Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me-Chapter 191 - 193: Five Stages

4:32

The timer ticks on, glowing a little brighter now with each passing second. The runes ripple faintly across the monolith's surface—like it's waking up.

Alix watches it without blinking, arms still folded.

Behind him, the air stirs.

Boots stomp on stone. Armored figures emerge from the misted pathways like ghosts returning from battle. Some drag wounded behind them. Others limp. Many come alone.

Ember Claw reinforcements arrive slowly—but not proudly. No cheers. No relief. Just silence and tired eyes.

Among them, the Ember Claw commanders begin to appear.

The tall, broad figure of Commander Brakar steps into the clearing with a small cluster of battered soldiers behind him. His red pauldrons are cracked, one arm wrapped tightly in makeshift bandages. There's a faint burn scar trailing across one side of his cheek.

Lathar notices him first.

He straightens, instinctively squaring his shoulders—expecting some kind of jab.

But Brakar just walks past, quiet. He doesn't even glance in Lathar's direction.

Lathar blinks. "...Okay, now that's unsettling."

Alix doesn't respond.

Another Ember Claw squad enters, followed by two more commanders. They look worse. Blood stains their armor. Their squads are ragged, barely a dozen soldiers each. No more than half their expected numbers.

On the other side, Astram commanders begin to arrive as well. Their expressions are the same—worn, grim. Their formations are thin, uneven. Some units are missing entirely.

Everyone walks like they've been through something that took more than just numbers from them.

3:17

The tension is thick now—almost physical. The hum of the monolith deepens, pulsing slowly like a heartbeat echoing through stone.

Lathar watches Brakar as he stands at the edge of the Ember Claw formation, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the Astram side like he's staring at a ghost.

Lathar steps up beside him, crossing his arms. "…What's with the long face? Not used to seeing me in one piece?"

Brakar doesn't rise to the bait.

Not like he usually does.

He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tight. "You see that bastard over there?"

Lathar follows his gaze.

Across the field, half-slumped against a support pole, flanked by what's left of his command squad. His armor is in tatters. One eye swollen shut. He's barely standing, but the glint in his eye—spiteful, proud—still burns.

Brakar's voice lowers. "That's Darse."

Lathar narrows his eyes. Recognition flickers. "…You serious?"

Brakar gives a stiff nod.

"The reason I joined Ember Claw in the first place," he mutters. "He led the raid on Red Vale. Burned the whole damn village to ash. My family was in that village. They all died."

Lathar goes quiet.

Brakar's fists clench. "Since we arrived here, I've had one goal—to find him, kill him, and make it count."

He scoffs bitterly. "I did find him. We tore through his units like fire through straw. But that bastard… he sacrificed his own men. Threw them at us just to cover his escape."

His voice cracks with quiet fury. "Took half of my unit with him in the process."

Lathar looks at him for a long moment.

Then he says, quiet but firm, "Brakar. Don't start anything. Not now."

Brakar grits his teeth, gaze never leaving Darse.

"I know," he mutters. "If I start a fight now, a war will erupt in this room."

Lathar nods slowly, letting out a breath. "Good. You're still on your right mind then."

Brakar gives a dry grunt. "Barely."

They fall silent, the hum of the monolith filling the air around them. Neither man moves. Neither speaks. The countdown glows steadily above, unrelenting.

They fall silent, the hum of the monolith filling the air around them. Neither man moves. Neither speaks. The countdown glows steadily above, unrelenting.

2:02

More Ember Claw units trickle in—limping, bloody, worn thin. Commanders regroup with what's left of their squads, murmuring quietly, their eyes locked on the monolith and the ticking timer.

By the time the countdown hits :30, the Ember Claw side has gathered nearly its full strength.

Ten out of thirteen commanders now stand in formation.

On the Astram side, the numbers are starkly different.

Only ten of their twenty commanders have returned.

Their forces are thinner, more ragged. Whole squads are missing. Some groups have no officer among them at all.

A tall monster steps forward—Tier 5, draped in ornate blue armor and tattered robes, his expression strained and sharp. He looks around slowly, voice low but cutting.

"…How did this happen?" he says. "There's no way. No way only three of their commanders fell… and we lost ten."

Another commander nearby scoffs. "They must still be on their way," she says quickly, grasping for logic. "They'll come. Just… delayed."

The Tier 5 man turns toward her, eyes narrowing. "We're not talking about foot soldiers. These are commanders. You think ten of them all just happened to fall behind?"

Before anyone can answer—

BOOM.

A low, grinding thud echoes across the clearing.

Everyone whirls around.

The stone entrances that lead into the chamber begin to close. Heavy slabs of dark rock rumble into place, sealing off each pathway with a final, echoing slam.

A pale red light pulses across the surface of the monolith.

Then, lines of glowing text begin to scroll across the face of the stone in a language everyone can read:

[The final phase has begun.

All entrants are closed.

Anyone still outside this chamber will be terminated.]

A hush falls.

The Astram commander stares at the message, jaw clenched. "What…"

A low hum starts to build.

Then the ground shifts.

With a deep, grinding roar, five circular platforms rise from the stone floor—massive rings that spread out across the chamber. Energy pulses around their edges, and within moments, shimmering barriers surge up, forming translucent domes over each arena.

Everyone steps back.

The monolith pulses again.

New text etches itself across the glowing stone surface in sharp, clear lines:

[To claim the final prize, all must pass through five stages.]

[Stage One: Survival.]

[Each arena must be reduced to exactly 100 survivors to advance.]

Gasps ripple through the gathered monsters.

Lathar mutters, "Wait… What?"

Brakar squints at the monolith, as if hoping he misread it. "Each arena has to be reduced to one hundred? There's five arenas. That's—"

"Two hundred in each," Alix says quietly, his tone neutral. "One thousand of us in total."

One of the Astram commanders steps forward, snarling, "That's not survival—that's slaughter. They want us to kill each other."

Another voice rises from the Ember Claw ranks, guttural and bitter. "This is nice, I've been itching to kill those bastards. I just didn't encounter those idiots outside."

The shields around each arena begin to shimmer, shifting in hue—colors spiraling slowly like liquid light. Then without warning, pillars rise from the center of each ring and pulse once, casting down rays of energy.

One Ember Claw commander roars. "COME ON THEN, ASTRAM SCUM! I'LL RIP TEN OF YOU DOWN WITH ME!"

A snarling Astram commander laughs. "Try it! I'll stack Ember Claw skulls till I build a throne!"

The tension snaps like a drawn bowstring.

With a flash of light—instant and blinding—bodies vanish.

Alix barely registers the shift before his feet slam down on new ground. The arena.

Wide. Enclosed. The dome above hums with energy. Around him—chaos.

He hears steel clash against bone, fire igniting, magic screaming.

All around, monsters are already tearing into each other.

A horned brute crashes into a lean, blade-armed warrior before either can orient. Blood sprays. Screams echo.

Lathar lands nearby, rolling to absorb the impact. He rises fast, blades drawn, eyes already scanning. "This is madness."

Brakar materializes a few meters away, shield raised, axe in hand. His face is stone. "Here I come, bastard!!!."

A hulking Astram commander beast snarls across from them, his eyes locking with Brakar's. Recognition. Hatred.

"You again, you Ember filth?" the beast growls.

Brakar steps forward. "This time you won't be able to get away."

Without warning, the Astram commander charges. Brakar meets him head-on with a roar, the impact shaking the ground beneath them.

Elsewhere in the arena, Ember Claw and Astram forces collide like crashing tides. Spells arc. Fangs flash. Bodies fall.

Alix sidesteps a spear thrust and counters with a precise strike, cutting down a lunging lizard-like warrior. No time to speak. No time to think.

Lathar ducks under a blast of ice, slashing upward to split an Astram soldier across the chest.

The number above the arena ticks down—200… 187… 173…

In under a minute, it hits 150.

Fifty gone.

Just like that.

Alix watches the number flash.

"They really hate each other so much," he mutters.

Across the field, formations are already forming—lines snapping into place, units clustering, shields raised, casters moving behind cover.

"Form up!" a voice bellows from the Ember Claw ranks.

Brakar, still locked in brutal melee, shouts between gritted teeth, "Second wave—anchor left flank! Cut off their backliners!"

Lathar spins out of a duel, breath ragged. "We need to move, now. If we stay scattered, we're going to be picked apart."

Alix nods. "Everyone, on me. Tight diamond. Prioritize movement and protection. Don't overextend."

Several Ember Claw soldiers nearby pause.

They hesitate—not because they doubt the command, but because of who gave it.

Their eyes flick to Alix.

Just a new commander.

No insignia of rank beyond the minimum. No famed exploits. No deep veteran lines scored into his armor.

But Brakar isn't giving orders—he's too deep in his own war, locked in a bone-splitting clash with his sworn enemy.

And in the chaos of the arena, someone has to lead.

The hesitation doesn't last long.

One of Brakar's unit captains—his left pauldron dented and helm missing—grits his teeth and gives a sharp nod.

"Form on the new command!" he barks. "You heard him! Diamond pattern—move!"