Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me

The Ember Claw soldiers shift without another word.

Armor scrapes. Shields raise. Bloodied warriors fall in around Alix, forming the shape he called for. Tight diamond—front rank shield-bearers, rear and flanks covered by mages and ranged units, middle packed with flexible fighters.

Alix steps into the heart of the formation, his voice calm but firm.

"Front line—brace and absorb. Rear line—target high-value casters. Anyone straying out of formation dies. We move as one."

A blast of green fire slams against their left side—an Astram caster unleashing chainfire bolts. Shields strain, but hold. The formation sways but doesn't break.

"Suppress the caster!" Alix calls out. "Second row, three o'clock!"

Three Ember Claw mages raise their staves as one.

A coordinated volley of lightning and fire arcs over the front line, slamming into the Astram mage just as he begins casting again.

The spell dies in his throat as his chest explodes in flame.

He didn't even have time to scream.

He just crumples.

Alix exhales sharply. "Keep moving. Shift east. Don't hold one spot too long—they'll start bombarding."

They do.

Within seconds, Astram spells rain down on where Alix's group had just been. An explosion of frost and dark energy shatters the stones behind them.

"Forward. Step by step."

Their formation inches through the storm.

They don't fight to dominate—they fight to survive. Pick off stragglers, overwhelm solo targets, retreat before they're surrounded. Precision instead of power.

Alix watches every angle.

He calls targets. Redirects movement. Tells a shieldbearer to swap with a wounded one before the gap opens. Orders a stunned caster pulled back by a glaivehook.

It doesn't feel like leading a war.

It feels like playing an instrument with bloodied strings.

The number over the arena ticks down—142… 126… 119…

A howl erupts to their right—two Ember Claw soldiers about to be swarmed.

"Break rank—left wing, reinforce!" Alix snaps.

They do.

Not even a second's hesitation.

The diamond formation splits in a practiced motion—four warriors sweeping out in a half-arc to slam into the Astram flanking force. The two overwhelmed soldiers stumble back into formation, barely alive.

Alix flicks his blade to the side, deflecting a thrown dagger, and hurls a small orb of compressed fire into a leaping assassin. The Astram fighter hits the ground, limbs bending wrong.

"Regroup. Hold shape. We're almost there."

They are.

Alix glances at the number again.

Still dropping fast.

Screams echo. Explosions crack through the air like thunder.

But his formation, is still up. Holding.

No one's speaking anymore. Just breathing. Fighting. Surviving.

Then—suddenly—

The number hits with a chime that rings through the air like a temple bell.

Alix's body seizes.

Everyone can't move.

His sword arm freezes mid-guard. His feet lock to the ground. All around him, Ember Claw and Astram alike fall still—statues of war, some locked in strikes, others collapsed in wounded heaps.

A sharp pulse of light explodes outward from the center of the arena—brilliant and blinding. It floods across every frozen figure, washing the battlefield in a pale white glow.

And then—

They vanish.

A split-second later, Alix's boots land hard on solid stone. The light fades. The noise dies.

They're outside again.

Around him, Ember Claw warriors drop to their knees or sink to the ground. Most are covered in blood. Many are burned. Some sob. Some look around, dazed, unsure if this is real.

Brakar is kneeling, chest heaving, axe resting beside him. Blood drips from a hundred cuts on his body—but the fire in his eyes still burns.

The Astram commander he was fighting?

Gone. Only a black smear remains where he fell.

Lathar steps to Alix's side, panting, blades dripping. He doesn't say anything for a moment—just stares at the horizon with wide, hollow eyes.

Then he exhales. "So… you have some talent in strategy."

Alix wipes blood off his blade with a controlled motion. His voice is cool, almost casual. "Just some basic strategy."

Lathar lets out a dry, bitter laugh. "Basic, huh? You led like you've done it a hundred times."

Alix says nothing.

But in his mind, he reflects, 'In my past life, I've done it more than a hundred times in games.'

Maps. Units. Movement. Control.

Games, simulations, ranked battles. Endless late nights optimizing builds, watching replays, breaking down enemy formations.

In his old world, it was all pixels. Now, it's blood and bone.

He glances around. The survivors number just under sixty. Fewer Ember Claw than they started with—but more than he expected. The formation, the quick adjustments, the focused strikes—it saved lives.

On the other side of the chamber, another group begins to form. The Astram survivors. Their numbers are visibly thinner. Barely over forty.

Brakar finally rises, wiping blood from his mouth. His voice is gravelly as he laughs. "Haha, I finally killed that bastard."

The remaining four arenas begin to flare, white light pulsing from their centers, and then, one by one, the survivors are ejected out.

In the second arena, the Astram dominate. Roaring, bloodied, and victorious.

In the third arena, Ember Claw holds—barely.

In the fourth and fifth, Astram holds full control.

Alix watches them appear, one cluster at a time. He counts, silently.

'Only two arenas where Ember Claw came out on top.' His thought. 'No wonder these guys haven't overthrown Astram. Their hate burns hot, but their strength is a mess.'

The air is thick. Not just with blood, but tension. Dozens of survivors eye each other across the massive chamber—hundreds of them now gathered on the smooth, dark stone, enclosed by walls etched with glowing veins of runes.

Then—

BOOM.

The central monolith thrums to life once more, a beam of light shooting upward from its tip. Everyone turns toward it instinctively.

More glowing text begins to etch itself onto the stone's surface, steady and clear:

[Stage Two: Trial of Beasts]

[Participants will be randomly assigned into groups of 20.]

[Each group must survive waves of beasts chosen at random.]

[Fail, and you die. Succeed, and you advance.]

A hush spreads as the last line of glowing text sinks into the stone.

One of the Ember Claw soldiers, a tall spearman with a torn cloak and blood crusting his jaw, growls under his breath, "Wait… does that mean we'll be paired with those scum?"

The word scum hangs in the air like a spark waiting to catch flame.

Lathar, standing beside Alix, doesn't look over. He just mutters, "Looks like it."

His eyes scan the Astram survivors. "This is going to be hard."

Another Ember Claw curses under his breath. A few shift uneasily, fingers twitching near their weapons. Tension climbs fast—years of blood feuds and bitter losses pressing on every soldier's throat.

Alix doesn't let it build.

He turns sharply to his unit, voice slicing through the air like a blade. "We only have five minutes to heal. So unless you want to die in the next round, I suggest you stop whining and start moving."

He raises one hand and a soft pulse of light flashes over his armor as a healing rune activates.

Around him, the Ember Claw soldiers snap into motion. Potions uncork. Bandages are torn from pouches. Mages kneel to cast weak but efficient restoration spells. Wounds hiss and seal. Bones reset. Burns cool.

Across the chamber, the other Ember Claw commanders bark similar orders.

"Medic circle, now!"

"Prioritize the front-liners!"

"Anyone half-dead, speak up—don't be stupid!"

Even the Astram groups begin to shift—though more coldly, more quietly. Their formation discipline is still visible, even in rest. They patch wounds with the same calm ruthlessness they showed in battle.

Brakar leans against his axe, watching them, jaw tight.

"We're fighting beasts next," he mutters. "Not each other. But mark my words… if I see one of them, I will stab thos scum in the back mid-round…"

Alix doesn't look at him. "They are probably thinking the same."

Brakar huffs, almost a laugh, but not quite. "Fair enough."

The five arenas rumble suddenly—then collapse straight into the ground as if swallowed by the earth. In their place, a massive dome rises from the stone floor. It's seamless, smooth, and covered in a thick swirling fog that clings to its surface like smoke. No one can see inside.

A low hum pulses from within. It sounds like breath—long, slow, and heavy.

Then, without warning, a flash of white light. Twenty figures vanish from the chamber floor and reappear inside the dome.

Thirteen from Ember Claw. Seven from Astram.

Everyone watches in tense silence. No one knows what happens inside. The fog conceals everything. The only sounds are distant thuds, occasional roars, and faint screams that send chills down the spine.

Brakar squints. "That's not normal mist," he mutters. "It's masking spells… heavy ones."

Lathar nods slowly, his expression grim. "Which means whatever's going on in there, we're not supposed to see it."

So they wait.

Five minutes pass.

Seven.

Eight.

Then, light flares along the dome's base.

A pulse of energy ripples outward, and in a blink, figures begin to reappear.

Teleported back.

Alix's eyes narrow as five Ember Claw survivors suddenly manifest near the dome's edge, slumping to the ground in bloody heaps. Two of them can barely crawl. One collapses outright, still breathing, but only just.

A heartbeat later, three Astram survivors flash into place across the chamber. They're in no better shape—burned, torn, smeared in gore that isn't all their own. One is missing an arm. Another is vomiting dark blood onto the stone.

It's silent for a moment.

Then the chamber erupts in noise.

"Five? That's it?!" an Ember Claw soldier snarls, clawed hands balling into fists. "Thirteen went in!"

Across the floor, a tall Astram warrior with scaled skin slams a fist into the ground. "Three?! What kind of monsters were in there?"