SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 32: Today, it might be fantasy

"I have succeeded..."

A quiet voice reverberated in the sealed chamber, low and calm, yet carrying the weight of triumph.

Devrok’s tightly shut eyes snapped open, gleaming with a sharp light. For a fleeting instant, the phantom of a knight carved from stone—his features grim, sword raised in defiance—flashed across his vision like an echo from a distant realm.

His chest heaved, white robes clinging to his body, soaked through with sweat. Every muscle pulsed with tightly coiled strength, as if sculpted from marble and flame. An electric current surged through his veins, foreign yet familiar, awakening something primal deep within.

Never before had he felt this powerful.

His thoughts were razor-sharp, a crystalline clarity cutting through the haze of mortal limits. And for a brief, impossible moment, he believed—truly believed—that if the gods themselves descended from their heavenly thrones, he could challenge them.

A grin tugged at the corner of his lips. It was illusion, he knew that. A mirage conjured by the sudden spike in his spiritual strength. Yet the warmth in his chest refused to fade.

Then, without warning, he threw his head back and laughed.

"Hahahahaha..."

Unrestrained and pure, his laughter echoed off the cold stone walls, reverberating like a sword’s song after a clean strike.

Today, it might be fantasy.

But someday?

He would make it real.

He, Devrok Harrier, would become the greatest swordsman this world had ever seen.

Still smiling, he lowered his arms and clenched his fists. The new power thrummed beneath his skin, waiting to be wielded. With a deep breath, he turned his awareness inward.

His surroundings faded as his vision shifted.

A new space unfolded before him—his Spiritual Space.

It was compact, just one meter in diameter, like all newly-formed ones. But size was deceptive. In its center hovered a radiant golden marble, its smooth surface etched with the image of a sword gleaming under unseen light.

The marble pulsed with gentle tremors, releasing tiny spiritual streams of mana into the space, like a heart softly beating.

Devrok gazed at it, his lips curling into a half-smile. "As expected," he muttered, "the rate of mana absorption is painfully slow... I’ll need to learn the family meditation techniques quickly."

This was the price of the False Path.

Unlike True Awakeners—whose innate affinity allowed them to drink in mana like fish in water—those who walked the False Path had to strain for every drop, managing their reserves with the precision of a blade dancer.

But Devrok wasn’t disheartened.

He stood up, picking up the sword laid beside him with practiced ease, and pushed open the heavy doors of the training room.

Outside, a small crowd of servants and attendants stood waiting in hushed anticipation. The moment they saw him, joy erupted.

"Congratulations, Eldest Prince! Your mighty name will one day shake the heavens!"

"Who says the False Path is only so-so? Now that our Eldest Prince of Valthorn walks it, even its horizon will be rewritten!"

Their flattery was exaggerated, bordering on ridiculous—but Devrok didn’t mind. In his current mood, their words only made him chuckle as he walked past them.

---

The Next Morning

Even before the sun’s golden fingers brushed the sky, soldiers arrived from all corners of the kingdom. Fully armed and armored, they assembled with swift discipline outside the Royal Castle gates.

These were the elite warriors handpicked to accompany Damien on his upcoming expedition.

Inside one of the castle’s upper chambers, the air was still.

The first rays of dawn snuck through a tiny crevice in the tightly shut window, illuminating a quiet scene with golden warmth.

Damien lay motionless on a large bed, his chest rising and falling steadily. Draped across his body, like silk over steel, lay Niomi. Her pale, snow-white skin was bare, pressed intimately against his muscled chest. The quiet after a storm.

He stared at the ceiling, a faintly wary smile tugging at his lips.

She had started off shy. But after the first awkward round... Niomi had turned into a beast.

Only after a full night of twisting and tumbling had she finally been sated and fallen into peaceful slumber.

Damien exhaled slowly.

Beside him, Niomi’s long lashes fluttered. Then her bright, jewel-like eyes opened. Her gaze locked onto his.

"Husband~" she whispered, voice soft and sweet like melting honey.

Damien turned his head slightly to look at her. Niomi leaned in, their foreheads brushing before their lips met again in a kiss—slow and hungry, as if they were trying to etch the memory of the night into each other’s souls.

Five minutes passed before they parted.

Niomi’s cheeks glowed, her breath light as she whispered, "Thank you."

Damien didn’t respond in words. Instead, he gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His expression softened—but only for a moment.

Because just then, a face flashed before his eyes.

It wasn’t Niomi’s.

It was her.

Even now, her memory lurked somewhere in his heart.

He had let Niomi get close to him—but that didn’t mean he trusted her.

He had already learned once what misplaced trust could cost.

At that moment, a light knock interrupted the stillness, followed by the voice of a maid. "Crown Prince, the soldiers sent by the four generals have arrived."

Damien closed his eyes briefly. He’d asked to be informed the moment they arrived.

"I’m coming," he said, rising smoothly from the bed.

Niomi looked up at him with a pout, clearly displeased. Her eyes silently asked if he really had to go. But she didn’t say anything.

Within five minutes, Damien was dressed and ready to leave.

Just as his hand touched the door handle, Niomi’s voice reached his ears from behind.

"Don’t waste your time. Quickly learn the meditation techniques... or else I’ll leave you far behind."

Damien didn’t turn.

Had he turned, she would’ve seen the grin splitting across his face.

A grin filled with unshakable confidence.

"Meditation techniques..."

In this world, the speed at which one absorbed mana depended not just on talent, but also on the quality of their meditation method.

The ancient Saints, unable to rely on talent alone, had created structured techniques to amplify spiritual intake. These were divided into three grades:

Earth, Sky, and Heaven.

An Earth-grade technique could double absorption speed. A Sky-grade could quadruple it. A Heaven-grade? Six times.

But Damien?

Damien had something else.

"With my talent..." he muttered under his breath, lips curling wider, "I can increase it by five hundred. Five hundred-fucking-times."

To him, even Heaven-grade techniques were trash.

Let the world chase scraps.

He would feast at the table of legends.