Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me-Chapter 366 - 365: City Lord Hecrad (part 2)

While Bakwell City ties itself in knots over a single corpse, the world outside keeps moving.

Far from gilded halls and polished marble, the land trembles beneath marching feet.

The road is wide, ancient, carved to connect cities long ago. Grass along its edges is flattened beneath the passage of tens of thousands. Trees sway as if uneasy, leaves shivering despite the calm sky.

An army advances.

Monsters march in disciplined ranks, scaled warriors with shields strapped to their backs, horned brutes carrying massive weapons over their shoulders, lithe figures moving in silence between heavier formations. Mana hums through the air like a distant storm, constant and restrained.

At the center of the formation rolls a luxurious black carriage.

Its exterior is elegant but understated, forged from dark metal veined with faint silver runes. The wheels never touch the ground fully, hovering a finger’s width above the earth, gliding smoothly no matter the terrain.

Two tier 6 guards flank it at all times.

Vordon breaks formation and strides toward the carriage, halberd resting easily against his shoulder. Each step leaves shallow cracks in the road from his weight alone.

He reaches the side and raps his knuckles once against the door.

The door opens silently.

Inside, space magic unfolds its true nature.

The interior is vast, far larger than the carriage should allow. Soft carpets line the floor. Cushioned seating curves along the walls, crafted to support non-humanoid bodies. Floating mana crystals provide gentle light, and a low table rests at the center with maps and reports neatly arranged.

At the far end, Alix sits comfortably, one leg crossed over the other.

He exhales softly.

"Every time I see that throne they made," Alix says dryly, "I’m reminded why I use this carriage instead."

Vordon snorts. "The craftsmen meant well."

"They built it for intimidation, not comfort," Alix replies. "Sitting on it feels like being punished."

Vordon allows himself a faint smile as he steps inside. The door closes behind him, sealing out the sound of marching.

"My lord," Vordon says, inclining his head. "Our pace is steady. Supply lines are clean. Scouts report no organized resistance ahead."

Alix gestures for him to continue.

"We are halfway to Bakwell City," Vordon says. "At our current speed, we will arrive in two days."

Alix’s gaze drifts to the floating map, the glowing mark that represents Bakwell pulsing faintly.

"Two days," he repeats calmly.

"Yes," Vordon says. "And no alarms so far. Humans show no reaction."

Alix lets out a quiet breath, almost amused.

"It looks like they don’t care," he says.

Vordon’s eyes harden. "A city built on chains doesn’t fear consequences. It assumes the kingdom can take care of everything."

"Exactly," Alix says. "They think monsters exist to be managed. Contained. Sold."

----

Hours later, night settles over Bakwell City like a lid snapping shut.

Torches burn along the inner walls of the City Lord’s estate, their flames steady despite the wind. Guards stand at twice their usual number, armor polished, expressions tight. No one jokes. No one relaxes.

Deep within the estate lies Lord Hecrad’s working room.

The chamber is vast, circular, and carved from dark stone. Shelves packed with ledgers, sealed scrolls, and enchanted tomes rise along the walls. A massive oak desk dominates the center, its surface layered with maps of Bakwell, investigation reports, and glowing crystal slates recording magical readings.

A single chandelier of mana-light hangs above, casting a cold, even glow.

Hecrad stands behind the desk, both hands resting on its edge.

Across from him standing Knight Kevom.

Kevom’s armor is a silver plates etched with runes of reinforcement. His sword remains sheathed, but the air around him hums faintly with restrained power. A peak Tier 6—one of Bakwell’s strongest living blades.

Several other men stand along the walls: veteran knights, intelligence officers, and one robed mage whose face remains hidden beneath his hood.

Silence stretches.

Hecrad breaks it.

"Any findings about the investigation?" he asks.

His voice is calm. Too calm.

Kevom lowers his head slightly. "Nothing new, my lord."

Hecrad’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly against the desk.

Kevom continues, choosing his words carefully. "The battlemages have reviewed the scene three times. No curse residue. No compulsion marks. No trace of mind spells."

"Yet two trained guards slaughter their lord like rabid beasts," Hecrad says evenly.

"Yes, my lord."

"They still do not know," Hecrad says, more statement than question, "how those two servants lost their minds."

Kevom nods once. "Correct."

One of the intelligence officers clears his throat nervously. "We have interrogated everyone present at Gilded Haven, my lord. Staff, guards, merchants. Their testimonies align. The breakdown occurred the moment the guards approached the monster cage."

Hecrad lifts his gaze.

"And the monsters?"

The robed mage steps forward and bows. "We examined the two female captives extensively. There is no sign of spellcasting aptitude. Their mana pools are shallow. Primitive."

Silence follows.

Hecrad exhales slowly through his nose and turns away from the desk, his boots making soft, measured sounds against the stone floor. He stops beside one of the tall windows, looking out over the lights of Bakwell City spread beneath him like a field of embers.

Hecrad turns back.

"Is there anything else?" he asks.

The words are simple, but the room tightens.

Kevom stiffens.

For a fraction of a second, he hesitates.

The others notice. Every man in the room does.

Kevom lowers his gaze slightly, then speaks. "My lord... there is."

Hecrad studies him. "Say it."

"We have received reports," Kevom says carefully, "of a large-scale monster force on the move."

The words land heavily.

"How large?" Hecrad asks.

"An army," Kevom answers. "Not a horde. Not a migration. An organized force."

One of the intelligence officers pales. "That’s—"

Hecrad raises a hand. The man falls silent instantly.

Hecrad’s eyes narrow. "Those rumored monsters?" he asks. "The ones said to have defeated an army of adventurers and the kingdom’s soldiers?"

Kevom nods. "Yes, my lord."

"The force led by a marshal," Hecrad continues, voice steady.

"Yes," Kevom confirms. "That one."

For a brief moment, the only sound is the faint hum of the mana chandelier.

"That report was never confirmed by the capital," Hecrad says.

"It still isn’t," Kevom replies. "Which is why I hesitated to bring it forward."

Hecrad gestures once. "Continue."

Kevom draws a slow breath. "Multiple frontier towns have gone silent. Trade routes are empty. And..." He pauses, jaw tightening. "I dispatched scouts yesterday."

Hecrad’s gaze sharpens. "And?"

"None of them have returned," Kevom says. "No signals. No remains. Nothing."

The room grows colder.

One of the knights mutters under his breath, "Vanished completely..."

Hecrad walks back to the desk and places one hand on the map. His fingers hover, then press down on the western approach roads leading toward Bakwell.

"How far?" Hecrad asks.

"That I don’t know, my lord," Kevom answers.

The timing settles into place like a blade sliding into its sheath.

Hecrad closes his eyes for a brief second.

When he opens them, the calm is back, but now it is sharp.

Hecrad straightens fully.

"The former City Lord," he says, voice even, "would probably have turned a blind eye to this."

Several of the older knights exchange brief glances.

He turns from the desk and looks at them, really looks at them.

"But I am not him."

The words are not loud, yet they settle heavily in the chamber.

Kevom lowers his head a fraction more, respect clear in the gesture.

Hecrad walks a few steps, stopping beneath the chandelier. The mana-light catches the silver threads in his coat, outlining a man who has worn command for only days, not years.

"I became City Lord one week ago," Hecrad says. "Not by ambition. Not by design."

His gaze drifts briefly to the city map, to the seal of authority pressed into the corner.

"Because my father died."

No one speaks.

"He ruled Bakwell for thirty-two years," Hecrad continues. "He was cautious. Calculating. He believed that monster are not a threat in any way."

He moves back to the desk and places both palms flat on its surface.

"If those monsters are nothing more than exaggerated rumors," he says, "then our preparations will be an embarrassment. A waste of coin. A mark against my judgment."

He looks around the room, meeting each pair of eyes in turn.

"And if the rumors are true," he continues calmly, "then failing to prepare will doom this city."

The robed mage swallows.

One of the intelligence officers clenches his fists.