Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me-Chapter 104: We Do Not Kneel

After that, they begin their preparations.

Sorin, Nyssara, Thurn, and Veltha move swiftly, issuing commands to their troops. Each takes charge of their respective forces, ensuring their soldiers are fully armed and ready for the coming battle.

Groth, the battle mage commander, gathers his spellcasters in the city's plaza. The air hums with magic as they refine their incantations, preparing for large-scale assaults and counter-spells against Varestand's barrier.

Varkas oversees everything from a high vantage point, his sharp eyes tracking the organized chaos below. He watches as supplies are distributed, siege weapons are assembled, and warriors steel themselves for war.

As noon approaches, the preparations near completion. The city of Cras, once eerily silent, now hums with the energy of an army on the move.

Then, at last, Varkas raises a clawed hand.

"Enough waiting," he growls. His voice carries over the gathered forces, heavy with authority. "We march."

The command ripples through the ranks like a spark igniting dry grass.

Sorin mounts her beast, her crimson eyes fixed on the path ahead. Nyssara and Veltha do the same, while Thurn and Groth fall into formation with their troops.

The ground trembles as thousands of soldiers begin their advance, moving as one unified force toward Varestand.

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After some time, they finally arrive at Varestand's towering walls.

Marshal Walric stands atop the battlements, his expression grim as he watches the enemy forces march forward. Even though he commands fifty thousand soldiers—outnumbering the enemy's thirty thousand—the sheer bloodlust radiating from the approaching army is overwhelming. His men shift uneasily, gripping their weapons tighter, sensing the difference in battle intent.

Then his gaze lifts, and his breath stills.

Floating above the battlefield is the Lycanthrope general.

Varkas hovers effortlessly, his crimson mane wild in the wind, his eyes burning like molten gold. The aura around him is suffocating, primal, and untamed. Even from this distance, Walric can feel it pressing down on him like an unseen weight.

Walric clenches his fists, reminding himself that he is no weakling. At level 499, he is merely a step away from breaking into Tier 5. And yet, that final step is a chasm he cannot yet cross. The difference between a peak Tier 4 and an actual Tier 5 is like comparing a sturdy wall to an unbreakable mountain.

Beside him, his five generals stand firm, each a Tier 4 powerhouse in their own right. One of them chuckles, attempting to lighten the tension.

"Marshal, just relax," the man says with a smirk. "I can see you shaking even from here."

Walric exhales sharply, eyes still locked onto Varkas. "If you're so confident, why don't you take the lead when the fighting starts?"

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Another general, a stocky man with a scar across his jaw, crosses his arms. "No need to worry. The enemy only has one Tier 4—thier commander. With the four of us available, we can help you fight that monster."

Walric snorts, turning to face them fully. His gaze sharpens. "Are you guys sure you want to fight a Tier 5 monster? Just the graze of a Tier 5 skill will kill any of you instantly."

The generals exchange glances, their earlier confidence dimming just slightly. One of them, a lanky man with graying hair, shrugs. "We don't have much of a choice, do we? If we let you fight alone, the army's morale will shatter."

"Besides," another one adds, rolling his shoulders, "we're not planning to go toe-to-toe with him. We'll support you, create openings, and buy some time."

A third general, the youngest among them, tightens his grip on his sword. "If we fight smart, we can buy time. Time for a surprise." He exhales slowly. "We might not be strong enough to kill him, but we can surely do that."

A sudden gust of wind howls across the battlefield as Varkas slowly descends, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the soldiers below.

Then, his deep, rumbling voice cuts through the tension.

"Humans," Varkas drawls, his tone laced with both mockery and authority. "His Majesty is merciful. He offers you a choice—surrender now and be spared, or stand against us and be slaughtered to the last."

A ripple of unease spreads through the ranks of Raltheon soldiers. Even the most seasoned warriors grip their weapons tighter, feeling the weight of the Lycanthrope's words. Some glance toward Walric, searching for reassurance.

Walric steps forward, his face hardening. "And if we surrender, what then?"

Varkas grins, his fangs glinting in the sunlight. "Then you will be given a new purpose under His Majesty's rule. Resist, and your corpses will serve as a message to the rest of your kingdom." He raises a clawed hand, gesturing lazily toward the city. "Varestand will be ours, either way. The only question is whether you'll be standing when the flames rise."

Walric meets his gaze, unflinching. "The soldiers of Raltheon kingdom does not kneel!!!"

Varkas chuckles, a low, guttural sound that rumbles like distant thunder. "Good," he murmurs. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Varkas raises his hand, his claws crackling with dark crimson energy. The air grows heavy, thick with an oppressive force that makes the very ground tremble. A deep, guttural growl rumbles from his throat as he invokes his bloodline's power.

"Crimson Tyrant's Grasp."

A massive, glowing red lycanthrope hand materializes in the sky above, its size is quite big. The weight of its presence alone sends waves of pressure crashing down on the battlefield.

Walric and his generals freeze. Their breaths grow ragged as an overwhelming sense of dread washes over them. It feels as if an entire mountain is descending from the heavens, threatening to crush them where they stand. The soldiers below fall to their knees, some gasping for air, others gripping their weapons in a futile attempt to fight against the suffocating force.

Then, with a deafening roar, the crimson hand begins its descent.

"Brace yourselves!" Walric shouts, tightening his grip on his halberd. His body screams at him to run, but he plants his feet firmly, refusing to show weakness.

Just before the monstrous attack makes contact, the city's defensive barrier activates. A radiant golden dome materializes, its surface shimmering as ancient runes ignite with power.

The impact is cataclysmic.

As the crimson hand collides with the barrier. A shockwave erupts outward, flattening trees and sending soldiers flying backward. The ground cracks, and the very air vibrates from the sheer force of the clash.

Fine fractures spread across the golden dome like spiderwebs, the powerful defenses barely able to withstand the overwhelming might of a Tier 5 skill. Gasps of horror echo from the soldiers within as they watch their city's last line of defense begin to fail.

But just as suddenly as the cracks appear, they begin to mend.

The golden light pulses, and in an instant, the barrier restores itself as if nothing had happened. The crimson hand flickers before shattering into nothingness, its energy spent.

A tense silence falls over the battlefield.

Then, like a trigger being pulled, one of the human general raises her staff high.

"Now! Mages, unleash hell!"

With a unified roar, the city's spellcasters unleash a barrage of magical attacks. Fireballs, lightning bolts, and beams of raw arcane energy streak through the sky, converging upon Varkas and his forces.

"Defensive formation! Now!" Nyssara's voice cuts through the battlefield like a blade.

The front lines of the monster army move in perfect synchronization. Towering warriors with massive shields slam them into the ground, a deep, resonating boom echoing as they activate their defensive skills. Layers of shimmering energy form over their bodies, and the very earth beneath them solidifies, reinforcing their stance.

The sky erupts with fire and lightning as the human mages' spells rain down, but the monstrous vanguard does not waver. Explosions ripple across their ranks, yet their defenses hold firm, absorbing the devastating impact.

Smoke and dust swirl, momentarily obscuring the battlefield. Then, as the wind clears the haze, the monstrous shield-bearers remain standing—unshaken.

Nyssara smirks. "Hah. Not bad. Now—retaliate."

At his command, Groth raises his staff high, his eyes flashing with raw magic.

"Mages! Counterattack! Show them our might!"

A deafening surge of power erupts from the monstrous army's side. Dark energy bolts, searing flames, and streaks of violet lightning crackle through the air, answering the human barrage with overwhelming force.

The sky erupts in chaos. Spells clash midair, exploding in violent bursts of light and smoke. The battlefield trembles under the force of the exchange, but the city's golden barrier—though flickering—still holds.

Then a soldier come to Walric.

"Marshal! It's time!"

Walric's eyes narrow. "Are you certain?"

"The mages in the tower have begun casting. The barrier will collapse in moments. You must hold the enemy until we are finished!"

A heavy silence follows. Then, Walric exhales sharply and grips his sword and shield. "Understood. Tell them that we'll hold the line."

The moment the golden barrier vanishes, the battlefield freezes. For a heartbeat, neither side moves. Then—Varkas acts.

With a feral snarl, the Lycanthrope general vanishes from sight, a blur of motion too fast for the human eye to track.

BOOM!

He lands in the heart of the city like a meteor, the impact sending a shockwave through the streets. Stone shatters beneath his feet, and buildings tremble from the force of his landing. Dust and debris swirl around him as he straightens, his golden eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Before he can take another step, a figure streaks toward him.

CLANG!

Walric's shield slams into Varkas's raised arm, the impact ringing out like a thunderclap. The sheer force of the collision sends a ripple through the ground, cracking the stone beneath their feet.

Varkas grins, unfazed. "You humans are quite brave." His voice rumbles, thick with amusement.