SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 36: If only I were stronger…

"Forbidden Breath cult... what are you planning?"

Damien’s voice was a low murmur, barely audible over the rustle of the wind brushing across the blood-soaked courtyard. Yet the weight behind those words was undeniable. His brows furrowed as a storm of suspicions brewed in his mind, instinct whispering that the shadowy cult’s hand was somehow involved in the strange turn of events.

His gaze sharpened, he had thousand of questions in his mind and the only way to find the answer was..

"General Felix... looks like I’ll have to personally visit and ask him a few questions."

For a moment, a cold silence blanketed the training ground. Damien could feel the tightening grip of conflict encroaching on both sides—external enemies lurking in the dark and internal rot festering within the very halls of power. He was caught in a vice.

Beside him, Naiomi and Devrok remained still, offering silent support. Both understood the gravity of what was unfolding. Neither spoke. This was Damien’s moment to process.

From the shadows surrounding the courtyard, castle staff emerged, their movements eerily efficient. Clad in plain grey uniforms, they carried long brooms and stretchers. With the indifference of those accustomed to death, they began wiping up blood and hoisting headless corpses onto the stretchers, preparing to haul them outside the castle walls like pieces of discarded vegetables.

But Damien’s eyes suddenly gleamed with cold light. His voice cut through the ambient noise like a blade.

"Wait!"

The staff froze mid-motion, confusion flickering across their faces as they turned toward him, unsure of what they had done wrong.

Damien ignored them. His gaze slid to Devrok, and in a tone devoid of emotion, he gave his next order.

"Search their bodies for any clues. Then burn them."

Devrok didn’t hesitate. He waved over five guards with a curt gesture and began overseeing the search personally, eyes sharp and movements decisive. One by one, they began inspecting the dead, turning over stiff limbs and checking every pocket, every inch of cloth or skin for markings or items that might hint at allegiance or origin.

From the sidelines, Damien watched like a hawk. His mind was moving faster than ever. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

Then, a sudden disturbance echoed from the castle’s main gates—a low rumble of boots on stone, a heavy synchronized march.

Damien turned.

From the archway, a group of thirty men stepped into the courtyard. They were dressed in dark leather armor, polished and deadly, with the insignia of two crossing swords emblazoned across their chests. Their movements were precise, mechanical, as if cut from a single cloth. A trail of faint smoke clung to their boots, as though they’d walked straight out of a battlefield.

Their presence was thunderous.

A suffocating killing intent radiated from their ranks—sharp, overwhelming, and suffused with the stench of blood. These were not ordinary soldiers. They were wolves forged in fire, veterans whose mere presence could break lesser men.

At the front of the formation strode a man with long, ash-black hair tied into a ponytail. A jagged scar split his forehead, as if some great beast had tried to claw his head in two. His aura was domineering, and the air around him seemed to hum with suppressed power.

A warrior of Iron Rank.

Damien’s eyes narrowed. Recognition stirred.

"Sword Master Anek...?"

Memories, once buried in the chaos of youth, surfaced. Damien remembered now—this was the very man who had taught the fundamental tenets of swordsmanship to both him and Devrok when they were still learning how to stand tall. His teachings had carved discipline into their bones.

Even Devrok’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the man.

"Sword Master Anek?" Naiomi echoed, voice laced with disbelief. She, like everyone else, hadn’t expected to see such a revered figure again—especially not marching in unannounced.

All around them, guards stood frozen. Eyes widened with reverence. Every one of them, in some form or another, had been shaped by this man’s teachings. His presence stirred something unspoken in their hearts.

Without a word, Anek fell to one knee and bowed. Every single soldier behind him followed in perfect unison, their spines bending to a flawless ninety degrees. The discipline, the harmony—it was breathtaking.

Then, a voice rang out, firm and dignified:

"Crown Prince, please punish me as you see fit for arriving late."

Damien remained silent. His mind moved like a whirlwind, dissecting the scene, assembling pieces, connecting motives. Then, slowly, understanding dawned. Anek’s presence, the timing, the explanation forming even before the man could utter it.

But the thirty soldiers remained bowing, statues of loyalty, awaiting his command.

The ordinary guards watched with awe burning in their chests. Compared to the chaotic, disjointed group of mercenaries earlier, these were soldiers—true soldiers. The difference was night and day. As if the first group had been nothing but imposters.

Moments passed in stillness.

Then Damien finally broke the silence, his voice quiet but cutting:

"Why are there only thirty of you?"

It was a question he already knew the answer to—but he needed to hear it aloud.

Sword Master Anek, still bent in his bow, answered with thunder in his voice:

"Replying to the Crown Prince. General Felix could not send more soldiers. He was... preoccupied. The Blue Hammer Kingdom launched a sudden attack. The General begs for your forgiveness."

A shadow crossed Damien’s face, his jaw tightening.

"The Blue Hammer Kingdom?" he repeated, voice low and dangerous.

"What a great timing.."

The corners of his lips curled into a smile—not of joy, but of ice-cold fury.

"Very good... how bold of you, General Felix."

Then, with an air of quiet authority befitting a monarch, Damien spoke:

"Rise."

Immediately, the thirty soldiers stood tall, heads raised high, shoulders squared. Their gazes were focused, resolute. Watching them, Damien’s confidence in the kingdom’s military wasn’t just restored—it burned brighter than ever.

But the moment was broken by the sound of pounding hooves.

A warhorse galloped toward them from the eastern path, bearing a rider clad in white robes with black horizontal stripes—a messenger. His steed was lightning fast, its pace relentless.

Before he even arrived, he shouted:

"The Northern gate has been attacked by a horde of Armoured Rats!"

There was no pause, no chance to confirm the message had been received. The rider veered away at once, riding hard toward his next destination.

Damien’s expression didn’t change. He inhaled slowly, then gave a simple command:

"Let’s go."

There was no time for rest. No room for mercy.

First the horde, then you, General Felix, Damien thought coldly. Your fate is sealed.

With his cape fluttering behind him, Damien strode forward. Thirty elite soldiers followed behind, footsteps steady.

Devrok watched with a heavy heart. He knew he could not join the fight—his duty was to guard the castle. Still, worry flickered in his eyes as he watched his brother disappear into the distance.

Naiomi stood quietly, her gaze locked on Damien’s back. Her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white.

If only I were stronger...

If she had the power, her husband wouldn’t have to shoulder so many burdens alone.

Her eyes burned with quiet resolve.

She would not remain weak.

She would rise.