SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse
Chapter 103: interest

Chapter 103: interest

Silence.

A crushing, suffocating silence descended upon the battlefield like a funeral shroud. The wind dared not blow. The smoke hung low, curling in lazy spirals over scorched earth and shattered stone, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

A few soldiers—lucky or cursed, it was hard to tell—had somehow survived the bloodbath. But they stood frozen, eyes wide and hollow, their faces pale as ash. It was as if something had been torn from within them.

They looked at Damien—not with hatred or fear—but with a haunted emptiness.

The kind of emptiness left behind when the soul has gone missing.

Their strongest warrior, their living legend, their pillar of power—the Supreme Golden General, a Channel Forging Realm expert—had been slaughtered without a chance to resist.

It wasn’t just the death of a man.

It was the death of an ideal.

Alongside his body had fallen their pride. Their confidence. The belief that their kingdom stood unshakable, protected by invincible might. All of it, crushed under the weight of a single punch.

And then—

A blinding flash of yellow lightning tore through the clouds.

It cracked through the sky like a divine spear hurled by the heavens themselves, slashing across the battlefield in a jagged arc. The light twisted into the form of a celestial serpent—a divine dragon of storm and fury—descending to see for itself who dared to strike down the Golden General.

Its glow flickered across Damien’s bloodstained form, illuminating him like a phantom risen from myth.

And when this moment spread—when the tale of this battle reached the ears of those beyond the horizon—Damien’s name would resound like thunder in a storm.

Slowly, the chaos began to ebb. The echoes of battle faded into the smoldering wind. But Damien’s blade—or his will—had not yet finished its work.

The remaining enemy soldiers, scattered and shaken, met the same fate as their comrades.

This time, there were no survivors.

No mercy.

No prisoners.

Damien didn’t flinch.

He didn’t wipe the blood from his hands, though he easily could have.

He chose not to.

The blood had meaning.

Each crimson stain was a reminder—of the fine line between survival and death. Of what could have happened had he been weaker. If even one strike had faltered, if he had hesitated for a single breath, he would’ve been lying in the dirt—his body broken, his fate sealed at the hands of John.

And the Valthron soldiers?

They would’ve suffered next.

The rage in the Golden General’s eyes before his death had made that crystal clear—he would have shown them no mercy.

These bloodstains weren’t shame.

They were a vow.

A memory forged in flesh and steel.

Then—

A sharp sound echoed across the battlefield, drawing Damien’s gaze.

Two men sprinted across the war-torn field, following behind the Valthron soldiers with urgency carved into their expressions.

Sword Master Anek and the leader of the Iron Dungeon Stronghold had been watching everything—every blow, every breath—with bated breath, concealed from view but ready to act if things went south.

Now, with the storm finally clearing, they stepped forward into the aftermath of legend.

When the Supreme Golden General had descended onto the battlefield, radiating power like a sun ready to consume all, both Sword Master Anek and the Iron Dungeon Stronghold leader had lost all hope.

They had braced themselves for a massacre, their hearts heavy with the grim acceptance of inevitable defeat.

But what followed had defied every expectation.

The impossible had unfolded before their very eyes.

And Damien—he had stood alone and rewritten fate.

Now, as the dust settled and victory lay quietly in the air, Damien turned his head and gave them a simple nod.

A small gesture.

Yet to the soldiers watching from the sidelines—those once twisted by fear and brainwashed by doctrine—it was as if a god had acknowledged their existence.

They erupted in thunderous cheers, voices hoarse but full of reverence. Their shouts echoed across the ruined plains like hymns in a temple.

Damien was no longer just a man.

In their eyes, he had become something greater.

A divine embodiment of wrath and justice.

Anek and the Iron Dungeon leader didn’t move.

They stood motionless, as if afraid to disturb something sacred.

After all, they had played the part of spectators in this war. While they watched from the edges, it was Damien who had carried the burden—who had bled, fought, and triumphed.

Then, Damien spoke—his voice cutting through the cheers like a blade through fog.

"How are things progressing?"

There was no need for clarification.

Before confronting the enemy army, he had issued one cold, calculated order:

Purge the treasuries of every noble house. Leave them hollow.

Anek understood immediately.

He gave a firm nod and clapped his hands once.

In response, the soldiers standing nearby moved with discipline and purpose. They parted like waves before a ship, revealing a long line of men carrying heavy, ornate boxes.

One.

Two.

Three.

Dozens upon dozens—until the count rose past a hundred.

Each box was filled to the brim with glittering mana stones, their faint glow casting soft light over the bloodstained earth. It was a sight that made even hardened warriors swallow.

The spoils of war.

A silent confirmation of the ancient truth:

War was the fastest path out of poverty.

No wonder kingdoms of old had waged them so often.

Inside, Damien almost grinned at the irony.

But on the outside, his face remained a mask of cold indifference—his eyes still sharp, his presence unwavering.

"Anek," he said, his tone even, commanding.

"Send some men back to Valthron City."

The next phase had already begun.

Anek responded immediately, nodding with sharp efficiency. Without delay, he turned and barked orders to a nearby captain, instructing a unit of one hundred men to escort the heavy treasure-laden boxes back to Valthron City.

The Iron Dungeon Stronghold leader, however, stepped forward with a furrowed brow. His eyes lingered on the shimmering crates, clearly uneasy.

"I recommend an additional hundred, for security," he said with a hint of tension. "We’ve drawn attention... and vultures will come."

Damien didn’t reply. He simply watched as the reinforced convoy began its march across the battlefield, the golden twilight casting long shadows behind them.

Then, his gaze lifted toward the horizon.

The sun was already halfway dipped below the distant ridgelines, bleeding orange across the clouds like a dying flame. Nightfall wasn’t far.

But even with dusk approaching, his expression remained calm—composed, focused.

Destroying the Blue Hammer Kingdom before sunrise now seemed entirely possible.

He cast one last glance at the ruined city behind him—broken walls, scorched towers, and streets littered with the corpses of arrogance.

Then, in a voice cold as steel drawn in moonlight, he gave the command:

"Good. Then we move to the next city."

The response was immediate.

"We follow the command of the Crown Prince!"

The shout thundered through the air, a roar of unwavering loyalty and rising fervor. The sheer force of their united voices seemed to shake the atmosphere itself, as if the heavens were forced to listen.

With Damien at the front, the army surged forward—unyielding, relentless.

They became a tide of steel and flame, sweeping across the land.

From one city to the next, they advanced like a storm.

They crushed resistance.

They shattered walls.

They looted the vaults of generations and reduced once-proud strongholds to smoldering rubble.

And the Blue Hammer Kingdom?

They had no time to react.

No time to rally.

They didn’t even realize what had hit them before their cities were already burning.

Their pride—the famed defensive system hailed as impenetrable—meant nothing.

Not when Damien struck.

Not when a single punch tore through stone, steel, and soul alike.

Damien stood atop a towering clock tower, its ancient gears ticking faintly beneath his feet like the slow heartbeat of a dying city.

The wind tugged at his coat, carrying with it the scent of ash, dust, and scorched stone. His gaze was cold and distant, surveying the ruined cityscape below with a detached calm. No triumph. No sorrow. Just purpose.

Beside him stood Sword Master Anek and the Iron Dungeon Stronghold leader, each giving their final reports with quiet efficiency. Their voices carried softly in the wind, listing off spoils, casualties, and resistance encountered during the city’s swift conquest.

Around them, only a handful of soldiers remained—less than fifty. The rest had already departed, escorting wagonloads of loot back to Valthron, their duty done. These men now acted more as witnesses than warriors, standing silently under the waning afternoon sun.

It was then that something Anek said broke through Damien’s thoughts.

The sword master opened one of the black lacquered chests, revealing a box wrapped in soft velvet. Carefully, he withdrew a small vial filled with faintly glowing powder.

"A Silver Rank Breakthrough Pill," Anek announced, a hint of surprise in his voice.

"Fifty percent purity."

The words hung in the air for a moment.

Damien turned his head slightly, his gaze sharpening.

Now that... was interesting.

In a world where alchemical breakthroughs were as rare as loyalty, a Silver Rank pill—even one at half purity—was a rare and precious find. Resources like this didn’t fall into just anyone’s hands. They were the kind of treasures that could decide the future of a rising power—or seal the fate of a desperate cultivator.

His eyes flicked to the vial. Just a glance, but it was enough to send a wave of anticipation through both leaders beside him.

For the first time since the march began, Damien’s interest had been visibly stirred.

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