SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse
Chapter 94: What you gonna do about it

Chapter 94: What you gonna do about it

BOOM!

The giant iron gates of the hall were blasted apart in a thunderous eruption, shards of blackened steel hurtling through the air like shrapnel. Dust and smoke billowed in every direction, momentarily swallowing the world in chaos.

Damien stepped out into the open at the perfect moment, the aftershock brushing his hair back as he grinned with anticipation.

Finally.

His eyes locked onto the scene before him, heart pounding with excitement. He had waited for this moment—for him—ever since that humiliating day in Mesarith City.

He hadn’t forgotten the shame. The bitter taste of retreat.

Now it was time to rewrite that memory.

There were few things in the world as satisfying as revenge, and today, it was ripe for the taking.

As the haze began to settle, two figures emerged from the smoke with quiet composure, their silhouettes sharp against the drifting ash.

One was young, no older than Damien himself, with a regal bearing and a faint sneer etched into his face. His simple-blue blue robe shimmered faintly beneath the light, giving off an aura of nobility and pride.

The other was a man of serene elegance, dressed in flowing white robes, with an expression so calm it bordered on eerie. His steps were measured, but every inch of his presence screamed dangerous.

Even without knowing who they were, any observer could tell—these two were not ordinary men.

The younger man’s cold gaze landed on Damien, and his lips curled into a smirk filled with disdain.

"Crown Prince of Valthorn, you really gave me a surprise."

His voice was clear and sharp, slicing through the tension in the air like a knife.

"Who would’ve thought the same rat who fled from Mesarith with his tail between his legs would grow bold enough to march straight into Blue Hammer territory?"

There was no mistaking the venom behind the words.

Damien’s grin widened.

Each syllable was like fuel to the fire smoldering inside him.

Let the prince mock. Let him gloat. It wouldn’t last long.

Meanwhile, the older man—John—had been preoccupied with the lingering scent of the Thousand-Miles Toad. He had a curious glint in his eye, one hand lightly brushing his chin as if lost in thought.

But the moment the words "Valthorn Crown Prince" reached his ears, his expression shifted.

The casual boredom vanished, replaced by sharp intrigue.

"Interesting," John muttered, his voice soft but amused.

When he was first assigned the task of escorting this so-called "alchemical seedling," he had nearly refused. Babysitting nobles wasn’t his preferred line of work.

But now...?

Now things were getting fun.

With arms folded and eyes gleaming, John quietly observed the confrontation, anticipation dancing just beneath the surface.

The air grew heavier, thick with invisible pressure and unsaid words.

Two heirs.

Two worlds.

And a reckoning long overdue.

Meanwhile, Damien’s lips slowly curled upward. A soft, derisive chuckle escaped his throat.

"Blue Hammer Crown Prince," he said, his voice calm yet heavy, "I can’t understand your excitement. You sure look happy for a man who’s about to die."

His words weren’t loud, but each syllable landed like a hammer blow—measured, deliberate, and laced with death.

Damien’s gaze was razor-sharp, cutting through the air as it locked with the prince’s. He wasn’t just speaking; he was declaring.

The atmosphere in the grand hall shifted instantly.

Not a single Valthorn soldier dared to breathe too loudly. Even the distant howls of wind and thunder seemed to quiet, as if the storm itself were holding its breath.

If not for the crackle of lightning outside, the room would have drowned in absolute silence.

Damien’s words were the spark—and the gunpowder finally ignited.

"How dare you, you little piece of trash—"

"—talk to me in this way?!"

The Blue Hammer Crown Prince erupted in fury, his voice rising like a thunderclap, face contorted in rage. A thick vein popped on his temple, pulsing with unchecked anger. His teeth ground against each other as his aura surged with bluish mana, flooding the hall like a wave.

"If I don’t kill you today, I swear I will not—"

But before the sentence could be completed, the storm stopped.

So did he.

His voice caught in his throat as his eyes widened, the fire in them turning into sudden, horrifying confusion.

Damien was gone.

No—he was right in front of him.

So fast. Too fast.

A cold wind blew, and the very next instant, something sharp and metallic forced its way between the Crown Prince’s lips.

Clink.

A wet, suffocating sound echoed in the prince’s throat as he gagged.

Epoch Breaker—Damien’s signature weapon—had been rammed down his mouth, its chilling steel slicing past teeth and tongue, pressing into his throat.

Damien stood in front of him, expression cold as ever. His other hand gripped the handle tightly, not shaking, not hesitating.

"You wanted to say something, little prince?"

His voice was calm. Almost pleasant. But his eyes told a different story—deadly, detached, and filled with contempt.

It was the stare of a butcher looking down at meat.

Around them, no one moved. No one could.

The Valthorn soldiers stood frozen, watching in stunned silence.

The Blue Hammer elites outside the gate didn’t yet know that their future, their prince, had already been reduced to a puppet with a barrel in his mouth.

This wasn’t just an execution.

This was humiliation.

Exactly what Damien had tasted back in Mesarith.

And now, he was repaying it—with interest.

Realizing the situation he was in, the Blue Hammer Crown Prince’s eyes flared wide—burning with a mix of rage, humiliation, and disbelief. He had never imagined, not even in his worst nightmares, that someone would dare to treat him like this.

But Damien didn’t care.

With utter indifference, he grabbed the prince by the throat and lifted him into the air like a sack of grain.

The Crown Prince struggled violently, legs flailing, mana surging—but it was useless.

He might’ve been a genius of the Blue Hammer Kingdom, a favored son of destiny, but in front of Damien—who had evolved through countless battles and bled through hell—he was just another Stage Nine Iron Rank.

And Damien was far, far beyond that.

The Crown Prince clawed at Damien’s arm, but it was like trying to scratch iron with bare nails. Damien’s grip tightened, fingers digging into his neck, choking off breath and pride at once.

Crack.

The sound of bones beginning to give way echoed ominously in the quiet hall.

From the sidelines, Fatty and the hawk-eyed man watched the scene unfold, breath caught in their throats.

The fatty trembled like jelly, his lips trembling with each breath, while the hawk-eyed man felt his chest tighten. The man he had pinned all his hopes on—the so-called savior—was being manhandled like a child.

Still, his eyes quickly shifted—not to the choking Crown Prince, but to the older man standing beside him, who remained utterly composed, watching the scene like it was a performance unfolding on stage.

He’s not moving.

Why isn’t he doing anything?

The hawk-eyed man’s pupils shrank. If this continued any longer, the Crown Prince was going to die.

Just as Damien’s grip threatened to snap the prince’s spine, a sudden laugh echoed through the hall—light and breezy, utterly unbothered.

"Hahaha... Young man," the older man finally spoke, his voice pleasant yet piercing, "you are quite interesting."

John, the envoy from the Alchemical school, smiled as he took a casual step forward. His white robes fluttered lightly, unaffected by the tension in the air.

"But I’ll have to ask you to stop now," he continued, tone still light, "You see... I can’t afford to fail a mission."

The words were spoken with an almost relaxed ease, but their weight crashed down like a mountain.

A ripple passed through the atmosphere.

Damien’s eyes narrowed slightly. He could feel it—the subtle shift in pressure. A vast, controlled force veiled behind John’s smiling face. Hidden power, meticulously suppressed.

It wasn’t a threat spoken outright.

But it was a promise—and everyone present understood it.

Even Fatty, whose intelligence often trailed behind his belly, broke into a cold sweat.

He’s dangerous... this guy is the real deal.

But Damien didn’t let go just yet.

His gaze didn’t waver. It remained locked on the Crown Prince’s bulging eyes—burning with hatred and fear.

Although the man looked completely unconcerned, a quiet storm lurked beneath that calm exterior. It was the kind of composed danger that didn’t shout or posture—but warned with silence.

If Damien dared to ignore his words, he might truly regret it.

John wasn’t just any man. He represented the Behemoth Alchemical Guild. He was someone whose every movement—every smile—masked something deep and terrible.

Yet, Damien didn’t flinch.

He looked at John with narrowed eyes, then tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

"What if I don’t stop?"

"What are you gonna do about it?"

His voice was soft, but it struck the room like a crack of lightning.

A hushed silence descended.

Even the air paused, as if uncertain whether to flow forward or pull back.

John, for the first time in a very long while, was visibly stunned.

His eyes blinked once—twice. His lips parted as if to respond... but no words came out. He looked at Damien as if trying to confirm whether he’d really heard what he thought he had.

A prince of a minor kingdom...

...talking back to him?

And not just talking back—but challenging?

The amused spark in John’s eyes flickered out, replaced by something far colder.

Ting...

A sudden metallic hum filled the room as a pressure heavier than iron blanketed the area. The temperature dropped. The hairs on the back of every neck rose. Even the mana in the air began to shudder.

And then—boom—John’s aura soared.

It didn’t roar or rage—it pierced.

Refined. Condensed. Like a single blade slicing through fabric, it lanced outward and pressed directly onto Damien’s chest.

The walls groaned under the pressure. Cracks spiderwebbed across the tiles. Several Valthorn soldiers dropped to one knee, their faces pale, chests heaving.

Even the Blue Hammer Crown Prince, who was still recovering from humiliation, felt his spine stiffen.

"Now you’re being reckless," John said quietly, the casualness in his tone gone.

There was no anger in his voice. No threat.

Just certainty.

The kind of certainty that came from someone who didn’t need to raise their voice to dominate a room.

But Damien...

Damien didn’t lower his eyes.

The pressure bore down, and yet he stood tall—shoulders square, back straight, eyes calm.

In his hand, Epoch Breaker glimmered faintly.

The silence that followed was thick with tension—one wrong breath, and the entire hall would erupt into chaos.

And still, neither man moved.