Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me-Chapter 367 - 366: Alix’s Arrival
Hecrad’s voice hardens.
"If they truly defeated a marshal-led force," he says, "then Bakwell cannot afford half-measures."
He taps the map once.
"Prepare for the worst."
Kevom answers immediately. "Yes, my lord."
"Activate every defensive array," Hecrad orders. "Not just the outer walls. The inner districts as well."
The mage steps forward. "My lord, that will drain—"
"I know exactly what it will drain," Hecrad says, cutting him off. "Mana reserves, treasury funds, political goodwill."
He looks at the man coolly. "Spend them."
The mage bows deeply. "At once."
Hecrad turns to Kevom again. "Recall all patrols. Double the knight rotations. Wake the veteran reserves."
Kevom’s jaw tightens, excitement and tension mixing. "Understood."
"Open the armories," Hecrad continues. "Distribute the artifacts. Even the ones my father forbade from leaving storage."
A murmur ripples through the room.
One knight hesitates. "My lord... those are—"
"City assets," Hecrad finishes. "And the city may need them."
Silence falls again.
Hecrad draws a slow breath.
"If those monsters come," he says, "Bakwell will not meet them asleep."
His eyes harden.
"We will use everything the city has."
Outside the window, Bakwell’s lights burn steadily, unaware that its new lord has already chosen defiance over denial, while two days away, an army continues its quiet, unstoppable advance.
----
Two days pass.
Bakwell City wakes, sleeps, and wakes again beneath the same rumors, the same fear, the same obsession.
A viscount is dead.
That is all most people care about.
In the lower districts, taverns buzz with speculation. Patrons lean over sticky tables, voices hushed but eager.
"I heard his guards went mad."
"No, no, it was cursed wine."
"Monsters did it. Has to be monsters."
In the upper districts, the tone changes but the fixation does not.
Black banners still hang from noble balconies. Mourning attire remains fashionable. Servants whisper about blood on marble floors and a city lord who asks too many questions.
The death of a viscount is scandal enough to eclipse everything else.
Even now.
---
At the same time, Bakwell changes.
Slowly. Quietly. Intentionally.
Knights rotate through the gates at all hours. Defensive runes along the walls glow brighter at night than they ever have before. Armories open that have not been unsealed in decades.
And the lesser nobles notice.
They always do.
In private estates and garden halls, irritation grows.
A fat-bellied baron slams his goblet onto a lacquered table. "Do you know how much mana it costs to keep those arrays active? This is madness."
A lady draped in silk fans herself sharply. "My household taxes doubled overnight. For what? Ghost stories?"
"They say the City Lord is mobilizing the reserves," another noble mutters. "Veterans. Artifacts."
Murmurs of agreement follow.
Anger replaces caution.
"He’s new," one of them says. "Young. Overreacting to prove himself."
"Wasting the city’s resources," another adds bitterly. "Our resources."
----
Bakwell City’s lord holds no noble title.
No barony. No county. No marquisate granted by the crown.
And yet, none of them mistake what that truly means.
Bakwell is older than the kingdom.
Its foundations predate the royal line, laid when this land is still fractured, when the crown are not yet forged. Its walls have been rebuilt atop ruins no historian can fully name.
Bakwell does not exist by royal grace.
Even the king understands this.
Which is why royal decrees to Bakwell are phrased politely. Why emissaries bow first. Why the king has ever tried to strip the city of its autonomy.
---
Suddenly the alarm sounds at dawn.
Not a bell.
Not a horn.
A deep, resonant pulse surges through Bakwell City itself, vibrating through stone, wood, and bone. Defensive arrays embedded in the foundations awaken all at once, their mana signatures flaring like a heartbeat gone wild.
Wooooom—
The sound rolls across rooftops, down alleys, through noble estates and slums alike.
People freeze.
Then panic erupts.
"What’s that?"
"The city alarm—!"
"An attack?!"
Guards move instantly. Gates slam shut. Streets clear as trained formations flood toward assigned positions. Runes along the walls ignite fully now, no longer faint glimmers but blazing sigils that hum with restrained violence.
Bakwell is ready.
High above the city, the air ripples.
Five figures streak downward like falling stars, mana blazing around their bodies in controlled arcs. At their center descends Hecrad himself, coat snapping sharply in the wind, eyes cold and focused.
They land atop the western wall in unison.
The impact echoes like a challenge.
Kevom straightens beside Hecrad, scanning the horizon.
Then he goes still.
"...By the gods," one of the knights breathes.
Beyond the wall, the land is black with movement.
Hundred of thousands of monsters stretch across the plains, their ranks ordered, their advance slow and deliberate. Shields catch the light. Blades rest easily in massive hands. Formations shift with disciplined precision, nothing like the chaotic hordes described in old bestiaries.
The ground itself seems to tremble beneath them.
Mana saturates the air so densely it prickles against the skin.
"They weren’t exaggerating," another knight mutters. "That’s an army."
Kevom swallows. "No... that’s a nation on the march."
Hecrad says nothing.
His gaze moves calmly across the sea of monsters, taking in their formations, their spacing, the absence of panic or rage.
Then his eyes stop.
At the center of the advancing force glides a carriage.
It is black and silver, elegant, hovering just above the ground. Runes etched into its frame glow faintly, refined and precise. The design is unmistakable, crafted not for intimidation, but authority.
----
From the outside, nothing changes. The black-and-silver frame remains closed, opaque, unreadable. To the monsters behind it, the carriage is still just a symbol—authority moving forward at its own pace.
Inside, space magic unfolds quietly.
The inner walls turn translucent, revealing the world beyond as if through clear glass. The city of Bakwell rises in full view, walls layered with glowing sigils, towers crowned with rotating arrays, mana lines crawling like veins across stone.
Alix stands at the front of the carriage.
Zevran lounges at his side, wings half-folded, eyes half-lidded, looking more bored than threatened. Above them, Mero floats upside down, slowly rotating as if gravity is more of a suggestion than a rule.
Mero tilts his head, eyes gleaming faintly as he studies the walls.
"...Looks like they’re prepared," he says.
Alix doesn’t answer immediately.
His gaze traces the city’s defenses with calm precision. Outer barriers overlap inner arrays. Kill-zones are layered, not stacked, old design, but refined. He sees reserve formations positioned behind battlements, mana cannons hidden behind illusion panels.
"They used everything," Alix says at last.
His voice is even. Almost thoughtful.
Mero hums. "Yeah. There are a lot of defensive arrays outside the city. Not just showpieces either. Some of those are quite good."
Zevran yawns widely, sharp teeth flashing as he stretches his arms over his head.
"Master," he says lazily, "do you want me to destroy those again?"
Zevran shrugs. "Walls. Arrays. Same thing. They all break."
Alix finally looks at him.
"Not now," he says.
Zevran’s yawn cuts off midway. He glances sideways, mildly surprised. "Oh?"
Alix turns his attention back to the wall—to the figures standing atop it. His eyes narrow just a fraction as he locks onto one presence in particular.
A man at the center.
Calm. Heavy. Controlled.
Peak Tier 6.
Alix smiles faintly.
"You’ll probably fight the City Lord later," he says.
Zevran’s wings twitch once, interest sparking at last. "That so?"
"Yes," Alix replies. "He’s different."
Mero drifts closer to the translucent wall, peering at Hecrad from afar. "Really, he is just a peak tier 6 though."
Alix chuckles softly.
"You claim you’ve lived for thousands of years," he says, eyes still on the man standing atop the wall, "but you still underestimate humans."
Mero pauses mid-rotation, blinking. "Oh?"
Alix’s gaze sharpens, not with hostility, but with certainty.
"Humans don’t fight with strength alone," he continues. "They fight with preparation. Desperation. And contingency after contingency."
His fingers tap lightly against the transparent wall.
"They always have trump cards they’re willing to burn when cornered."
Zevran tilts his head, one wing lifting slightly. "But Master, the monster races use artifacts as trump cards too."
Mero snorts, drifting upright at last. "Yeah, but most monsters are too prideful to use them properly."
He gestures toward the city walls with a lazy flick of his hand. "Artifacts feel like borrowed power to them. Like admitting weakness."
Zevran hums. "True. They prefer claws and bloodlines."
"Humans don’t," Alix says calmly. "They’ll use anything. Sealed relics. Forbidden arrays. Weapons they don’t fully understand."
His smile thins.
"They don’t care if it costs them decades to recover, as long as they survive today."
--
Outside the carriage, the monster army begins to move.
Not forward.
Sideways.
Signals ripple through the ranks—low horns, sharp clicks, bursts of mana shaped into precise patterns. Formations shift with practiced ease, heavy infantry locking shields while rear lines spread out, creating clear firing lanes.
At the front of the monster host stand four figures.
Vordon raises one massive arm.
The air stills.
"Begin," he says.
No roar answers him.
Instead, the ground lights up.
