Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me-Chapter 357 - 356: Defending Plison City

Two days pass in relentless motion.

Inside Plison City, there is no celebration, no speeches, no hesitation.

Everything moves.

Supply routes run day and night. Monsters carry stone, metal, mana crystals—never stopping, never arguing. Mages carve fresh runes into streets and rooftops, their hands steady despite exhaustion. Barrier pylons rise at key intersections, ugly but efficient, humming with restrained power.

At the city gates, trenches deepen. Spikes are driven in. Kill zones are measured down to the step.

Above it all, watchtowers remain manned without rest.

The humans are coming.

And then—

They arrive.

On the third dawn, the horizon darkens.

Not with clouds.

With banners.

Human forces stretch across the plains like a living tide. Armor glints in the early light. Spear forests sway as ranks adjust. Spell formations glow faintly behind the front lines, layers upon layers of prepared magic.

Adventurers cluster along the flanks, restless, eager, greedy.

At the center of it all—

Marshal Stegran floats forward.

He does not stand on the ground.

The air itself holds him aloft.

Green-black mana coils around his body in slow, deliberate spirals, heavy and viscous like liquid venom given form. The pressure radiating from him bends grass flat and cracks the earth beneath his shadow.

He looks down at Plison City.

At the walls.

At the towers.

At the monsters waiting beyond them.

His lips curl faintly.

"Dirty monsters," Stegran says, voice carrying effortlessly across the battlefield. It is not shouted. It does not need to be. "You dare set foot in my kingdom."

Poison mana thickens.

"I will erase you all today."

He lifts one hand.

That is all.

Behind him, horns blare.

Human forces surge forward.

Soldiers march in disciplined waves. Adventurers break into running charges. Spell circles ignite, dozens at once, filling the air with heat, light, and sound.

Inside the city, Vordon watches from the central command platform.

His voice cuts through the chaos.

"Mages," he says calmly. "Open the barrier."

The response is immediate.

At dozens of nodes throughout Plison City, artifacts activate.

Not crude devices.

Not desperate constructs.

Good artifacts.

Given by Alix himself.

Mana pours into the ground, flooding the city’s arrays. Light rises, not a dome, but a layered wall of translucent force that wraps around the city like overlapping scales. Runes lock into place, one after another, each layer reinforcing the next.

The barrier seals.

Human spells slam into it seconds later.

Fireballs explode harmlessly against the surface. Lightning fractures and disperses. Siege spells ripple outward, shaking the air—but the barrier does not crack.

It does not even dim.

From the human lines, confusion ripples.

"What kind of barrier is that?!"

"It didn’t move at all!"

Stegran narrows his eyes.

"Interesting."

He raises his other hand.

Mana condenses around him, darkening from green to a near-black hue shot through with sickly emerald veins. The air turns foul, acrid, as if the concept of decay itself has been summoned.

This is no ordinary poison.

This is law-touched venom.

Stegran completes the spell with a single gesture.

"Tier 6 skill—Verdant Oblivion: Black Plague Tide."

The world seems to rot.

A massive wave of toxic energy erupts from Stegran’s palm, not as liquid, not as gas, but as a crawling, living field of annihilation. Poison laws lace through it, corroding mana, flesh, and resistance alike. Where it passes, even light dulls, colors draining into sickly shades.

The spell slams into the barrier.

The impact shakes the battlefield.

The barrier ripples violently, layers buckling inward like struck glass. Runes flare white-hot, screaming as they absorb the corrosive law-infused poison. The ground beneath Plison City trembles. Towers shudder. Loose stones fall.

Inside the city, even the four a peak Tier 6 monsters feel the pressure crush down on their chests.

But—

The barrier holds.

It does not break.

It does not crack.

It shakes, and then stabilizes.

The poison tide disperses, unraveling into harmless motes that evaporate against the reinforced layers.

Silence spreads across the human army.

Stegran’s eyes widen, just slightly.

"...It endured," he murmurs.

Inside Plison City, Vordon exhales slowly.

"Good," he says. "Very good."

Ruk grins, sharp teeth flashing. "So that’s a Tier 6 spell... conjured by a quasi–Tier 7 being."

Erel’na keeps her gaze fixed on the sky, her voice tight. "Damn. Without the barrier, we’d already be in a dire state. A quasi–Tier 7 is terrifying."

Vordon’s eyes harden.

Vordon lifts his hand.

The battlefield freezes, not from fear, but from instinct.

His voice carries through the command arrays, steady and absolute.

"All units," he says. "Attack with everything you have."

The order lands.

And the city answers.

Then—

The sky breaks.

Spells tear outward from within Plison City, passing cleanly through the barrier as if it does not exist.

A storm of mana descends.

Blazing spears of compressed wind roar forward, shrieking as they punch through human formations. Poison-laced fire blooms midair, exploding into clouds that melt armor and flesh alike. Bolts of black lightning arc downward, chaining from soldier to soldier, leaving smoking corpses twitching on the ground.

A human mage screams, "Defend!"

"Take cover!" another shouts. "Formation, reform the formation!"

Too late.

From the walls, monster archers loose volleys in perfect synchronization. Each arrow hums with enchantment, some burst into freezing mist on impact, others split into swarms of bone-shards that rip through shields.

A horned brute slams both fists into the ground inside the city.

The earth outside erupts.

Stone spikes surge upward beneath charging soldiers, impaling ranks and throwing bodies into the air. War beasts scream as the ground collapses beneath them, legs snapping under sudden shifts in terrain.

From the towers, flying monsters launch themselves skyward.

Humanoid manticores, humanoid winged serpents.

They unleash thier attacks through the barrier, searing beams of heat, corrosive sprays, sonic waves that rupture eardrums and shatter spell constructs.

The battlefield tilts toward slaughter.

Human lines crumple under the sudden, merciless counterattack. Formations shatter. Orders overlap, drown, vanish beneath explosions and screams. Mana interference thickens the air until even veteran mages struggle to complete incantations.

Marshal Stegran floats above it all, cloak snapping once in the turbulent currents.

His eyes narrow.

He raises his hand again—

Then stops.

Green-black mana gathers instinctively around his palm, dense enough to stain the air. He feels the familiar pull, the hunger of the spell wanting to be born.

But he does not release it.

Instead, he calculates.

’One more Tier 6 spell... no. Two would weaken the barrier. Three would likely break it.’

His gaze flicks toward the city’s heart.

’And then there’s that thing.’

The invisible pressure that does not belong to any of the four monster generals. The silent, watchful weight lurking behind the barrier. A presence that does not move, does not reveal itself—

Yet exists.

Stegran exhales slowly.

"If I drain myself here..." he mutters, "...and that quasi–Tier 7 beast moves..."

His fingers curl.

Below him, another human regiment is erased by a cascading curse. Poison seeps into the soil, turning grass black and brittle. A noble’s banner collapses in on itself, eaten away midair.

Stegran’s jaw tightens.

"Fucking useless," he says quietly.

He lowers his hand.

Then his voice rolls across the battlefield, amplified by mana.

"All forces," Stegran commands, calm and iron-hard, "withdraw."

The words slam into the human army like a second shockwave.

"What?!"

"Retreat—now?!"

"Marshal, the barrier—!"

"Fall back," Stegran repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Form defensive lines at two kilometers. Establish a camp."

Horns sound again, but this time the notes carry strain.

Human commanders scramble to obey. Soldiers disengage, dragging the wounded, covering retreats with shields and spells. Adventurers curse loudly, some furious, some pale, some relieved to still be alive.

Inside Plison City, the monsters see it instantly.

Ruk bares his teeth. "They’re pulling back."

Varesh’s eyes sharpen. "He’s cautious."

Vordon watches Stegran recede, expression unreadable.

"Don’t pursue too far," he says. "Harass. Break thier morale. Remind them where they stand."

The order spreads.

Monster attacks do not stop.

They follow.

Arrows arc out again and again, falling among retreating troops. Long-range curses cling to fleeing soldiers like invisible chains, erupting moments later in bursts of venom and decay.

A wolfkin howls from the wall, voice carrying unnaturally far.

"Run faster, humans! Your Marshal can’t save you!"

A flying monster dives low, unleashing a sonic blast that sends a cluster of adventurers sprawling.

Another roars with laughter. "Is this the kingdom’s pride? You all are a bunch of weaklings!"

By midday, the human army finishes its withdrawal.

They establish camp on scorched plains not far from the city—close enough to see the walls, far enough to avoid direct bombardment. Tents rise in uneven rows. Healing circles glow nonstop. The wounded groan, the dying scream, the exhausted collapse where they stand.

Stegran descends slowly near the command tent.