SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 46: End your life yourself, and I’ll grant you mercy

The streets of Valthorn City lay cloaked in an unnatural silence.

Shuttered storefronts lined the stone-paved roads like sealed tombs, their wooden doors bolted tight against an invisible threat. Dust drifted lazily in the dry evening air, disturbed only by the rhythmic thud of heavy boots—marching soldiers, patrolling with tense alertness. Other than the sparse guards, not a single soul wandered the city.

Damien walked swiftly through the hollow city, each footfall echoing against the cold stone. Though Valthorn was neither vast nor cramped, its layout twisted in a web of narrow lanes and straight thoroughfares that spanned nearly five kilometers from end to end. The city’s location within a mountain pass—an artery connecting the Thousand Beasts continent to the rest of the world—made it a place of immense strategic value.

But tonight, that importance felt like an illusion. An illusion teetering on the verge of collapse.

After a few minutes of purposeful strides, Damien arrived near the southern gate—and instantly stopped.

His eyes narrowed, his breath slowing to a steady grind.

The area was completely deserted. No soldiers, no sentries, not even a lookout on the walls.

And the gate...

It stood ajar. Slightly, but unmistakably. A creaking invitation for any enemy that dared.

Damien inhaled deeply, suppressing the surge of fury building in his chest. His lips curled in disgust.

The southern gate—Valthorn’s weakest link and the first line of defense against a potential Blue Hammer assault—had been abandoned. Left wide open like a fool’s backdoor.

"Felix, you son of a bitch..." he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, laced with contempt.

Initially, he’d assumed Felix might try to confront or delay him. That the old general would muster his remaining pride and make a final stand. But no—news of Damien’s earlier battle must have reached the bastard’s ears.

Realizing the poor bastards under his command couldn’t even slow Damien down, Felix had clearly ordered them to vanish.

"Very good, Felix," Damien muttered, his tone glacial. "You’ve successfully pissed me off."

---

Elsewhere, within a heavily fortified courtyard nestled in the military district, a pair of figures sat beneath a stone pavilion, facing each other over a polished obsidian chessboard.

One of them, General Felix—Defender of the South—wore simple leather armor, his usual plate discarded for ease. A massive sword leaned against his seat, always within arm’s reach, a reflection of his temperament. His thick brows were furrowed, not with concentration on the board, but with worry that refused to dissipate.

His opponent exuded something far more sinister.

Swathed in a voluminous black cloak that obscured his face and form, the other man radiated a deathly chill. His very presence made the air feel brittle, as though the space around him might fracture at the slightest touch. Frost clung to the edges of the stone floor beneath his chair.

Suddenly, the eerie quiet shattered.

"Kekek... No wonder Valthorn crumbles day by day," the cloaked man rasped, picking up a chess piece with skeletal fingers—so thin they barely looked human. "There is no strength in your soldiers... no vitality at all..."

Felix’s jaw clenched. His eyes darkened with restrained rage.

Those "weak" soldiers had served him loyally. Many had died today.

But Felix held his tongue. He couldn’t afford to antagonize the being before him.

The man was no ordinary cultist—he was a Deacon of the Forbidden Breath Cult.

Just as the tension thickened, the Deacon slammed his chess piece onto the board.

Crack!

The impact echoed like thunder. The polished surface splintered beneath his hand, black fragments skittering across the floor.

"Checkmate, little Felix..." came the mocking, hollow whisper.

Felix barely noticed. His mind had drifted far away—first to the failed assassination attempt on the prince... then to the monstrous defeat of the armored rat. A beast none of them thought could fall so easily.

"You fret too much, little Phoenix," the Deacon purred, his voice drifting like smoke. "How strong can he be? Still just Iron rank, no?"

Then, his tone shifted—darkening into something venomous.

"Besides, that prince has already been offered to the Lord. He cannot live for long."

The words struck Felix like a thunderbolt, his eyes snapping toward the Deacon in disbelief.

But before he could demand an explanation, the Deacon turned toward the courtyard entrance.

A shadow approached.

"You can ask him yourself... I’m sure the Prince won’t hide anything from you." A chuckle followed, ghostly and sharp.

"Kekek... Am I right, Crown Prince?"

Tap. Tap.

Bootsteps echoed ominously across the blood-slicked stone.

Damien strode into the courtyard without hesitation, ignoring the Deacon entirely. He had followed the twisted residue in the surrounding mana—like a trail of rot—and it had led him here.

What he saw along the way turned his stomach.

Hallways smeared crimson. Courtyards drowning in gore.

Corpses lay stacked in grotesque heaps—soldiers of Valthorn, executed without honor or mercy. Dozens upon dozens, discarded like cattle. Their eyes still open. Their blood not yet cold.

Damien’s expression froze, his fury turned inward, crystallizing into something quiet and lethal.

To him, the two men in this courtyard were already corpses. They just hadn’t realized it yet.

"Keke! So cold, Crown Prince Damien," the Deacon cackled again, voice rasping. "Is this how you treat your benefactor?"

Benefactor?

The claim sparked a flicker of curiosity in Damien—but only briefly. Whatever he owed the man, it no longer mattered.

His gaze locked onto Felix’s.

"General Felix," he said, each word heavy, deliberate. "Tell me—how would you like to die?"

His voice remained level, almost conversational.

But his eyes...

His eyes were frozen lakes—flat, depthless, and merciless.

The Deacon’s glee soured into irritation. He was being ignored. Utterly and thoroughly. Even his withering aura couldn’t draw Damien’s attention.

Felix’s face contorted. Humiliation painted every inch of his expression. Being spoken to like that—by a boy? An Iron rank?

Arrogant. Unbearably arrogant.

His rage exploded.

BOOM!

A wave of Silver rank pressure surged outward from him like a tidal wave. The chessboard between them shattered into dust, wooden pieces vaporized in an instant. Debris flew across the courtyard.

The weight of it bore down like a mountain—but Damien stood unmoved.

No strain crossed his brow. Not even a tremble in his limbs.

As if addressing a statue, Damien continued in the same calm voice.

"Considering your years of service to the Kingdom," he said, "I’ll offer you a choice."

"End your life yourself, and I’ll grant you mercy. Refuse..."

He let the words hang in the air like the edge of a guillotine.

"...and be prepared for something far worse."

Felix’s fists clenched. His veins pulsed.

"Good," he spat. "Good. Good."

Three times, each more venomous than the last.

"Looks like that bastard Roosevelt failed to discipline you," he sneered. "Let me beat some sense into your head. Call it a favor."

In one fluid motion, Felix snatched his greatsword and charged.

The Deacon watched in eerie silence, his empty sockets gleaming beneath his hood.

Something was different about the boy. This wasn’t the same Damien who had groveled before him for awakening just a month ago. That boy had been desperate—half-broken.

This one... was something else.

"Interesting... So very interesting..."

Felix’s sword closed the distance with terrifying speed, a blur of silver metal aiming to cleave through Damien’s skull.

But Damien’s eyes...

They glowed with a sudden burst of silver light.

"Accelerated Cognition."

The world slowed to a crawl.

His mind surged with supernatural clarity—processing a hundred times faster than any normal human.

Felix’s movements became sluggish in his perception. The swing of the sword, though lethal, now looked pitifully slow.

Damien stepped to the side with effortless grace, evading the blow by a hair’s breadth.

The sword slammed into the stone with a deafening BOOM, sending fragments and dust flying in all directions. A crater formed beneath the impact.

Felix’s eyes widened in disbelief.

"You little bastard..." he snarled.

An Iron rank had dodged his surprise attack.

The shame burned hotter than his rage.

Behind him, the Deacon chuckled softly. A cruel, knowing sound.

Then came the glow.

Bluish light shimmered in Damien’s palm—his soul weapon, Epoch Breaker, materializing with a metallic hum.

The air pulsed. The muzzle gleamed.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Shots rang out in rapid succession, echoing like war drums across the bloodstained courtyard.

Each bullet screamed toward Felix’s skull—unyielding, unforgiving.

However, Felix in the end was a silver rank warrior, not a mindless rat moving on instinct.

Moreover there was a difference of One major realm between, him and Damein.

The gap was so vast, if there were anyone else other than Damein, they would have long been crushed to death.

Watching the barrage of bullets coming his way, her merely snorted and raised his hands in front of him to block.

Boooom!

All the bullet with deadly precision landed on Felix hands, rhe impact caused the General to frown.

The power contained in these tiny balls was too much.

Hmmm! What an interesting weapon, this was the first time the Decon had seen something like Epoch Breaker so he was suprised.