Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

In the grand palace of Raltheon Kingdom, tension hangs thick in the air. The meeting chamber, usually a place of diplomacy and strategy, now feels more like a battlefield. King Edric sits at the head of the long, ornately carved table, his fingers tapping impatiently against the polished wood. His expression is sour, no, furious.

Even with the severity of the situation, the rulers of Ordeya and Valgros have only sent representatives. He had personally written letters to both kings, expecting their presence, but all he received were envoys.

His gaze sharpens as he leans forward, his voice carrying the weight of his frustration. "So, did the two of them agree to help me?"

The representative from Ordeya, a middle-aged man in a fine navy-blue coat, clears his throat before responding. "Yes, Your Highness. His Majesty has agreed to allow you to issue a Sovereign's Call to Arms through the Adventurers' Guild—under one condition." He pauses, watching King Edric's expression. "For the next five years, trade between our kingdoms must be conducted at a 30% percent discount off market prices."

King Edric's fingers tighten into a fist against the table. "Thirty percent?" His voice is laced with disbelief. "That's robbery. You expect me to cripple my own economy just to get help?"

The Ordeya envoy remains composed. "It is a generous offer, considering the circumstances. The guild may not fall under the rule of any kingdom, but as you know, each kingdom can only issue a Sovereign's Call to Arms to the adventurers guild within their own territory. Ordeya is making an exception."

His eyes flick toward the Valgros representative, a man clad in dark green, his expression unreadable. "And what of your king? What does he demand?"

The Valgros envoy folds his hands calmly. "His Majesty King Rewalt is willing to lend assistance… but only if Raltheon formally cedes the border city of Gildor to Valgros."

A heavy silence settles over the room. Edric's fingers tighten against the table's edge. Gildor, a strategically vital city, was already contested territory between their kingdoms. Handing it over would be a devastating loss, but without aid, his kingdom might face an even greater disaster.

Edric's mind races, the weight of the decision pressing down on him like an iron shackle. If he refuses, his kingdom may not last another year. The enemy looks like it's about to attack again, and despite his attempts to reach out to the King of the monsters, the responses he receives are always vague, as if they are deliberately stalling him.

Finally, he exhales sharply and straightens in his chair. "Give me time to consider." His voice is firm, but there's an undeniable edge of weariness.

The Ordeya representative inclines his head slightly. "Of course, Your Highness. But I advise you not to delay for too long. Every passing day tilts the balance further against you."

The Valgros envoy remains silent, merely offering a knowing look before standing. "We will await your response, King Edric. But understand, our king does not make offers twice."

As the two envoys depart, Edric remains seated, his hands clenched into fists. His kingdom's future hinges on choices he never wanted to make.

If only that damned Monster King would give me a clear answer…

----

Back in the heart of Erevaris, Alix stands in a grand chamber, a dimly lit hall lined with towering obsidian pillars. The air hums with a quiet intensity as he gazes down at Sissari. Her three eyes shimmer with an eerie intelligence, her serpentine body coiling slightly as she awaits his command.

Alix speaks, his voice calm yet resolute. "Go now and implement our next move."

Sissari bows her elongated head, her voice as smooth as silk. "As you wish, Your Majesty." With fluid grace, she turns.

Moments later, a sealed message is sent to the Raltheon Kingdom, bearing a simple yet devastating declaration:

"The Erevaris Kingdom will only stop if the Raltheon Kingdom becomes a subject state."

Back in Raltheon

King Edric reads the message in his private chamber. His hands shake as he grips the parchment, his breathing heavy. His vision blurs with rage.

A bitter, humorless laugh escapes his lips. They're not demanding his submission in name alone—they want complete control.

"They must be so confident in themselves."

His fingers crumple the message as his blood boils hotter. His body trembles, not with fear, but with unyielding fury.

His eyes burn with a bloodthirsty light. "Then, let's fight to the end."

His decision is made. He storms back to the meeting chamber, his movements stiff with anger. Without hesitation, he looks to the Ordeya and Valgros envoys and growls, "I accept your terms."

The Ordeya envoy nods, his expression one of quiet satisfaction. The Valgros representative merely smirks.

Edric does not care. Let them think they've won something.

This war will not end with submission. It will end in blood.

Back in Erevaris

Alix sits in his war chamber, a massive map of Raltheon spread across the polished stone table before him. The glow of magical lanterns casts sharp shadows across the room. At his side stands General Varkas. Across from them, Sissari glides into the chamber, her three luminous eyes flickering with intrigue.

She bows slightly before speaking. "Your Majesty, Raltheon has made its choice. They will fight to the end."

Alix leans back in his chair, exhaling softly. "Expected." His fingers drum against the armrest. "And our forces?"

Varkas steps forward, his deep voice filled with quiet confidence. "The army is now fifty thousand strong."

"They are disciplined, well-equipped, and eager for battle. We are ready to move."

Alix studies the map in silence, his gaze sharp as he traces the borders of Raltheon. He already anticipated this response. Humans are stubborn, and unwilling to bend.

Varkas smirks, a glint of anticipation in his eyes. "We'll strike swiftly, seize control before their reinforcements arrive."

Alix nods. "Take what you need. Keep casualties low, but make it clear, Raltheon is crumbling. And if their king still refuses to kneel…" He pauses, his expression turning colder. "We will grind them into dust."

Varkas places a fist over his chest in salute. "Understood, Your Majesty." With that, he turns and strides out of the chamber, already barking orders to his officers.

Days later, the frontlines

Smoke rises in thick plumes over the conquered cities. In just a few days, three key strongholds of Raltheon have fallen. General Varkas, leading with ruthless efficiency, commands the battlefield like a seasoned predator. The enemy forces, outnumbered and outmatched, fall like leaves before a storm.

Yet, just as expected, the reinforcements from Ordeya and Valgros arrive. Their banners stretch across the horizon, a tide of warriors rallying to Edric's cause. With their aid, Raltheon finally manages to halt the advance, forcing Erevaris to hold their positions.

But no Tier 5 combatants have entered the battlefield yet. The real war is only beginning.

Inside a fortified war tent near Raltheon's front lines, two figures stand facing each other over a large map spread across an iron table. The air inside is tense, but not with hostility, rather, a sharp anticipation of the battle ahead.

One of them, clad in heavy black armor, rests a massive greatsword against his shoulder. His short, messy blond hair is damp with sweat, and his green eyes gleam with the thrill of war. This is Pavel, the only Adamantite-ranked adventurer in the Ordeya Kingdom, a Tier 5 warrior known for his raw power and unbreakable resilience.

Across from him, a tall, imposing man clad in a dark green military coat with silver embroidery stands with his arms crossed. His presence alone commands respect—Marshal Zinov, the strongest of Valgros' three marshals. His piercing gray eyes are calculating, his every movement precise and efficient. Unlike Pavel's wild energy, Zinov carries himself with an air of absolute control.

Pavel lets out a low whistle as he looks Zinov up and down. "The Valgros Kingdom is really going all out this time. They even sent you here."

Zinov's expression remains unreadable. "King Rewalt does not take unnecessary risks. Erevaris is no ordinary foe." He taps a spot on the map—the latest city Erevaris has taken. "If we do not act carefully, this war will be over before Raltheon realizes it."

Garron grins, cracking his neck. "Careful, huh? I prefer direct. Get in, cut down their commanders, break their morale. That usually does the trick." He pats the hilt of his greatsword, a weapon nearly as long as he is tall. "Besides, that Tier 5 monster on their side has shown up yet. Maybe he's scared."

Zinov's sharp gray eyes narrow as he fixes Pavel with a cold stare. "We need to plan and work together if we're going to fight that monster." His voice is steady, but there's an unmistakable edge to it. "Don't underestimate the enemy. One of our kingdom's marshals was killed by that thing."

Pavel's grin fades slightly, his fingers tightening around the grip of his greatsword. "So the rumors were true, then?" He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Damn. Which one?"

"Marshal Draven." Zinov's tone is flat, but the weight of the words is heavy. "He was a seasoned warrior, a Tier 5 who had fought in more battles than most men could count. And yet, he died."

A moment of silence lingers between them. Pavel's usual cocky energy dims, replaced by something more serious. "How did it happen?"

Zinov glances at the map, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table. "We still don't have a clear account. The scouts only said one thing: it wasn't a fight. It was a massacre. The enemy didn't even take Draven seriously." His eyes flicker with something rare—caution. "And that's just one enemy. We don't even know if Erevaris has other Tier 5 monsters waiting in the shadows."