SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse
Chapter 101: Embodiment of Divine will

Chapter 101: Embodiment of Divine will

[Epoch Breaker EXP +21]

[Acceleration EXP +34]

Like a thunderstorm rolling across a desolate plain, the notifications echoed one after another in Damien’s mind. Yet his expression remained unchanged—cold, steady, and ruthless.

Without even blinking, his grip tightened around Epoch Breaker, already aimed downward.

A flash.

Then hell was unleashed.

A barrage of thousands of mana-compressed bullets erupted from the muzzle like a tidal wave of death. Each projectile screamed through the air with devastating force, tearing the skies as they descended upon the soldiers of the Blue Hammer Kingdom.

The soldiers were trained—hardened, disciplined, and prepared for war. But nothing in their drills could have readied them for this. Still, instinct took over.

"Defensive formation!"

"Cast your spells, now!"

"Hold the line!"

Shouts echoed across the battlefield as the first layer of soldiers vanished in a mist of blood. The ground trembled as shields formed, layers of elemental barriers shimmered into existence, and walls of stone and flame rose with desperation.

But it was all in vain.

The bullets tore through the hastily formed defenses like blades through paper. Mana walls cracked like glass. Flame shields evaporated. Stone crumbled.

Like a god of slaughter, Damien stood at the center of it all—motionless, expressionless—as his enemies were cut down like grass in a storm.

Thud. Thud.

The soldiers fell. Not one at a time, but in synchronized collapse, as if a puppeteer had cut every string. Bodies crumpled in sequence—like a line of dominoes toppling over a bloodstained floor.

Within seconds, an entire hundred-meter radius had been cleared, the once-packed battlefield now a butcher’s yard of twisted limbs, shattered armor, and smoking craters.

But this was war.

And the Blue Hammer Kingdom had brought numbers.

Even before the dust had settled, another wave of soldiers surged forward—eyes blazing with cold resolve, boots crushing the broken bodies of their fallen brothers beneath them.

No hesitation.

No fear.

The few soldiers who had miraculously survived Damien’s initial barrage were mercilessly trampled and sliced down by their own reinforcements. To the new wave, they were nothing more than obstacles—already dead, if not physically then strategically.

Damien’s expression never changed.

His eyes, twin abysses of indifference, scanned the sea of death before him.

Around him, his two talent marbles—Acceleration and Epoch Breaker—spun within his spiritual space like twin celestial bodies. They devoured mana hungrily, fueling his body and weapon in relentless synergy.

His veins shimmered faintly beneath his torn skin, glowing with pure energy as his stamina dipped and burned like a furnace pushed to the limit.

Still, Damien stood—alone and immovable.

A solitary executioner amidst a tide of blood.

And he had only just begun.

To some extent, Damien wasn’t even paying attention to the soldiers charging at him like waves crashing against an immovable cliff.

His mind was elsewhere—sharpened, focused, sweeping across the battlefield like a hawk in search of prey.

He was looking for the Supreme Golden General of the Rosewood family.

His instincts screamed caution. Although his Acceleration talent had evolved to a higher level, he knew all too well the weight of underestimating a Channel Forging realm expert. His battle with John had seared that lesson into his bones—quite literally.

So he waited.

Watched.

Sensed.

Even as enemies fell like wheat under a farmer’s blade, Damien’s mind remained detached—his expression cold and vigilant. A walking calamity with purpose burning behind his silence.

Moments slipped by.

The battlefield had long since transformed into a grotesque canvas of war.

Corpses piled atop one another, forming jagged mounds of flesh and armor. Rivers of blood traced crooked lines across the soil, soaking the earth in shades of crimson so deep it looked black.

The stench of iron and death was so thick in the air that even awakened warriors struggled to breathe properly. For normal humans, it would’ve been suffocating—perhaps lethal.

The wind howled, carrying with it the ghostly cries of the dead.

Farther away, standing just outside the immediate danger zone, Anek and the Iron Dungeon Stronghold leader watched with grim faces.

A storm of emotions churned in their eyes—awe, fear, and something close to reverence.

Although Damien wasn’t targeting them, every pulse of his power made their skin crawl.

The raw brutality and absolute dominance radiating from him made their hearts race with unease. It was like standing before a beast that could rip through mountains.

"Is this what a cultivator is really capable of?"

The question left Anek’s lips in a whisper, almost like a prayer. It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular—perhaps not even to himself—but rather thrown into the howling wind, hoping for an answer that would make sense of what he was witnessing.

Because Damien had shattered their understanding of the cultivation world.

This wasn’t just power. This was myth made flesh.

"Heavens," another soldier muttered behind them, eyes wide and voice trembling. "Didn’t the Crown Prince awaken just a few weeks ago? How can he be this strong?"

The words were barely above a whisper, but the weight of that truth hit everyone around like a hammer.

They had witnessed Damien’s journey since the beginning—since he was just another hopeful stepping into the unknown.

Now, he stood like a demigod amidst the fallen, his aura drowning armies, his name engraved into the hearts of all who watched in equal parts fear and admiration.

And yet, Damien didn’t hear a word of their awe.

His eyes, cold and sharpened by battle, remained locked on the horizon—searching.

Waiting.

The Supreme Golden General was still out there.

And Damien knew this slaughter was nothing more than a prologue.

Just as more voices were about to rise—murmurs on the edge of awe and dangerous curiosity—a sharp, cold snort cut through the battlefield like a blade.

It silenced the crowd.

The sound didn’t echo, but it stung—a quiet command layered in warning.

It came from none other than the Iron Dungeon Stronghold leader, who had been watching from the periphery, his eyes sharper than ever.

He stepped forward, his armor stained with dust and blood, but his posture erect, exuding calm authority.

He knew where this was going. The whispers of confusion, the disbelief—the dangerous flicker of doubt. All of it was natural when men saw something they couldn’t understand. But doubt was the first crack in unity, and cracks—especially on a battlefield—could kill.

He wouldn’t allow that.

With a composed but thunderous voice, he declared:

"The Crown Prince is the embodiment of divine will. How can his strength be measured by ordinary means?"

His words rolled over the blood-soaked earth like a decree from the heavens. And just like that, the murmurs died.

Soldiers exchanged glances. Some straightened their backs. Others lowered their gazes.

Anek, watching closely from a few steps behind, narrowed his eyes.

He immediately understood what the Stronghold leader was doing.

The man wasn’t just defending Damien—he was shaping the narrative.

Anek took a deliberate step forward and played along. "Divine will?" he asked aloud, letting the question carry through the crowd like a spark in dry grass. "What do you mean by that?"

The moment the question left his mouth, a small, knowing smile bloomed on the Iron Dungeon Stronghold leader’s face.

Perfect.

This was the chance he was waiting for. Before awe turned into envy... before admiration twisted into fear... before anyone began asking dangerous questions about the unnatural speed of Damien’s growth...

They needed a story. A reason. A divine cause.

Something that could justify the unbelievable—something that could elevate Damien above the realm of mortals.

And so, he took a deep breath and turned toward the gathering soldiers, the blood-drenched earth, and the rising dust still settling from Damien’s devastation.

Then, with reverence in his tone and fire in his eyes, he began to speak.

With a short cough, the Iron Dungeon Stronghold leader cleared his throat, his expression shifting from steel to solemnity. A hush fell over the nearby soldiers as they instinctively turned toward him, drawn by the heavy gravity in his voice.

Then he spoke.

"From the fact that he single-handedly tore through the Blue Hammer forces," he began slowly, letting his voice resonate with conviction, "it’s clear—His Highness Damien is no ordinary man. He alone is an army. A storm in mortal flesh."

He paused, letting those words sink in. Eyes widened. Breaths were held.

"You may have heard the tale," he continued, voice lowering, adding a layer of mystique. "Long ago, the King of Valthorn rescued a deity—a god who had descended into the mortal world in disguise. The god, impressed by the king’s unwavering honor and righteousness, granted his bloodline a divine blessing..."

He paused again and looked around. Every pair of eyes was locked on him now. A few jaws hung half-open. Even the old sword master, whose eyes had seen the rise and fall of heroes, found himself nodding ever so slightly, caught in the spell of the words.

The Stronghold leader pressed on, spinning myth into plausible truth. "The blessing was never meant for fame or fortune, but for salvation. A promise—that when the kingdom faced its darkest hour, a child born of this bloodline would carry the wrath of the gods."

He gestured toward the battlefield, where the stench of blood still hung in the air, where the very earth bore the scars of Damien’s battle.

"And now... that prophecy has come to pass."

Even though he had just made it all up on the spot, in this world—where gods walked the skies and monsters whispered in forests—it didn’t feel so far-fetched. And that was enough.

A beat of silence followed. Then—

"No wonder the Crown Prince is so strong!" someone in the back exclaimed with burning eyes.

"Truly chosen by the heavens!"

"Now who can stop my Valthorn Kingdom from rising?" another shouted, followed by cheers that spread like wildfire.

Anek let out a slow breath as he watched the crowd shift. Where doubt had started to fester, now there was only reverence.

The Stronghold leader stepped back, his face once again calm, but a glimmer of satisfaction flickered in his eyes.

The myth was planted.

And from this day forth, Damien wasn’t just a warrior—he was a divine storm given form.

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