SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 89: Years of wealth gone in minutes

"Impudence..."

"Do you even know who you’re talking to?!"

The woman shrieked—sharp and grating, like a pig being butchered alive.

Her voice echoed through the hall, dripping with disbelief and fury. As someone born into wealth and bathed in luxury, she had never been spoken to without deference. Her entire life had been one long parade of sycophants, bowing heads, and carefully measured words. And now... this?

Her pride flared like a raging wildfire. Arrogant and vindictive to the core, this woman’s wrath knew no reason.

Even the slightest irritation would trigger her vengeance. Once, a servant had dared to hold his gaze for a mere second longer than she preferred.

She had the man’s eyes gouged out for that.

From that day on, her estate had turned into a palace of fear. Servants walked on eggshells. No one dared breathe the wrong way when she was present.

So when Damien stepped into the room with the stench of blood and war trailing behind him, the atmosphere twisted.

Everyone stiffened. The two nobles at her side instinctively held their breath, waiting to see how this would unfold.

They didn’t wait long.

Bang!

A deafening gunshot cracked through the tense air.

A second later, a wet, lifeless thud echoed as the woman’s body crumpled to the polished marble floor.

She hadn’t even been granted time to scream again.

The metallic scent of blood filled the room like a choking mist, and silence followed like a loyal dog.

Damien stood tall, smoke still drifting from his firearm, and fixed his piercing gaze on the two remaining nobles. The flickering chandelier overhead reflected in his eyes, casting faint halos around his dark pupils.

His voice was like winter wind: sharp, cold, and merciless.

"I don’t know who you are,"

"and neither do I care..."

He stepped forward, his boots clicking against the marble in a slow, ominous rhythm.

"But know one thing..."

"Under my presence, you only do as I say..."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle deep into their bones.

"Or you die."

There was no drama in his voice, no emotion. It was simply a statement of fact, spoken by someone who didn’t bluff.

The fat noble, trembling like a sack of jelly, could take no more.

His knees buckled.

He collapsed face-first to the ground, a pathetic yelp escaping his throat. Sweat poured down his cheeks, glistening on his red, flabby skin. His whole body trembled like a leaf caught in a storm.

And then...

Drip. Drip.

A small pool began to form beneath him.

Damien’s expression barely shifted, though his brow twitched faintly. He stared down at the trembling man with a mix of amusement and mild disgust.

Just how afraid was this guy?

Then Damien’s gaze sharpened—he remembered something important.

The Blue Hammer Crown Prince could arrive at any moment.

And before that happened, he had work to finish.

"Today is your lucky day," he said, voice low and deliberate.

"I’ve already completed my killing quota for the day. So don’t force me."

A subtle shift passed through the room, like a sudden drop in air pressure. The cold finality in his tone made even the shadows in the hall seem to cower.

Sensing a sliver of hope, the fat noble, still trembling on all fours like a pig awaiting slaughter, sprang into action.

"I’ll do anything you want!" he blurted, voice cracking.

"Just let me live!"

The desperation was naked in his voice—raw, ugly, and all too human.

Damien’s eyes narrowed. He took a step forward and regarded the trembling man more closely, his gaze calm but unreadable.

That single look made the fatty’s breath hitch in his throat.

It was the same kind of pressure he’d felt...

That time—when he stood before the Blue Hammer King himself.

The memory slammed into him.

The weight. The suffocating presence. The terrifying awareness that he was prey in front of a predator.

Could it be...?

The fatty was timid but not stupid.

No... impossible!

The fatty immediately shut down the thought, forcing it deep into the recesses of his mind. The Blue Hammer King was a legendary Channel Forging realm expert. His presence was like the crushing force of the heavens.

This man in front of him, though overwhelmingly strong, couldn’t be anywhere near that level... right?

Still, that feeling—that suffocating sense of doom—lingered.

Beads of sweat poured down his face and dripped from his chin. His jiggling body trembled with such intensity that the folds of fat on his neck and chest wobbled uncontrollably.

The sight was so absurd it nearly broke Damien’s composure.

He clenched his jaw and barely stopped himself from bursting into laughter.

Just what the hell was this guy made of? Jelly?!

Yet, despite the fear radiating off the fatty like steam, Damien’s attention slowly shifted.

His eyes landed on the hawk-eyed man, still standing beside the wall, arms at his sides.

Unlike the pathetic mess on the floor, this one stood firm.

He was clearly afraid—but not paralyzed.

His eyes, sharp and calculating, radiated a quiet confidence that piqued Damien’s interest.

There was something hidden there.

And Damien noticed.

He didn’t attack the man. Not yet. He wanted to see where that confidence came from.

A hidden card? A secret technique? Or perhaps... something more political?

Whatever it was, Damien had time to find out.

But only a little. The city still needed to be swept clean... before the Crown Prince arrived.

"Good, fatty," Damien said coolly, his voice slicing through the charged silence.

"I can let you live... but that depends on you."

The words landed like a thunderclap in the fatty’s ears.

He blinked, stunned, his small beady eyes filled with a mixture of disbelief and cautious hope. For a moment, it seemed like the fog of fear lifted—replaced by something dangerously close to relief.

Damien noticed. And smirked.

He had to fight the corner of his mouth from twitching upward.

Too easy.

This fatty... he was too naive.

Believing in mercy from someone like Damien? Laughable.

Yes, Damien could spare every single citizen in Dreamy Sky City—but not the noble heads. Not those parasites who had bled the city dry while the common folk starved.

The old must die.

Only then can the new order take root.

The cold finality of that thought flashed through Damien’s eyes like lightning, sharp and unforgiving.

The hawk-eyed noble felt the change immediately. A pulse of killing intent, subtle but suffocating.

His expression darkened.

Unlike the trembling pig beside him, he understood—truly understood—how thin the line between life and death had become.

This was it.

Do or die.

No middle ground. No clever politics. Just survival.

Meanwhile, the fatty’s dull eyes suddenly lit up. Some long-lost fragment of cunning had flickered awake inside him.

With newfound urgency, he bowed his head low and said with surprising clarity,

"Don’t worry, I’ve prepared a huge gift for you. I’m sure... sir will like it."

Damien paused, his brow lifting slightly in interest.

Then, despite himself, a chuckle escaped his lips.

A real smile finally tugged at the edges of his mouth—cold, amused, dangerous.

Maybe this fatty wasn’t as slow as he looked after all.

At least he knew how to grovel properly.

Damien walked ahead, flanked by the fatty and the hawk-eyed noble, their footsteps echoing along the cold, stone path as they made their way toward the estate of the fatty’s noble house.

At first, Damien had intended to visit the mansion of the deceased noble—the one whose brains now painted the walls of the meeting hall. But after a moment’s consideration, he dismissed the idea.

It wasn’t fear that made him change his mind.

It was prudence.

Letting these two men act freely—especially during such a volatile time—might give them a sliver of opportunity to regroup, to plot, to slither back into relevance.

Damien wasn’t in the mood to play politics with dying snakes.

Better to keep them under his boot until the city bled itself dry.

So, he walked. Silent, unreadable, but always watching.

The once-bustling streets of Dreamy Sky City stretched before them like a graveyard of gold and stone.

Shops, which once glittered with goods and laughter, now stood with doors flung open, shelves emptied, windows shattered. Golden jewelry, mana stones, spirit herbs—all were being carted off by Valthorn soldiers like ants stripping a carcass.

The rich screamed, cursed, begged—

Their wealth disappearing faster than it had ever been accumulated.

Centuries of hoarded treasure, generations of arrogance—reduced to dust in mere hours.

Yet the poor?

They were nowhere to be seen.

They had sealed their doors, barred their windows, huddling in dark corners with bated breath. Even the faintest footstep outside sent waves of dread rippling through their homes. For them, war wasn’t about which flag flew above the city.

It was about survival.

And they knew better than to hope for mercy.

Meanwhile, Damien walked as if none of it mattered. His face was calm, expression unreadable—but his eyes missed nothing.

He could hear the chaos. The clinking of looted treasures, the crashing of noble mansions being turned inside out, the choked cries of men who once ruled and now crawled in the dust.

Years of wealth.

Gone in minutes.

Unfair? Maybe.

Damien knew it better than anyone.

But he didn’t care.

"Since when has life ever been fair?"

That was a luxury reserved for the powerful. For the rest, there was only struggle.