Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me-Chapter 186 - 188: A Crypt Of A Tier 7 Powerhouse?

Astram's expression doesn't change. His voice, when it comes, is like stone dragged across glass—cold, smooth, and final.

"I don't care about that."

The words cut the air in half.

"I don't care why they haven't crushed you yet. What I care about," Astram says, his gaze narrowing, "is how you intend to compensate me. Because if you don't…"

He pauses. The weight of his presence increases, not by a flare of power, not by any show of force—just by sheer existence.

"…then I will destroy your kingdom before your enemy even has the chance."

He says it so simply, as if discussing the weather.

Asdri can't breathe.

Astram hasn't released his aura, hasn't summoned a single spark of mana. And yet, Asdri feels like his soul is being flayed open. His vision flickers. For a split second, he sees his own death. Then another. And another.

He gasps—choking down air like he's resurfaced from drowning.

'What… what was that…?'

No aura. No spell. No pressure. And yet, it felt like dying. Again and again.

Rewalt moves quickly, stepping between Astram and his son with an item shining in his hand, shielding him with his body.

Astram tilts his head, just slightly. His expression remains unchanged, but the silence that follows is suffocating.

Rewalt clenches his jaw, forcing the words out. "I will open the Relic."

The moment he says it, the air shifts.

"That should be enough," Rewalt continues, each syllable dragging like stone. "To compensate you… and Veyrith."

Astram's eyes narrow, a flicker of something—interest, perhaps—dancing behind them. Then he turns, as if the matter is already settled.

"Good," he says. "Then I'll return tomorrow."

He takes a step toward the portal—when suddenly, it roars to life again.

Mana flares violently, the runes carved around the arch pulsing in wild succession. The air thickens. Static hums across the stone floor. And then—

Another flash of light.

Two figures emerge from the vortex.

The first is tall, imposing, wreathed in a cloak of matte-black fur and iron-gray armor that hums with restrained power—Veyrith.

Beside him glides a form far more fluid—Svira, her tail curling slowly behind her as she steps through the portal like a blade drawn from its sheath.

Rewalt's blood runs cold. Asdri stiffens, eyes darting from one to the other. The two monsters are here. Together.

Astram turns slowly, his robe whispering against the marble as he faces the new arrivals.

There's no greeting. No acknowledgement. Only raw, frigid stillness.

Veyrith steps forward, his tone hard as steel. "So. You arrived first."

Astram's lips curl into a faint smile. Not warm—never warm. Just that sharp, cold curve that always dances on the edge of mockery.

"It's been a long time, Veyrith," he says, voice smooth but heavy with memory. "The last time we fought, neither of us walked away with the upper hand."

His eyes flash with something darker—hunger, challenge.

"But after exploring it… things might be different."

Veyrith lets out a low laugh. Not forced. Not loud. Just enough to cut through the air like a crack in ice.

"You're acting like the treasure is already in your hands," he says coolly, folding his arms. "But you're not the only one with ambition, Astram."

Astram's smirk deepens, but he doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he turns his back without a word, walking toward the portal once more.

Svira eyes him carefully, but says nothing. Veyrith doesn't stop him either.

The moment Astram vanishes into the portal's light, the atmosphere shifts—less tense, but no less dangerous.

King Rewalt takes a breath, finally speaking again.

"Lord Veyrith," he begins carefully, "I'm… sorry for your loss. Medoran was—"

But Veyrith cuts him off with a simple raise of his hand.

"I did not come for apologies, human king," he says. "I came to confirm it myself."

His voice, while far calmer than Astram's, still holds weight—controlled, but undeniably powerful.

Veyrith said,"I did not expect my subordinate to fall. At least not on this continent."

Rewalt glances toward Asdri, then back to Veyrith. "We didn't expect it either. Which is why… I've decided. The thing I promised will be opened. Tomorrow."

That gets Svira's attention. Her eyes narrow, and sharp.

Veyrith studies the king for a long moment. Then he nods once.

"Good."

Without another word, he turns.

No threats. No demands. Just silence and the cold weight of restrained violence.

Svira follows, her gaze briefly flicking over Asdri—just enough to make the prince stiffen again.

Then the two of them vanish back through the portal.

As soon as the portal dims and the oppressive presence of the two monsters fades, both Rewalt and Asdri let out a long, heavy breath.

They're still standing.

Asdri wipes the sweat from his brow, even though the air isn't hot. His hands are trembling, and his mouth is dry. "We survived," he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Gods… we actually survived that."

Rewalt doesn't speak right away. He just looks at the now-quiet portal, his face carved from stone. But when he finally turns to his son, there's a tightness in his jaw, a weight that hasn't lifted.

Asdri looks over at him, eyes still wide. "Father… I knew the Relic was important, but… I didn't know it was this important. What even is it?"

Rewalt's gaze grows distant. He lowers his voice, as if the truth itself is too old to be spoken loudly.

"Son," he says, "even I don't know everything about it. What little I do know… came from your grandfather."

He turns, slowly walking toward the edge of the courtyard. Asdri follows.

Rewalt continues, voice low and grim. "It's not a Relic but a Crypt, and it's older than our kingdom. Older than our line. Long ago, before the Valgros Kingdom existed, our clan weren't rulers. We were guardians. Keepers of something buried. Something ancient."

Asdri's brow furrows. "Guardians?"

Rewalt nods. "Yes. But then one of our ancestors decided to build a kingdom on top of it. Maybe out of ambition. Maybe to keep others from finding it. Who knows? All that knowledge is fragmented now—lost to time."

He pauses.

"The last king said… it might be the remains of a Tier 7. A true powerhouse. One who stood at the peak of this world before even the central powers rose."

Asdri stops walking. His heart slams against his ribs.

"A Tier… 7?" he echoes, barely able to breathe the words.

He's traveled the main continent. He's seen legends in motion—Tier 5s who bend fire like silk, Tier 6s who walk like kings among men.

But a Tier 7?

He feels a chill snake down his spine.

"If the central continent finds out," he says slowly, eyes wide, "about what we're sitting on… there'll be no stopping them."

Rewalt looks grim. "They won't just come for it. They'll come for us. For every last piece of history, of blood."

Asdri turns toward the still-glowing runes.

----

The next day arrives like a thundercloud holding back its storm.

In Ember Claw's main base buzzes with quiet tension. Soldiers move with sharp discipline, voices clipped, eyes scanning every shadow. The scent of metal, leather, and mana hangs heavy in the air.

Alix stands near the central platform, arms crossed behind his back, his gaze calm but razor-sharp. Beside him are the three Tier 5 monsters who had once fought him in the woods—now bound by loyalty or something close enough. Behind them, another fifteen Tier 4 monsters form ranks, each one carrying the weight of their power like coiled steel.

Lathar stands nearby, giving last-minute checks to their formation. "They're ready," he says simply, glancing at Alix.

The other thirteen commanders have also arrived, each flanked by their own elite units. Some have brought knights wreathed in elemental auras. Others are accompanied by beastkin or sorcerers cloaked in tiered artifacts. Every faction has sent their best.

The tension in the air is thick enough to cut.

Alix stands unmoving at the center, his presence steady amid the quiet murmurs of the commanders and the shifting restlessness of the monsters behind him. His eyes scan the horizon—though calm on the surface, there's an edge to him now. A readiness.

Yet none of them speak the obvious.

They are waiting.

Waiting for him.

For Veyrith.

And when the first tremor rolls through the floor—subtle, like the heartbeat of the earth itself—everyone turns as one.

The portal at the far end of the base hums to life. Not violently. Not with drama. But with a deep, cold pulse that settles into their bones.

Then, without sound, Veyrith steps through.

Behind him walks Svira, eyes gleaming like a serpent's, her tail flicking once before settling still. But her presence barely registers compared to the one at her front.

As Veyrith steps fully into the light, the entire assembly reacts.

The thirteen commanders' units drop to one knee.

The commanders and Lathar lower themselves slightly, a fist over their hearts. Alix follows suit.

Veyrith acknowledges the gesture with a slight tilt of his head—no pride, no arrogance. Just silent authority. Svira remains quiet beside him, gaze drifting over the assembled forces like a blade searching for a weakness.

Then Veyrith speaks, his voice cutting clean through the heavy silence.

"I won't waste any more time."

The words fall like a gavel. Final. Unyielding.

"The exploration," he continues, stepping forward so that the gathered commanders and elites can hear clearly, "as you all already know, will fall to you."

His eyes sweep across the assembled warriors—Tier 4s, Tier 5s. Each one stands a little straighter beneath that gaze.

"Tier 6s like me can't go in. The seals won't allow it." His voice lowers slightly, becoming more grave. "So it's up to you."

No rousing speech. No promises. Just the stark truth.

"Do your best. And don't let Astram win this war."