SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 77: A glorious death

"Arrogant!"

"Do you even know what you’ve gotten yourself into?!"

A chorus of indignant shouts erupted as several soldiers stepped forward, eyes blazing with fury. Damien’s calm, dismissive words struck a nerve deep within them. They were soldiers of the esteemed Blue Hammer Kingdom—elite warriors whose presence alone was enough to command respect across cities and fortresses alike.

Never before had they been spoken to like this.

Insulted.

Dismissed.

One soldier clenched his spear tighter, another reached instinctively toward his blade, knuckles whitening. Their honor had been stained—and in their eyes, this outsider would pay.

Just as the first soldier’s lips curled into a snarl, a piercing whine split the air.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three flashes of light exploded from Damien’s position. The concussive bursts of gunfire tore through the tense atmosphere, louder than thunder, sharper than a blade.

Before anyone could react, three soldiers crumpled to the ground like discarded puppets—lifeless, blood seeping into the cracked soil beneath them.

Their weapons never even left their scabbards.

Damien stood where he was, the smoking barrel of his sidearm still raised, his posture relaxed—almost bored. The gun glinted under the dull afternoon sun, a metallic promise of swift death.

He let the silence stretch, cold and suffocating. ƒrēenovelkiss.com

Then, slowly, deliberately, he lowered his weapon and let his gaze sweep over the rest of the formation. His eyes—sharp, emotionless—seemed to peer straight through them, as if evaluating who would be next to fall.

"You don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking," he said, voice low and calm. Almost like a whisper—but it carried through the silent field like a storm rolling over dry grass.

A stillness gripped the air.

The echo of gunshots still rang faintly in the background, like a ghostly cry for the fallen. Dust floated lazily through the sunlight, untouched by the chaos, and the scent of gunpowder hung thick in every breath.

Not a single soldier moved.

It was as if the earth had grown hands and held their ankles in place. Their legs trembled, yet they couldn’t take a step forward. A primal fear settled in their hearts—an instinct that screamed louder than their pride:

Take another step, and you will die.

The invisible weight of death pressed down on the Blue Hammer soldiers, suffocating and absolute.

Where just moments ago they had puffed out their chests, now their faces were pale, throats dry, and spines cold with sweat. Every instinct, every piece of training told them to fight—but their souls urged them to flee.

Damien remained utterly unmoved by the bloodshed, his expression as calm as a still lake untouched by the ripples of chaos.

Not a single shred of regret flickered in his heart.

In his eyes, he had shown restraint—mercy, even. Had he wished, there would’ve been no soldiers left standing. The fact that he had only taken down a few could almost be considered a gesture of goodwill.

The tip of his gun still shimmered faintly, but he had already holstered it.

Now, he simply waited.

Waited for the one truly in charge to step out.

A subtle tension hung over the field. The wind blew gently, stirring the blood-soaked dust and brushing against Damien’s form, yet he stood utterly still, like a statue cast in contempt.

Far in the distance, the Valthorn army raced forward at full speed. Their banners fluttered as thousands of footsteps shook the earth. They were moving with a singular purpose—to regroup with the Crown Prince before anyone else could lay hands on him.

Back on the scorched field, Damien’s arm gave off a faint glow as the last traces of torn flesh knitted together. The wound he had taken earlier was gone, healed as if it had never existed. He flexed his fingers once. Perfect.

The silence lingered for a moment longer before a shift occurred.

From the crowd of Blue Hammer soldiers, a path was swiftly cleared, the air thick with dread as the troops moved aside like reeds bowing before a storm.

Carl Luxei emerged.

The Silver Rank commander walked forward slowly, each step heavy. His uniform was completely drenched in blood—dark stains soaked the fabric from collar to boots. Whether the blood belonged to him or others was anyone’s guess.

Behind him came the second-in-command, her expression calm, cold, and razor-sharp. The reflection in her glasses glinted ominously, and her hands remained clasped neatly behind her back. Not a single drop of blood stained her attire, in stark contrast to her superior.

Carl didn’t even glance at Damien as he stepped forward. His bloodshot eyes scanned the wreckage with desperation, darting left and right like a man trying to spot a ghost. His thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

Mentally, Carl was a mess.

The damage to the watchtower was beyond comprehension. Not a crack, not a dent—but total annihilation. The once-proud structure now lay in a heap of rubble and ash. There was nothing salvageable.

There would be hell to pay. The king would demand answers, and Carl had none to give.

But that storm could wait.

Right now, one question thundered louder than all the others in his mind:

Where was the expert who did this?

Carl recalled the earlier analysis from his second-in-command. Only someone at the Channel Forging realm or higher could have possibly inflicted such damage. If that was truly the case... then he had already lost.

There was no point fighting back.

Carl steeled himself. Better to apologize now than be buried later.

With a slow, careful breath, he finally turned to Damien. His face shifted into an expression of forced composure, the practiced mask of a seasoned officer.

"Crown Prince Damien," Carl began, his voice respectful yet strained. "Please... ask the senior to show himself. If we’ve unknowingly offended you, we’re ready to offer our sincere apologies."

He bowed his head slightly—just enough to show deference, but not weakness. Still, in that moment, his words revealed everything: not for one second did he believe Damien had caused the devastation himself.

No... in Carl’s mind, that would have been absurd.

Damien’s lips curved into a faint smirk.

He found the whole situation unexpectedly entertaining. There was a spark in his eyes—not of joy, but of wry amusement. The enemy commander was groveling, the soldiers were frozen in fear, and no one had even grasped the truth yet.

How quaint.

Just then, a calm voice sliced through the heavy silence.

It belonged to the second-in-command—the woman with cold eyes and spotless robes. Her voice rang clear, each word like a drop of water falling into still glass.

"Commander Carl, the mana detector failed to locate any warrior at the Channel Forging realm."

A chill swept across the field.

Carl’s face twitched with confusion. His eyes flicked to her, then back to the wreckage of the tower. His mouth opened slightly, lips dry.

"No... that can’t be right..."

No Channel Forging warrior?

Then who—what—could have destroyed the tower so thoroughly?

The implication struck him like a hammer. Either the new mana detector—so proudly developed by the Divine Researchers—was malfunctioning, or something even more unthinkable had occurred.

The detectors were said to be infallible.

Designed by scholars of the highest order, these arcane devices could read the very fabric of ambient mana. No cultivator could mask their presence completely—not one. Even a fledgling warrior disturbed the flow of mana around them, and the detector would pick it up with pinpoint accuracy.

Yet now... nothing?

Was it broken? Or was the truth even more absurd?

Before Carl could dwell further, a commotion stirred in the distance. Two armored figures swiftly rode through the formation of stunned soldiers—hooves pounding, dust trailing in their wake.

It was Anek, the southern Guardian, and the Iron Dungeon stronghold leader, both of them seasoned veterans of the battlefield.

Their expressions were grim, their eyes burning with restrained tension.

They dismounted in one fluid motion and stepped forward, walking until they stood directly behind Damien. No hesitation. No questioning.

The aura they emitted was not just one of loyalty—but of reverence.

Their eyes shimmered with awe as they stared at Damien’s back, as if they were standing behind something more than a man. As if a divine presence had descended among them.

Anek’s lips parted slightly. There was something urgent he wanted to say.

"Crown Prince—"

But before the words could leave his mouth, Damien raised his hand.

The gesture was calm, deliberate, and final.

Anek instantly fell silent.

Then Damien spoke—his voice low, yet every syllable rang across the battlefield with unnerving clarity. It was the kind of voice that crushed all attempts at resistance. Cold, composed, regal.

"I will only say this once," Damien said, his gaze sweeping over the crowd like a blade. "So you better listen carefully."

His presence expanded—not physically, but in feeling. The weight of his intent pressed down on the air itself.

"You have two choices..."

His voice grew colder, darker.

"One—end your lives on your own terms."

"Or two..."

A moment of silence stretched, taut as a wire.

"...accept a glorious death by my hand."