SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 43: Romanticizing death

The fire raged like an inferno.

From afar, Valthorn City looked like it was being consumed by the wrath of a descending fire dragon—its wings of flame casting a crimson shadow across the land, as if heralding the end of days.

But the truth on the ground was far more grounded. More harrowing.

Upon the city walls, soldiers and civilians alike stood frozen, their faces illuminated by the flickering blaze, the dying light painting their eyes in hues of gold and orange. The heat licked their skin with punishing intensity—some winced and turned their heads slightly to shield their faces. Yet none dared to look away completely.

Because he didn’t.

Damien stood dangerously close to the roaring flame, almost swallowed by its heat. The blaze bathed his body in a molten hue, his outline glowing faintly like tempered steel pulled from a forge. The wind carried the scent of scorched earth and burning flesh, yet Damien remained unmoved—his posture unshaken, his expression void of emotion.

To him, it was merely heat.

If he dared to flinch today, then tomorrow—when the stakes were greater—his resolve would be questioned. And so, he stood still, a monument of unwavering will amidst chaos.

The gathered crowd held their breath, unwilling to miss a second of the moment. Though they might forget the names of those around them, though they might one day forget the cause of today’s battle, they would never forget the image burned into their minds: the lone young man standing defiantly before the fire, unblinking as the inferno licked the air around him.

Among the younger onlookers—hot-blooded men and women not yet weathered by time—something stirred. Passion bloomed in clenched fists and determined eyes. In their hearts, an unspoken vow was made.

With someone like him defending their home... what was there to fear?

Unbeknownst to Damien, this moment earned him the silent allegiance of dozens. Followers who, from this day forward, would stand with him until the bitter end.

He remained there, still as stone, until the flames finally died down. Only then did he turn, a faint plume of heat rising from his armor, and the air thick with the heavy, unmistakable stench of roasted flesh.

General Claymen and several high-ranking officers, who had been standing at a respectful distance, stepped forward the moment the danger passed.

Admiration shone clearly in Claymen’s eyes. Damien’s display hadn’t been for theatrics—it had been something far rarer. A message. One understood by all who had the honor of witnessing it.

As they approached, Damien turned to them and spoke with a quiet, grim purpose.

"How many gave up their lives for the homeland?"

Even in victory, death was never absent. War never allowed for clean triumphs. No matter how one-sided a conflict might seem, lives were always the currency.

Damien knew he wasn’t a god—he couldn’t save everyone. But he had to ask. He needed to hear the number.

As he waited, his thoughts turned inward.

Romanticizing death...

The so-called leaders of the World Level were master manipulators. Twisting the bitter truth of loss into something grand. Glorious. With nothing but empty words, they could convince countless souls to offer their lives without hesitation—for honor, for country, for pride.

Damien had used those very tactics before. He wasn’t above them. But knowing the truth didn’t mean one had to embrace it completely.

Outwardly, his face shifted—grim, pained. A carefully practiced sorrow. Inside, his heart remained still.

Show people what they want to see.

If grief bought loyalty, then grieve.

A good leader didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve—he wielded it as a weapon, learned to fracture his own emotions into masks and layers. Damien was still learning. At times, the cracks showed—a flicker of genuine emotion before the mask settled once more.

General Claymen finally responded, voice low and solemn. "Twenty brave soldiers sacrificed their lives for the peace and prosperity of the motherland."

The officers flanking him stood straighter, their expressions hardened by loss and pride.

Damien gave a single nod. Then, his voice rang out, firm and unwavering.

"Tomorrow morning, a ceremony will be held to honor the martyrs and reward their bravery. Their families must attend."

Claymen nodded gravely in return, the message received and understood.

With a subtle hand gesture, he summoned a slightly overweight man with a bald crown and nervous energy. The man approached, clutching a thick leather-bound file to his chest.

He was the officer responsible for cataloging the day’s material losses.

"Fifty Frost Iron Swords were lost."

"One thousand magma-iron-tipped arrows used."

"Fifty warhorses, dead or irreparably wounded."

The list continued, the man’s voice almost mechanical. Damien listened carefully, nodding occasionally, his mind filing away each number with precision.

When the man fell silent, Damien turned back to Claymen.

"How many warhorses remain at the Northern Gate?"

The general didn’t hesitate. "Sixty-one, against the sanctioned strength of two hundred."

He paused for a heartbeat, gauging the prince’s face.

When Damien’s expression remained calm, Claymen added, "The Black Horse Ranch—our primary supplier—was attacked by the Bloodfang Gang. That’s the cause of the shortfall."

Damien didn’t react outwardly, but a storm brewed quietly behind his eyes.

The Bloodfang Gang.

So, they still breathe...

He remembered them well. They were the ones responsible for that death—the death that had started it all. A score yet to be settled.

Before the silence grew heavy, Claymen gestured behind him. A proud-looking young man with a warrior’s build stepped forward. His chest was broad, and his aura flared subtly with the telltale signature of an Iron Rank fighter.

"Red Tiger, quickly greet the Crown Prince."

The young man bowed, his posture respectful—but just barely.

"Greetings, Royal Highness," he said, voice calm and clipped.

Damien allowed it. Ceremony still had its place.

With an arched brow, he glanced at Claymen, silently requesting context.

The general smiled slightly. "This is Red Tiger—my most talented disciple. I intend to hand over command of the Northern Gate to him once I retire."

The statement gave Damien pause.

Claymen was old. Older even than King Roosevelt Harrier. A man who had once stood beside Damien’s grandfather, Alric Harrier, during wars most had already forgotten.

It made sense.

Red Tiger’s eyes turned cold when Damien didn’t return his greeting.

Of course, Damien noticed the subtle frost in the young man’s gaze. He simply smiled—calm, unreadable—and let it pass without comment.

He had more important matters to address.

And the day was not yet over.

Although he ignored the young man for now but that didn’t he mean he would let this slide.