Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me
Chapter 240 - 242: Virela In the Move

A flash of gold-light envelops Alix.

He teleports.

The air folds in around him and reforms with a snap.

Alix appears in the center of his private training ground, the floor gleaming with obsidian tiles, etched with shifting runes that respond faintly to his presence. Pillars of glowing crystal line the walls, and a gentle breeze—artificial, yet sharp—whispers through the chamber like the breath of some ancient force.

At the far end of the room, Ruva is already in motion.

The girl darts forward, her twin short swords slicing through the air in swift, elegant arcs. The Tier 4 dummy in front of her—shaped like a six-armed shadow beast—lunges with unnatural speed, but she ducks under the strike, her long braid whipping around as she channels a sudden gust of wind beneath her boots.

Whoosh!

She flips over the next strike, then sweeps her blades upward, riding a blade of wind that cuts through the dummy's center. It staggers, shimmer-flickers, and resets its stance.

Alix watches her quietly for a moment. The control, the speed, the instincts. All far beyond her age.

But there's still a gap.

"Too slow on the third dodge," Alix says calmly.

Ruva gasps and stumbles a little, twisting mid-air and landing in a crouch. She blinks twice—then beams as she spots him.

"Big brother!" she calls, bounding up to him, face glowing with joy and sweat.

"I didn't sense you come in. You didn't even ripple the wind!" she pouts playfully, wiping her forehead with a wrist guard.

"I did," he says, and offers a small nod. "Your movement's sharper. The air blades are cleaner now."

She brightens at the praise, but he continues.

"But you're relying too much on reflex. Your first two dodges were instinct. The third needed planning."

She scowls a little, then nods seriously. "...You're right. I felt it too. I hesitated."

Alix places a hand on her head, ruffling her slightly damp hair.

"Not bad, Ruva," he says.

Ruva grins.

"Thank you," she says, puffing out her chest. "Big brother adopted me. That means I can't embarrass you."

He gives a quiet chuckle. "You haven't. Not even once."

They stand there a moment, the quiet hum of the training ground settling around them.

Alix suddenly speaks, his voice low but clear.

"Do you want to join the war?"

Ruva blinks—then her eyes widen like twin stars.

"Big brother, I want!!" she bursts out, fists clenched with excitement. "I want to help! I'm ready!"

Alix watches her reaction carefully, then nods, arms crossed.

"I've been thinking about it. Just staying here and practicing all day won't give you real experience."

His golden eyes narrow slightly. "But the battlefield is different. It's brutal."

Ruva nods fast, almost bouncing. "I know! But I won't lose! I'll listen. I'll stay sharp."

Alix raises a hand.

"I'm not sending you out empty-handed."

With a flick of his wrist, a flash of silvery-blue light forms in midair between them. From the glow, a pair of short swords materialize—sleek and curved, forged of darksteel with inlaid wind-runes that shimmer like mist in sunlight. The blades hum softly, a faint breeze circling their edges.

Ruva gasps. "Whoa…"

"These are Tier 4," Alix says. "Wind-imbued. Made for speed and precision. Perfect for someone like you."

He holds one out to her.

Ruva takes it reverently, both hands wrapping around the hilt. The moment her fingers close on it, the runes flare to life.

"It… sings," she whispers, amazed.

Alix nods once. Then he reaches into a pouch at his belt and withdraws a slender silver chain—simple, but with a teardrop-shaped gem embedded in its center. The gem glows with a soft blue pulse, like a heartbeat.

"This," he says, holding it up, "is more important than the swords."

Ruva tilts her head. "What is it?"

"A safeguard," Alix says. "If you're ever in mortal danger, it'll activate automatically."

Her smile softens. She takes the necklace slowly, her eyes misting just a little.

She murmurs. "Thank you, big brother."

He fastens the chain around her neck himself, then steps back.

"I won't always be nearby to protect you, Ruva. So until you're strong enough to stand alone… use every tool you can."

She straightens, face serious now.

"I will. I promise."

The short swords rest comfortably at her hips. The necklace glows gently against her chest. And for the first time—she looks like a young warrior ready to step into the world.

-----

Back to the Ereborn Continent…

The sun rises lazily over Fidton City, casting golden rays across its stone-paved streets. Morning mist still clings to rooftops, but the usual hush of dawn is broken—by cheers.

People gather in the square, some still in sleep clothes, others clapping, crying, or laughing. The news spreads like fire.

"The Empire finally sent help!"

"Not just mercenaries—an actual force from Imlan Kingdom!"

"Real soldiers! Thank the heavens!"

Even though the Imlan Kingdom ranks last, among the twenty Empire's subordinate forces, it still stands leagues above the scattered kingdoms and independent factions struggling to resist the enemy advance. Its soldiers march in disciplined rows, armor glinting under the early sun. Their banners ripple—a silver falcon clawing skyward against a deep green field.

At the head of the column rides a towering figure in full silver-red plate. His hair is snow white, eyes a piercing bronze. Every step his warhorse takes seems to silence the crowd briefly, drawing awe and reverence.

A bystander gasps, gripping her husband's arm.

"That's… a marshal!"

"He's Tier 6," someone whispers.

"Not just Tier 6," says an old veteran nearby, his voice reverent. "He's high-level. It's my first time seeing someone like that. High-level Tier 6s… they're in a league of their own."

As the mounted figure dismounts, he surveys the crowd. His gaze is calm, like a seasoned general used to the screams of battle and the silence that follows.

One of the local city guards, visibly nervous, steps forward to greet him.

"Marshal… we didn't expect—" The man stammers slightly. "I mean—welcome to Fidton. We're honored to have your protection."

The marshal removes his helmet. His sharp, chiseled features betray decades of war, but his voice is low and even.

"I'm not here for honors. I'm here to hold the line."

He glances to the west, where the distant skies burn with storm smoke. His voice hardens.

"Gather your men. Prepare the defenses. This city won't fall while I stand."

People erupt into cheers again. The crowd surges with energy. A child runs through the square with a toy sword, mimicking the soldiers. Women hand out bread and fruit to the arriving troops. The air feels different—charged not with fear, but hope.

Then suddenly—

the sky darkens.

A soundless pressure rolls through the air, heavy and unnatural. The light fades not like sunset—but as if something enormous, unseen, has passed in front of the sun. Shadows stretch across the streets unnaturally long.

Winds scream.

What was once a pleasant morning breeze turns savage in seconds. Window shutters slam open, stalls overturn, banners are ripped from their poles. Soldiers stagger, eyes wide as their capes and cloaks thrash around them like living things.

A nearby mage gasps, clutching his staff.

"That… that's not weather!"

From the west—above the blackened horizon—she descends.

A colossal serpentine silhouette coils through the clouds, her silhouette jagged and radiant with stormlight. Virela the Stormrend, rides a hurricane of her own making. Her feathers glint like silver knives, and her eyes burn with gleaming blue arcs, emotionless and predatory.

Lightning forks down from the sky at random, striking rooftops, battlements, even the distant fields beyond the walls. A single gust of wind slams into the city gates, shattering the outer barricades like paper.

The Marshal's horse rears, panicking. The beast nearly throws him, but he lands in a crouch, hand on the ground to steady himself.

He rises, eyes narrowing at the sight of the stormborn monstrosity overhead.

"…What in the gods' name is that?"

The Marshal doesn't hesitate.

His body rises, slowly at first—then with accelerating force—until he's hovering midair, his crimson-plumed cape snapping violently in the wind. Aura surges around him like a wildfire, flaring red-gold and forming a thin protective barrier against the swirling gales.

Below, soldiers and citizens stare in awe.

He points his sword toward the figure in the sky—Virela, who floats effortlessly amidst the storm, her pale silver hair flowing like mist, feathered wings of wind folded behind her shoulders. Her eyes, blue and ancient, glow like twin storm cores.