Strongest Kingdom: My Op Kingdom Got Transported Along With Me-Chapter 182 - 184: The Death Of Medoran And Gresvin

Medoran snarls, throwing up a wall of molten light.

Lysaria speaks calmly: "Break it."

Gander answers without delay: "Done."

He slams his palm forward—curse-chains burst from the vortex, wrapping around the solar wall. The moment it hesitates, Lysaria’s plague-laced spear tears through it like wet cloth.

Medoran barely avoids a lethal blow—barely.

Gresvin is not as lucky. A chain lashes out from behind him, laced with predictive binding. It wraps his ankle, dragging him mid-dodge into Lysaria’s wake. Her palm brushes his chest—only a touch.

But curses bloom like flowers.

Tier 5 Skill: Decaymark Pulse

They detonate a heartbeat later.

Gresvin is blasted back, cloak torn, aura flickering.

He vanishes again—but slower.

Medoran snarls, teeth bared beneath his helm as he whips around to catch Gresvin struggling to stabilize in the air, curses still eating away at his aura. The scent of scorched mana and rot burns in his nostrils.

"We don’t have a choice now!" he growls. "Either we work together or we die here—along with whatever pride we’ve got left."

He eyes the unholy storm building between Gander and Lysaria—the black sun above them writhing with curse-threads and ethereal runes, pulsing like a heart that shouldn’t beat. It’s getting worse by the second.

Gresvin clicks his tongue, brushing scorched fabric from his shoulder, his tone laced with disgust. "This is the first and last time I’ll do something like this with the likes of you... Ember Claw trash."

Medoran smirks, heat flaring behind his visor. "That’s the spirit."

They move—together.

Tier 6 Skill: Concord of Cataclysm (Medoran)

Medoran slams both fists together, and a ring of molten runes ignites around his body. His aura spikes—raw, radiant heat floods the sky, forcing even the clouds to split apart. Fire and solar force spiral into his limbs, his armor gleaming with threads of living magma. His speed doubles. His power triples.

Tier 6 Skill: Echo Null (Gresvin)

A wave of colorless light bursts from Gresvin’s body. Sound and light vanish around him. His figure blurs—untouchable, nearly dimensionless. Time skips subtly in his presence. For five seconds, he exists in multiple moments, his strikes delayed and then colliding all at once.

They launch.

Gresvin flickers beside Gander with impossible speed, his blades humming with Tier 6 Skill: Shadow Severance—an attack that slices not body, but presence. Gander chants without fear, his staff already flaring with a retaliatory curse.

But it’s Medoran who crashes in first, streaking through the air like a solar comet—

Tier 6 Skill: Supernova Lance

He dives toward Lysaria, who twirls midair to meet him, her eyes glowing with unnatural calm. From her palm, she conjures:

Tier 6 Skill: Heart of the Withered Moon

A silver-black sigil blooms and then detonates in silence, slowing time in a radius and flooding the space with necrotic stasis. Medoran’s lance clashes into it—and explodes, but instead of flames, a storm of silence and entropy wraps around him.

Medoran screams, body fighting against the death aura suffocating his fire.

Gander chants again.

Tier 6 Skill: Dread Choir Ascendant

Ghostly voices begin to sing behind him. A chorus of forgotten names, echoing through folded space. Each word tears into Gresvin’s Echo Null like knives. He falters,his dimensional shift fractures. He flickers into full view.

Lysaria doesn’t waste the opening.

Tier 6 Skill: Black Eden Thorns

Thorned vines of plague-stained glass burst from every direction, reflecting light, twisting curses, folding space. They spiral into Gresvin’s position like a blooming lotus of death.

Gresvin slashes three away—but a fourth scrapes his side, and the wound sings.

Tier 6 Skill: Pale Judgement (Gresvin)

He inhales once, deeply. Then exhales.

In that breath, every light source dims. A sickly-white ripple spreads from him, erasing magic in its path. The thorns vanish. The curses evaporate.

----

Down below, the city hums faintly under the protective dome, its translucent barrier shimmering with strain as each pulse from the sky above batters it like waves against glass. Dust drifts from rooftops. Streetlamps flicker. And though silence reigns among the citizens hiding in reinforced shelters, two figures remain atop a tower, unmoving.

Varkas leans forward on the edge, arms crossed. His sharp eyes don’t blink, don’t look away—not even when the sky above tears in half from clashing Tier 6 power.

A massive explosion of black and red blooms above, silent yet cataclysmic, and the barrier wails faintly in protest.

"Hells..." Varkas murmurs. "We saw Tier 6 fights all the time back in the old world. Even lived through a few." He exhales slowly, almost reverently. "But damn if it still doesn’t leave you speechless every time."

Gorath stands beside him, arms folded, his towering frame completely still despite the tremors beneath his boots. His eyes follow the chaos above without blinking.

"You’re right," he rumbles. "If not for this barrier, the city would’ve been flattened a dozen times already."

Varkas chuckles dryly, but there’s no humor in it. "What gets me isn’t just the power. It’s the control. You see that?" He nods toward the spiraling vortex where Gander and Lysaria stand, twin beacons of devastation. "They’re weaving curses and plague skills like they’re painting. That’s not just power. That’s artistry."

The sky pulses again—Medoran slamming through a barrier of plague-glass while Gresvin snaps forward with a ripple of white judgment, erasing curses by sheer force of will.

After a couple of tense minutes, the air stills slightly. The storm in the heavens begins to fray, its furious tempo slowing—not by will, but by exhaustion.

Gorath narrows his eyes. "Looks like the fight is coming to an end."

Above, the battleground in the sky burns with flickering remnants of what was once overwhelming power. The black sun has dimmed. The vortex of curse-light unravels. And the Tier 6 warriors hover there—battered, burned, bloodied.

Medoran hovers a few meters above a destroyed mountain, his breath ragged behind his scorched helm. The molten runes around him flicker, dimming. His armor, once gleaming with threads of living fire, now bleeds steam and ash with every strained movement.

Across from him, Gresvin levitates with effort, one hand pressed against a bleeding gash at his side. His white ripple—Pale Judgement—has long faded, and the lingering energy of Echo Null is gone. The flickers that once made him unreadable are no more. He’s fully visible now—and vulnerable.

Only one Tier 6 skill each remains.

Across the battlefield, Lysaria hovers with unnerving poise, one arm dripping black ichor, the other still calmly holding her plague-forged spear. Her robes are torn, blood marking her side, but her aura remains stable—cruelly composed.

Beside her, Gander’s robes are shredded and his staff dim slightly, but his presence pulses darkly with unspent malice. The twisted chorus of Dread Choir Ascendant still hums around him, quieter now but far from gone.

Lysaria tilts her head, smirking faintly as she surveys the scorched battlefield. Her voice cuts through the fading haze.

"Is that it?" she says mockingly. "Was this the best your continent could offer? How disappointing. I suppose this is where it ends."

Gresvin snarls, coughing smoke from his lungs. He grits his teeth, eyes locked on the two standing across from them.

"You two..." he spits. "You’re not from here. There’s no way this barren continent spawned monsters like you."

Gander chuckles, dark and unbothered. He steps forward, lifting his broken staff. It sparks with residual cursefire.

"Who cares where we came from?" he says coldly. "You chose to oppose His Majesty. And for that—" His staff points at them. "—you die here today."

No more words.

They move.

Final Clash.

Gresvin vanishes in a flicker, reappearing behind Lysaria with a blur of lightless momentum. His remaining Tier 6 skill activates—

Tier 6 Skill: Temporal Severance

The blade in his hand sings with layered timelines. It slices through possibility itself—every swing is a question asked in parallel, and all answers land at once. He aims for Lysaria’s spine, heart, throat—each strike designed to kill.

But Lysaria is ready.

Tier 6 Skill: Witherveil Spiral

She turns, and her entire form becomes a vortex of rot and mirrored glass. His first strike lands—and passes through an afterimage. The second catches a decoy. The third—finally—meets flesh. Blood splashes across the sky.

But her spear is already in motion.

She drives it into his abdomen mid-spin. A direct hit.

Down below, Medoran ignites.

Tier 6 Skill: Solum Infernum

His body becomes a core of sunfire—gravity, heat, and wrath condensed into a humanoid shape. He rockets forward, becoming a meteor of fury and flame aimed straight at Gander.

Gander responds with his final card.

Tier 6 Skill: Monarch’s Cursefield

He slams his cracked staff into the air, and a dome of inverted runes blossoms outward. Reality folds—Medoran’s fire bends around it, his momentum slowing as if he’s diving through treacle. But he keeps coming, body tearing apart from within.

Their collision is deafening. Fire meets curse. Heaven cracks.

Two cataclysmic explosions erupt in the sky—one black, one red.

Ripples tear through the clouds as shockwaves roll across the heavens, warping light and rattling the very city below. The protective barrier shudders under the weight of impact, groaning as threads of golden and obsidian energy grind against each other.

Medoran is the first to recover, barely. His body flickers with cracks of molten light, leaking power from every joint. Blood drips behind his visor as he reaches inside his charred cloak and pulls out a small obsidian token—an emergency escape item, forged from forbidden solarite and void crystal.

He channels mana into it.

Nothing happens.

His eyes widen.

Gresvin, panting and bleeding from the mouth, does the same. He draws a thin crystalline shard from a belt pouch and snaps it between two fingers. Spatial energy sparks for a heartbeat—and then fizzles into smoke.

"...No," Gresvin breathes.