SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 48: He was still being kind hearted

The midnight moon shone grimly over Valthorn City, casting a cold silver glow that stretched across the rooftops and stone pathways. The light seemed to hold its breath, hesitant and unsure as it witnessed the silent drama unfolding in the quiet streets below.

A lone man walked with unrelenting purpose. His footsteps echoed, measured and sharp, like a judge delivering a sentence. Behind him, a grotesque sound dragged through the silence — a harsh, metallic scraping that grated against the cobblestone roads. It was the sound of vengeance in motion.

A dark shadow followed Damien from behind like a specter born from his own malice.

"Keke... I like it..." came the unsettling giggle from Decon, his presence curling around the air like poison smoke.

Damien didn’t respond, his expression stoic, but his eyes gleamed with a ruthless light that left Decon momentarily speechless. In all his years, he’d seen many twisted souls—desperate, broken men who clung to cruelty like a lifeline. But this was something else. Something far colder. A young man with cruelty etched deep into his bones, wielding it not as a shield, but as a scalpel.

The iron armor scraped louder against the stone — a dreadful, dragging wail that sounded like the dying breath of a war god. It sliced through the stillness of night, rousing even the most stubborn sleepers. One by one, shutters creaked open and wary faces peered down from their windows, squinting in the dim moonlight.

Gasps rang out. Eyes widened.

They recognized the massive frame being dragged like a carcass.

"General Felix...?" someone whispered, their voice trembling.

"That’s the Southern Guardian!"

"He’s a silver rank! Who could’ve done this?"

Their drowsy haze evaporated instantly, replaced by a collective tension that crackled through the air.

And then they saw him.

"Wait... is that Crown Prince Damien?"

"It is! Gods above... what’s going on?"

"Why is he dragging General Felix like that?"

Confusion rippled through the spectators, quickly followed by shock and growing unease. The image before them was one they could never have imagined — their hero from earlier today, now hauling the limp and bloodied body of one of the kingdom’s highest-ranking warriors like refuse.

Still, Damien moved forward without pause, undeterred by the stares, the whispers, the fear.

His eyes remained fixed ahead, yet his senses were sharp. Every sound, every flicker of mana was tracked. Though Decon remained out of his direct line of sight, Damien was under no illusion. The man would strike if he showed the slightest hint of vulnerability.

He didn’t plan on giving him that chance.

The cold night air grew more biting as Damien approached the southern gate. The ten-foot-tall wooden doors loomed ahead, eerily open as though inviting death into the city.

Beyond them, the moonlit plains stretched out like a silver sea. The land was serene, yet blood-soaked in history — the very same fields where the Blue Hammer Kingdom had launched countless assaults, torching spirit wheat fields that brought Valthorn its wealth. Crops from these fields were worth fortunes in Mesarith City, and their destruction was an economic wound the kingdom could ill afford.

Yet tonight, Damien stood at that gate not as a defender, but as a deliverer of justice.

Decon’s voice broke through the air again, calm yet threaded with cold amusement.

"I’m really curious. What do you plan to do with him...?"

Damien said nothing. He simply placed Epoch Breaker against Felix’s kneecaps, the weapon humming with restrained violence.

One.

Then two.

And so it began.

Over a thousand precise, brutal strikes later, General Felix — Valthorn’s mighty Southern Guardian — lay limbless, his body a grotesque shadow of its former glory. Damien had healed him just enough to preserve life, to ensure his consciousness would return.

And it did.

Felix awoke to agony so pure it twisted his scream into a guttural howl.

"You son of a bitch!" he roared, blood dripping from his mouth. "How dare you do this to me?!"

Damien’s eyes flared with a terrible coldness. He raised his leg and drove a brutal kick into Felix’s side. His own foot throbbed from the impact — Felix’s body, even broken, was tough as steel — but he showed no reaction.

"You should thank the heavens you’re still breathing," Damien said, his voice so icy it could freeze fire. "Your fate could’ve been far worse."

He leaned closer, his breath whispering into Felix’s ear.

"So keep your mouth shut. Or else... I’ll toss you into a pit of a hundred silverback gorillas in heat. I’m sure their swords won’t show you mercy."

Felix froze. His bravado melted into dread as Damien stepped back.

Even Decon, twisted as he was, blinked.

A loud gulp echoed from Felix. His mind tried to conjure excuses, explanations — anything. But none came.

This young man was deranged.

Evil incarnate.

Even Decon — a man who’d danced with demons — had to admit, he’d never gone so far. Not like this.

Damien turned and walked away without another word. Moments later, he returned from a nearby outpost, dragging a long iron chain and a set of thick iron poles behind him.

He began working without pause.

Bang. Bang.

Metal struck stone as Damien hammered the iron pillar deep into the earth, sweat slicking his forehead but never dulling his resolve.

He wrapped the iron chain around Felix’s neck like a leash, securing him to the pole like a wild beast. The general groaned, slumping forward in utter defeat.

But Damien wasn’t finished.

He found a large wooden board, sat down, and began writing with deliberate strokes. Each letter dripped with spite.

> "Anyone who spits on this traitor’s face shall receive gold coins from me."

He nailed it to the pillar above Felix’s head, stepping back to admire his work like an artist completing a masterpiece.

Decon finally spoke, cocking his head with curiosity.

"Young man... aren’t you going too far? Why not just kill him and be done with it? Why strip him of every shred of dignity?"

Damien didn’t even look at him. Internally, he snorted.

Too far?

He was still being merciful.

For a brief moment, he had considered it — to simply kill Felix and erase all future complications. It would’ve been cleaner.

But no.

Felix was more useful alive. A warning. A lesson.

A symbol of what happened to traitors.

He would serve as Damien’s first true stepping stone — not just for vengeance, but for power.

Still facing away, Damien spoke softly, his words laced with quiet venom.

"Aren’t you going to attack? I thought the rats from the Forbidden Breath cult wanted my head?"

Decon laughed. "Of course I’m going to kill you... but not today."

The air shifted suddenly.

A wave of killing intent surged forward, sharp enough to shred flesh. Damien tensed instinctively but didn’t move. He let it pass over him like a storm cloud.

When it faded, he exhaled and nodded.

Unbothered.

Unmoved.

"Good," he muttered.

"Keke... I knew I made the right choice," Decon whispered, before vanishing like smoke in the wind.

Once the eerie silence returned, Damien turned back toward the empty gate.

"He really didn’t attack... strange," he murmured. "There’s something off. Someone’s interfering."

His gut churned with unease, but he knew the answers wouldn’t come tonight.

With a heart full of questions, Damien finally returned to the castle.

---

Training Room.

Despite the hour, Damien couldn’t sleep.

His body ached, but his mind burned. Tonight marked only the second time he’d cultivated properly since awakening his powers. His battle with Felix had revealed a stark truth: raw strength mattered.

If he’d been at the peak of Iron Rank, Felix wouldn’t have stood a chance.

He settled into a meditative pose. At once, the spiritual seeds within him stirred.

The air thickened.

His Accelerated Domains activated with a hum, and mana surged toward him like a tide.

Damien exhaled slowly, and the cultivation began.

Minute by minute, his bones were reforged — shifting from brittle human marrow into something more — metallic, grey, honed by power.

Each hour, his progress grew by two percent.

Six hours passed in a blink.

By the end, over twenty-one percent of his bones had transformed.

He had broken into the third stage of Iron Rank.

At this rate, Silver Rank was only a week away.

Damien opened his eyes and exhaled deeply, feeling the weight of progress settle in his limbs.

But before he could rise, the door creaked open.

Niomi and Amyra stepped in.

Niomi’s raven-black hair was tied into a neat bun. Her white training uniform hugged her slender frame, accentuating her graceful poise. She looked sharp — beautiful, but stern.

Amyra followed, her every step deliberate. The aura she radiated was one of discipline and quiet command.

Damien glanced at Niomi, gauging her strength.

"She’s still far from Stage 2..." he thought, mildly disappointed.

Both women spotted him and paused. A flicker of something crossed their faces — hesitation? Surprise?

Damien didn’t miss it.

Internally, he chuckled.

The rumors had begun to spread.

Last night’s display hadn’t gone unnoticed.

And he had no intention of slowing down.