Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me
Chapter 209 - 211: One Of The Twenty Spears of Bregion Empire

Capital city of Rithamar in the royal Palace's southern spire, teleportation hall.

The teleportation chamber is like a living construct of metal and light, the circular platform hovers several inches above the ground, its frame forged from pure aetherium—a rare alloy that hums with silent energy. Floating rings of runes orbit the center, slow and precise, like the gears of time itself.

The walls are seamless obsidian. No doors. No guards. Just stillness… and tension.

King Halron paces at the base of the platform, sweat glistening on his brow despite the chamber's chill. He wears his royal cloak, its gold embroidery freshly pressed, but he keeps tugging at it—an unconscious twitch of nervousness.

Behind him, his advisors wait in silence. No one speaks. No one breathes too loud.

Because today, Rithamar receives a Marshal of the Bregion Empire.

One of the Twenty Spears of the Empire.

And even a king must bow.

The platform pulses once—bright white. Then again—blue. The air twists, folding in on itself. The orbiting runes rotate faster.

The advisors shift uneasily.

Then the chamber flashes.

A figure appears in the center.

He stands tall, wrapped in a deep crimson cloak etched with black sigils. The armor beneath it is cold gray, plated but sleek, sculpted like muscle and engraved with imperial scripture. No helmet. His face is bare—young, but his eyes are ancient. Pale silver.

On his back, a massive glaive rests in a black-metal harness, sealed with enchanted chains.

His presence alone crushes the room.

King Halron bows deeply—lower than etiquette requires.

"Marshal Corven… Rithamar welcomes you."

The Marshal's gaze flicks around the room once—measuring, weighing, judging.

Then he speaks.

"…The stench of fear," he murmurs.

His voice is smooth. Cold.

Halron straightens, but not all the way. "I… yes, my lord. The news came swiftly. We've just begun—"

"I am not here for explanations," Corven cuts in.

He steps off the platform. The runes freeze behind him. Instantly. Obediently.

One of the advisors speaks up, hesitant. "Marshal… forgive us, but… is it true? Moryos is gone? Entirely?"

"Yes." Corven doesn't even look at him.

The king's throat tightens. "Then we… we are next."

"What do you think?" Corven replies. He finally meets Halron's eyes.

Halron flinches. "Marshal—please—we're prepared to offer full support. The southern legion is ready. We've already begun evacuating the eastern borders. Just tell us what the Empire requires."

Corven stares at him. Then smiles.

It's the kind of smile wolves wear when sheep offer their own necks.

"What the Empire requires," Corven says slowly, "is clarity. Coordination. Obedience."

He begins to walk past them.

"Summon your council. Have your generals waiting in the war chamber. And open your vaults. All of them."

Halron hesitates. "All… vaults?"

Corven stops. Looks over his shoulder.

"Is there a problem?"

Halron says nothing.

Corven walks on. "We're not facing a war, Your Majesty. We're facing extermination. And I will not let Rithamar become the second Moryos."

He pauses at the chamber's exit. The black wall splits open like a mouth, responding to his presence.

"And if you hesitate…" he says without turning back, "then when your city burns—I will not be here."

He leaves.

The wall seals behind him.

Halron exhales, body sagging like a deflated bag.

"...That," one of his advisors whispers, "was maddening."

King Halron says nothing.

He's still staring at the closed door.

At the ghost of heat and pressure left behind.

Like something ancient had walked through the room.

And had decided—just for now—not to kill them.

------

Back to Moryos Kingdom capital, the Palace.

The throne room no longer bears the weight of a king.

Veynar's throne is dark, scorched, and fractured down the center. Its cracked obsidian base still smolders faintly from the battle that had ended the kingdom in one night.

But not everyone is dead.

In the great council chamber behind the throne hall, three figures sit at a round table carved from stormwood—a rare material immune to both magic and time.

Mhazul leans back in his seat, one leg over the other, his axes resting beside him like sleeping beasts. He stares at the open skylight above them, where the sun casts beams across the ruined ceiling.

Gander, draped in gray robes, nods slowly. His face is pale, unreadable, but his eyes gleam with calculated satisfaction. "The city burns still. Let it. A message written in fire lasts longer than words."

Lysaria snorts. She sits at the far end, her crimson braid swinging behind her like a whip. "You could've left a few more nobles alive, Mhazul. Half the ruling families are ash."

"I left three," Mhazul says without blinking. "Plenty."

Lysaria rolls her eyes. "Three cowards, hiding in wine cellars. You call that a political base?"

Gander shrugs. "Cowards live longer. And now they'll be loyal. Terror does that better than treaties."

Lysaria clicks her tongue but doesn't argue further. She taps the table instead, pulling up a glowing slate. It displays the map of the Moryos kingdom, already marked with blackened sectors and new borders.

"Report from the eastern garrison says they've begun reconstruction. The survivors are being put to work. We're offering food and clean water in exchange for labor. It's going well. Afraid humans obey faster when they're hungry."

"Afraid people obey fastest," Mhazul corrects, "when they believe the next man to disobey will be reduced to cinders."

A pause.

Gander smiles faintly. "Then it's a good thing we gave them such a vivid example."

The chamber quiets for a moment. Outside, the wind carries the distant sound of collapsing rubble.

Then Lysaria asks, "Where's the rest?"

"Scattered," Gander answers. "Varkas is reinforcing the tunnels beneath the treasury. Veyrith and Astram are guarding the borders. Gorath… I told that guy to help with the construction—after all, he's the reason most of the cities in this kingdom are destroyed."

Mhazul leans forward, eyes narrowing slightly. "What's next?"

Gander's expression hardens. He touches the slate again. The map of Moryos folds inward, replaced by a broader view—Caeland's entire southern half. Colored banners mark key kingdoms. One of them, on the western edge, pulses faintly.

"Our next target," he says, "Is the Rithamar Kingdom."

Gander nods. "The report just came in. They're a lot weaker than Moryos ever was. Soft government. Fractured command. No alliances worth noting."

"Then why not hit two?" Mhazul asks.

"Exactly," Lysaria says, tapping the map. "If Rithamar's weak, we can split our forces. Hit multiple kingdoms at once. Force them into panic. Make them scatter."

Gander's eyes flicker with approval. "That's the plan. Divide and crush. We hit Rithamar publicly—make it loud. We bait the continent's attention west… then rip the east apart before they can respond."

Suddenly, the air near the chamber's edge distorts.

A ripple.

A shimmer.

Then Vaelith materializes, as if stepping from a crack in space itself. Cloaked in void-black robes that ripple with spectral light, his face is half-shadowed, eyes glowing like pale stars.

"Urgent news," Vaelith says without preamble. His voice is low and distant, like it doesn't quite belong in this world.

Gander doesn't flinch. "Oh? Let's hear it."

Vaelith's gaze shifts to him. "A peak Tier 6 human just arrived in Rithamar."

Mhazul straightens immediately. The weight of that statement coils through the room like a drawn blade. "A peak Tier 6…?"

He stands, his twin axes humming as they recognize his rising pulse.

"Then I'll go," Mhazul says flatly.

Lysaria raises a brow, lips curling. "And set the whole city on fire again?"

Mhazul smirks. "If it resists."

Lysaria rolls her eyes and waves a hand dismissively. "No need to charge in. Just keep watching for now."

Gander leans forward, fingers steepled. "Keep tracking him. Watch every movement."

Vaelith nods. "Understood."

Then—he's gone.

The shadows where he stood collapse inward, vanishing without sound.

-----

Somewhere in the shattered woodlands north of Moryos.

The forest is dying.

The air is thick with mist and the scent of burnt bark. Trees loom like twisted skeletons, branches clawing at the sky. Scorched earth crunches beneath heavy steps as a monster patrol moves through the undergrowth in a loose, predatory formation.

At their head, Commander Reth—an ogrelike war-beast armored in chitin and iron—snarls as he brushes past a broken tree trunk. One of his eyes glows faintly red, the other is a jagged scar.

Behind him, a lankier scout dashes up, panting.

"Commander," the scout says, lowering his voice as he kneels. "We lost track of them again."

Reth stops. His massive clawed foot sinks into the mud.

"Tssk…" His lip curls in irritation, revealing fangs the size of daggers. "Didn't I tell you to keep two watchers on the flanks?"

"We did," the scout says quickly. "But the bastard moves like a shadow. One moment he was bleeding, then he vanished into the ravine. No blood trail now. Just… silence."

Another monster soldier steps up, a stalk-eyed tracker with vines coiling around his limbs. "It's the human commander, still fighting. He's not running like the rest. He's hunting too."

Reth growls low, cracking his neck.

"Let him," he says. "But he'll run out of tricks soon."

He raises a claw, signaling the others to spread out. "Fan out in pairs. Sweep the ridge. If you smell anything metal or bleeding, report immediately."

"And if we see him?" the vine-scout asks.

Reth's eyes flash.

"You don't engage. Not unless you want to lose your head. Just stall him. I'll finish this myself."

The patrol moves. The forest is quiet again—unnaturally so.

Reth exhales, then draws his cleaver from its back sheath. The blade hisses as if eager.

He mutters to himself, "Come on, little human… Let's see what kind of commander you really are when there's no army left to save you."