SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 34: Too much of a hassle

Even after Damien’s chilling words silenced the air, a few soldiers continued to chuckle and mock the battered young guard.

Their laughter was jagged, nervously defiant—as if they were trying to convince themselves nothing had changed. That this was still just some joke. That the Crown Prince standing before them was still the same unpredictable fool from months ago.

"Hell," one of them scoffed, voice loud and laced with derision. "Given how crazy the Crown Prince is, he might even join us!"

He turned toward Damien, sneering. "Hahaa... Crown Prince, would you like to join us?"

Had it been in the past, perhaps Damien would have played along. Maybe he’d have laughed and brushed it off, masking fury with nonchalance. But that man no longer existed.

Not today.

Not anymore.

"Is this what the royal army has become?"

The question echoed in Damien’s mind, bitter as bile. A pathetic rabble of degenerates, incapable of basic discipline. If this was the level of their soldiers, escape during a siege would be a fantasy—defense, a delusion.

He clenched his jaw, the cool wind brushing past his face as his expression hardened.

"Looks like I’ll have to get serious..."

The atmosphere shifted.

What was once the quiet pressure of a glacier—controlled, composed—now erupted into something altogether more terrifying.

A storm.

Damien’s spiritual pressure surged like a crashing tide. A tempest of invisible power whipped through the training ground. The soil trembled beneath his feet, and the very air grew heavy, suffocating.

Hawk Eyes, who’d been watching the scene with idle amusement, suddenly stiffened. A shiver danced across his skin. His instincts screamed.

What the hell?!

Just a moment ago, he had been relaxed, barely alert—and now, something deep in his gut howled in primal fear.

I’m going to die!

Before the thought could fully register—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The thunderclaps rang out in rapid succession.

The ground shook as flashes of smoke and force exploded across the training yard. Gunfire, sharp and devastating, echoed as if the sky itself had cracked open.

In less than a second, silence returned.

And Hawk Eyes’ thoughts were swallowed by darkness.

The young castle guard, lying broken on the ground with his swollen face buried in dust, opened his eyes—just barely.

What he saw sent ice slithering through his veins.

Dozens of headless corpses surrounded him—soldiers who, moments earlier, had been laughing, jeering, spitting on him. Now, their lifeless bodies bled freely, painting the once-yellow soil a vibrant, grotesque red.

Still-warm blood pooled beneath him, and the coppery scent filled the air like incense in a temple of death.

Then—

Silence.

Not a soul dared breathe. The remaining soldiers stood frozen, wide-eyed, as if Damien might strike again at the slightest motion. Even the wind held its breath.

Damien stood motionless, Epoch Breaker still in his right hand, the long barrel of the weapon faintly smoking. Strange runes glowed softly along its length—eerie, pulsating lines of power.

He looked down at it, expression unreadable.

The carvings etched into its obsidian-black surface shimmered with residual energy, thrumming like a heartbeat.

"One... two... three..."

He mentally counted the corpses strewn across the ground, the cold precision of a man used to tallying death.

"Not bad," he concluded with mild satisfaction.

The weapon had fired ten times. Despite the destruction, it had only drained about five percent of his mana.

Efficient. Ruthless. Quietly elegant.

Some might have questioned him.

Why not command them to behave? Why not speak to them, discipline them as a good leader should?

But Damien knew better.

"Yeah," he thought dryly, "if I told them to behave, they’d nod like dogs, then go right back to pissing on the walls the moment I turned around."

"Too much of a hassle."

A lesson he had long since learned in the underworld: when people don’t fear your words, make them fear your actions.

Killing a few chickens to scare the monkeys—that was the rule. Violence taught quickly, and it left little room for misinterpretation.

This world wasn’t his old one.

Here, power spoke. And weakness died.

Before the blood could dry, a flurry of footsteps rushed in from all directions.

Castle guards flooded the training ground, weapons drawn and eyes wide in alarm.

"Heavens, what happened here?!"

"Those soldiers—what’s going on?!"

"Look at the... what the hell is that in his hand?!"

Gasps and whispers echoed. All eyes slowly turned toward Damien, standing at the epicenter of the slaughter, Epoch Breaker in plain sight.

The steel-cold confidence on his face stunned them more than the massacre.

Their gazes shifted—confusion warping into something else.

Realization. Awe. Fear. Hope.

Crown Prince Damien had awakened.

The recognition rippled through the crowd like lightning through dry grass.

A few eyes widened in disbelief. Others gleamed with fervent excitement. For the first time in years, the shadows surrounding the royal line seemed to thin—just a little.

Moments later, two familiar figures burst through the crowd—Devrok and Naiomi, weapons drawn, eyes blazing with urgency.

They scanned the field. When they spotted the bodies—headless, fresh, and still twitching—their eyes widened.

But their shock didn’t last long.

Both rushed to Damien’s side.

Naiomi threw herself into his arms, her delicate hands gripping him tightly, tears threatening the corners of her eyes.

"Husband, are you okay...?" she asked breathlessly, her voice trembling. She immediately began inspecting his body, her touch frantic.

Devrok, silent and composed, stood beside them, sword ready. His eyes swept the area for threats, his posture tense.

He didn’t ask what happened.

He didn’t need to.

He would always side with Damien.

After confirming Damien was unharmed, Naiomi exhaled and, without sparing the corpses a second glance, pressed herself against him like a protective shell.

Damien gently placed a hand on her back. "It’s okay. I’m alright."

He stepped past her, eyes falling on the young guard still half-laying on the ground.

His smile was gentle—almost brotherly. A complete contrast to the killing aura he radiated earlier.

"What’s your name?" Damien asked softly.

His tone was warm, sincere—as though he hadn’t just executed a dozen men moments earlier.

But the young guard had seen it all.

His lips quivered. He tried to speak but couldn’t find his voice. Finally, after gulping down the lump in his throat, he answered hoarsely, "Rafael... Rafael Ruperto."

As he uttered his name, blood surged in his chest, and he coughed violently—spraying crimson onto the dirt near Damien’s feet.

The splatter nearly reached Damien’s boot, but he paid it no mind.

Instead, he smiled.

"What a good name," he said sincerely. "With such a holy name, these injuries don’t suit you."

And with that, he raised his hand, hovering it just above Rafael’s battered forehead—his palm glowing faintly with silvery light.