemies they're fighting!"

The camera orb snaps to Solven—spinning and sliding low across the stone, his silver daggers clashing again and again with a whip-wielding swordsman whose movements are just slightly faster, slightly sharper.

Another slash—

Solven blocks one, ducks another—but the third clips his shoulder.

Blood sprays. He gasps and staggers, blinking sweat from his eyes.

But he doesn't fall.

He snarls and slashes upward, catching the whip mid-swing with one dagger and hurling a mana burst with the other.

The enemy blocks it with ease—but the pause gives Solven a breath of space.

The announcer exhales, the tension in his voice high now.

"It's already a miracle they're still standing!"