SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse
Chapter 112: One Punch

Chapter 112: One Punch

In the blink of an eye, the colossal hammer, forged from divine ore and etched with runes older than the kingdom itself, came crashing down.

It weighed tons—its sheer presence distorted the air around it. Now, it was descending directly toward Damien with the force of a falling mountain.

The Blue Hammer King erupted into manic laughter, his voice echoing across the broken skyline like the scream of a dying storm.

This was Seven Strikes of the Blue Hammer, the pride of the kingdom. A legendary battle technique passed down through generations, honed with blood, sweat, and ruthless precision. It wasn’t just power—it was history, legacy, and raw destruction refined into movement.

And the King had mastered it.

Well, at least the first three strikes.

But that was all he needed—or so he believed.

His voice cut through the rising winds, laced with a sadistic fervor.

"Did you really think you were close to victory?" he sneered, thunder rolling behind his words.

"Come, Crown Prince! Let me see the despair in those defiant eyes..."

His arms bulged, muscles rippling like entwined serpents beneath his skin, straining under the controlled chaos of superhuman power. Veins pulsed with an unnatural glow, and every fiber of his body screamed destruction.

From the moment the hammer had been summoned to the instant it came within an arm’s reach of Damien, not even half a second had passed.

To the average eye, it was as though the weapon had teleported, ignoring the laws of space and time to deliver death.

But Damien... was far from average.

His Accelerated Perception roared to life.

The world slowed to a crawl.

He could hear his own neurons firing—electrical signals zipping through synapses like streaks of lightning in slow motion. The usual time delay between reaction and movement ceased to exist. His thoughts no longer followed a linear path—they unfolded simultaneously, like hundreds of parallel rivers of calculation all converging into a single act of survival.

It was as if his brain had shed its biological limits and reached a higher plane, one where thought and action were one and the same.

The hammer moved in slow arcs now, like the pendulum of some divine executioner, frozen in an endless moment of wrath.

And in that stillness...

Damien breathed.

His lungs expanded, and even that simple motion felt eternal.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t blink.

He didn’t move—not yet.

Instead, he watched the intricate carvings along the hammer’s surface gleam with crimson lightning. He could trace each rune by memory now. The angles, the inscriptions, the heat distortions around its core—the hammer’s very soul was revealed to him in this still frame of battle.

"This... is your pride?" Damien thought.

"Then let me show you mine."

His eyes narrowed slightly, and a faint smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

Because to Damien, in this strange liminal state of perception, the king’s mighty hammer was moving at the pace of a falling feather.

It was as though Damien’s brain had undergone a profound evolution—something unfathomable, something that defied comprehension. The world around him felt both too fast and too slow, as though he had transcended the very nature of time itself.

The thunder above cracked like the roar of a celestial beast, and Damien, frozen in place as if carved from stone, finally sprang into motion.

Blinding silver light erupted from his form, a radiant corona that seemed to tear through the very fabric of reality. In an instant, Damien was a blur, his body reaching hypersonic speeds, his movement a streak of brilliance cutting through the air.

At such a velocity, the empty space before him felt like a thick, viscous swamp. Every microsecond of his movement seemed to stretch into an eternity, the air compressing, building resistance with brutal intensity. The friction was unbearable—his body, moving faster than any human should, ignited in a shower of sparks, skin scorched as the atmosphere bent to accommodate his velocity. Smoke and steam mingled as his muscles tore apart and rebuilt themselves at a cellular level.

Each inch of his motion felt like an explosive collision, the very force of his speed ripping him apart, yet simultaneously restoring him with a vicious, relentless healing that only grew stronger the more he moved. Pain surged in waves—every nerve screamed—but Damien barely noticed it. The pain multiplied tenfold with every movement, yet he remained focused, driven only by one singular thought.

He had no time for weakness. No time for hesitation. His only focus was the Blue Hammer King.

The king had to fall, and fall fast.

Damien’s fist shot forward, a blunt and primal motion. There was no technique, no practiced elegance—only raw, savage power. His body acted purely on instinct, every ounce of his being channeled into the strike. This wasn’t a martial artist’s refined blow, but the punch of a beast at the peak of its rage.

The air itself screamed in protest, bending and warping around his fist. He wasn’t sure of the speed, but something told him that at that moment, he was likely moving at Mach 6, a terrifying seven thousand kilometers per hour—a speed few could even fathom.

Yet, as his body rocketed forward, Damien realized something.

He wasn’t close to his limit. Not yet.

He could go faster, push himself further beyond the breaking point. But to do so would be to risk vaporizing from the sheer atmospheric pressure. His healing was powerful, but it was not omnipotent. At those speeds, his flesh would tear itself apart faster than his body could repair it. He would burn away, leaving nothing but ash.

Still, for now, this was enough.

This would be enough to shatter the Blue Hammer King’s arrogance, enough to prove that Damien was no longer the prey—but the predator.

While Damien’s mind wandered through a haze of irrelevant thoughts—pondering limits, pain thresholds, and the nature of speed—the Blue Hammer King stood frozen, still staring at the spot where Damien had once stood.

A battle-crazed gleam flickered in the king’s eyes, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, fully expecting resistance, a parry, or even a struggle. Yet, unknown to him, the real storm had already arrived.

Damien, concealed in motion far too fast for ordinary perception, chuckled internally. The corners of his lips curled ever so slightly as he observed the Blue Hammer King’s obliviousness.

"He doesn’t even know it’s over..."

Unlike him, the king didn’t possess Accelerated Perception. He was blind to the shift in time, unaware of the moment when Damien had become a phantom.

"This is the end."

With that quiet thought, Damien’s fist connected.

—Or at least, it should have.

But the thunderous explosion Damien expected never came.

Instead, it felt as though his fist had slammed into dense foam, one that muffled, absorbed, and muted all the power behind his strike. It was like punching into a void that swallowed violence.

His eyes sharpened instantly.

What is this...?

The next moment, a bluish aura erupted around the Blue Hammer King’s body like molten metal struck by a divine hammer—sparks flared, and energy rippled out in concentric waves. His domain had activated, not with grandeur, but with quiet, calculated resilience.

A sudden realization flickered in Damien’s mind.

He absorbed the force.

Only now did the Blue Hammer King finally register Damien’s true position. His pupils shrank to pinpricks as the last fragments of Damien’s attack seeped into his body like slow venom.

Even though the domain had soaked up the lion’s share of the attack’s force, it hadn’t been enough.

Not nearly enough.

The remainder of the blow—the backlash energy—was still potent enough to rival a small tactical nuclear blast, the kind capable of reducing entire city blocks to molten rubble.

BOOOOM!

The air cracked open like a split drum, and the Blue Hammer King was blasted backward with violent force, his body a broken missile hurtling through the sky. Stone, soil, and shattered structures gave way as he tore through everything in his path.

Mountains quaked. Forests were flattened. Valleys were carved.

His body flew for what felt like hundreds of kilometers, leaving a trail of devastation like a comet crash-landing.

Finally—finally—his body came to a ragged stop, buried under rubble and smoke, deep in a crater carved by his own weight and velocity.

There he lay, gasping.

His chest heaved like a dying bellows, every breath ragged and strained. A thin stream of blood leaked from the corner of his lips, staining his pristine beard crimson.

His expression twisted—half fury, half disbelief.

Most of his ribs were broken. Mana channels? In utter disarray. One leg didn’t respond at all, and his arms trembled just trying to push himself upright.

And this...

This was the result of just one punch.

One.

The thought clung to the edges of his mind like a shadow refusing to be dismissed.

If a second punch landed...

A sharp, cold shiver surged down his spine. His fingers curled into the shattered earth beneath him as his thoughts reeled.

He didn’t even want to consider it.

No—he couldn’t.

Because if he did, he’d have to admit something terrifying.

That he had no way to survive it.

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