SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse
Chapter 91: Right or wrong?

Chapter 91: Right or wrong?

"Leaving without even giving a proper burial to your sister—I wonder, if she were alive, how disappointed she would have been."

Damien’s voice was calm, indifferent. It wasn’t loud, yet each word struck like a hammer in Simon’s ears—chilling, unshakable, final.

It felt less like a statement and more like a divine decree.

Simon’s feet came to a dead halt. His instincts screamed at him to run, to flee and live to fight another day—but his legs wouldn’t budge. It was as if chains had wrapped around his limbs, locking him in place. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head back over his shoulder.

His eyes didn’t seek Damien.

Instead, they locked onto the broken form behind him—the battered corpse of his sister.

Dragged through the stone streets like a piece of trash, her once-pristine robes were tattered and dirtied, her face scraped raw, streaked with dried blood and bruising. Tiny red veins had burst in her eyes, spider-webbing outward in grotesque lines.

Simon’s throat tightened. His fists trembled. This wasn’t just a sister—she had been the head of the Dreamy Sky family. Proud. Fearless. Regal. To see her treated like this... like a trash bag...

It was like spitting on the grave of their ancestors.

The humiliation carved into his soul like a branding iron.

His vision blurred. Blood rushed to his face. His cheeks flushed red, and his eyes turned bloodshot as thick, angry veins bulged like writhing earthworms beneath the surface.

He was trembling now—not from fear, but from a fury that boiled over into madness.

He didn’t care how powerful this black-haired intruder was.

He didn’t care about his own survival.

All that mattered now... was revenge.

"Interesting." Damien’s voice cut through the air, smooth and mocking.

He watched the storm of emotion unfold across Simon’s twisted features—the rage, the sorrow, the defiance. It was like watching a candle flicker against the wind, desperately clinging to life.

He found it beautiful.

Not the grief, no. But the resistance. The refusal to kneel.

The fragile illusion that Simon might still be able to stop the inevitable.

A dark smile tugged at Damien’s lips.

The predator had found a prey that still had some bite left in it.

The next moment, a gunshot echoed like thunder in a storm-ridden sky.

Bang!

Simon’s body jerked violently, and then—silence.

His headless corpse collapsed to the cold stone ground with a heavy thud. Crimson blood sprayed in an arc, painting the nearby walls like grotesque art. His fists remained clenched, locked in place by death itself. Even in the final moment, his spirit had not surrendered.

A statement of defiance.

A warning... or a tragedy.

From the side, the hawk-eyed man of the Whitewash family watched grimly. His sharp gaze lingered on Simon’s body, but no emotion rose to his face—only a quiet, almost invisible sigh.

They had shared similarities—both were cautious, calculating, men who prided themselves on staying ahead of disaster. But Simon had broken that mold today. Blinded by rage and grief, he had lost control and paid the price with his life.

A pointless death. Avoidable... yet inevitable.

The hawk-eyed man silently etched the moment into his mind.

This was no longer just about survival—it was a brutal reminder: one wrong move, one emotional slip, and he’d be next.

No second chances.

No mercy.

He refocused quickly, casting away the thoughts as he stepped forward, continuing to guide Damien toward the Dreamy Sky family treasury. The stone corridors of the grand estate felt darker now, narrower—even though the halls remained wide and tall, adorned with paintings, drapes, and glittering crystal chandeliers.

But none of that mattered now.

The deeper they moved into the heart of the estate, the heavier the air became. It clung to their skin like smoke from a funeral pyre.

The tension grew unbearable.

The fatty was practically drowning in his own sweat, his shirt clinging to his rotund belly, his breathing short and ragged like a cornered beast. Every step felt like dragging a mountain behind him.

The hawk-eyed man wasn’t faring much better. His sharp eyes darted around instinctively, and an oppressive chill crept down his spine.

His instincts were screaming now.

Run. Flee. Escape.

Every nerve in his body fired with primal fear. Something about this treasury—something hidden deep within—whispered of danger. If he didn’t turn back now, he might never leave this place alive.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

A single thought began to dominate his mind: Where the hell is the Crown Prince?

The Blue Hammer Crown Prince... he should have arrived by now.

When the prince had been assigned to govern Dreamy Sky City, the hawk-eyed man had done well to cultivate a strong rapport. It had been a calculated friendship—one that was meant to be a shield in moments like this.

He had nearly abandoned hope and fled the city earlier... until that confidential message reached him through secret channels:

The Crown Prince is coming.

Under normal circumstances, that news alone would have only meant a possible reprieve.

But the message had one more line.

He’s not alone.

A mysterious figure from a foreign kingdom was accompanying the prince—someone powerful, someone unknown.

That one detail gave him pause.

The situation had spiraled far beyond what he expected, and now, walking just a few steps behind Damien, with the lingering scent of blood and gunpowder in the air, he couldn’t help but wonder—

Have I made the right choice... or am I already too late?

Then, like a whisper from the past, a rumor surfaced in the hawk-eyed man’s mind.

The Blue Hammer Crown Prince—renowned not just for his noble lineage, but for something far rarer.

His talent in pill-refining.

Unlike other royals who relied solely on martial might and political clout, the Crown Prince had carved out a name for himself within the mysterious and elite circle of alchemists. Word had it that because of his extraordinary alchemical aptitude, he’d been admitted into one of the most prestigious institutions affiliated with the Behemoth Alchemical Guild—a place where even nobles bowed their heads in reverence.

And now...

He was expected to return there.

The escort that had been dispatched to collect him wasn’t just any average envoy—it was someone or something important enough to shake the region’s balance.

Just that alone was enough to show how highly the Crown Prince was valued.

The hawk-eyed man’s heart skipped a beat.

He prayed that whoever was coming with the prince could become his lifeline out of this mess.

---

Meanwhile, Damien’s lips curled upward ever so slightly.

He’s coming too, huh...

Unknown to the hawk-eyed man, Damien was waiting for that arrival as well—but for a completely different reason.

Then, as if brushing aside all distractions, Damien suddenly asked the question that had been gnawing at him ever since they’d entered the inner zone of the estate.

"Hey, fatty," he said casually, though his voice carried the weight of steel, "tell me—what is this so-called defense system?"

The sudden question caused the air to grow still. It struck like a whip through the backs of both men.

The fatty’s plump face immediately lost all color. His lips trembled slightly, and cold sweat returned with a vengeance.

Even the hawk-eyed man’s expression darkened. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing into slits. He instinctively took half a step forward—he wanted to stop the fatty from saying anything.

Too late.

Desperate to survive, and eager to stay in Damien’s good graces, the fatty spilled everything.

"It’s... it’s a Rank Three artifact," he stammered, licking his dry lips nervously. "Created by a team of top-tier craftsmen and array masters... and powered by Hell Flame."

That last word hung heavily in the air.

Hell Flame—just the name was enough to make experienced warriors flinch.

The fatty continued, his tone growing even more serious. "Once it locks onto a target... there is no escape. The system doesn’t miss. It doesn’t stop. It kills."

Silence followed.

Even Damien’s footsteps came to a halt.

His eyes narrowed, and a frown appeared on his face, subtle but noticeable. The fatty’s words carried weight, and Damien could sense no lie in his tone.

If what he said was true... a defense artifact like that could annihilate any intruder, no matter how strong. The mere existence of such a weapon would deter even Peak-stage warriors from acting recklessly.

But...

That’s if it worked as flawlessly as claimed.

Damien’s instincts said otherwise.

"No such thing as perfection," he muttered under his breath.

There had to be a catch.

And so, eyes sharp, voice calm but firm, he asked the only question that mattered:

"Then tell me... how do you shut it down?"

Overwhelmed by Damien’s suffocating aura, the fatty staggered back a few steps, his legs trembling like jelly. It felt as if the very air around Damien had solidified, pressing down on his chest with the weight of a mountain.

With a shaking voice that barely rose above a whisper, he stammered, "P-please don’t be angry, good sir... but there is no way to stop the Hell Flame once it locks on. It only stops when it has completely burned its target to ash."

His words echoed faintly in the corridor, but the implication hit like a thunderclap.

Damien’s eyes narrowed into icy slits.

If that were true... if the Blue Hammer Kingdom truly had such a flawless weapon, they would have long conquered the world. There’s no way something that powerful would have gone unnoticed or unchallenged.

He stepped forward, his voice low and edged like a blade.

"Don’t waste my time. Quickly tell me its weakness."

The fatty swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like it was trying to escape. Cold sweat trickled down the side of his round face, pooling at the edge of his collar.

Then—finally—he blurted out, almost as if the words were ripped from his throat.

"I-It’s useless against warriors above Gold Rank!"

A gust of wind passed through the hallway, but it wasn’t from outside—it was Damien’s presence settling once more, like a looming storm that had paused its rage for a moment.

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening.

So that’s the catch.

The weapon was deadly, yes. But only against those below a certain threshold.

Gold Rank.

The first great divide in cultivation—crossing into it was said to alter one’s very body and soul, empowering them beyond mortal limitations. A tool that couldn’t harm such individuals... wasn’t absolute.

Still dangerous, but not invincible.

A faint smile curled at the corner of Damien’s lips—not out of relief, but understanding. He had learned something valuable.