SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 50: My elder brother really couldn’t be the protagonist

"Husband, are you okay?"

Niomi’s voice rang out in a mix of fear and concern as she sprinted toward Damien, her eyes wide with panic. The training hall’s heavy silence, broken just moments ago by a thunderous explosion, now echoed with her hurried footsteps.

Under Amyra’s watchful eye, she had only just begun meditating when the ground trembled beneath her, the shockwave rattling her bones. The sound—it came from where Damien had gone.

Without hesitation, she bolted.

"Ahhh! Niomi, calm down, I am okay..."

Damien’s voice was reassuring but carried a rough undertone, the corners of his lips forced into a smile. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close in a firm, loving embrace. His palm rubbed slow, soothing circles across her back, grounding her panic with warmth.

His heart thudded—not from pain or fatigue, but from the raw emotion in her eyes. Genuine worry. Genuine care. She didn’t think twice before rushing to him.

And this wasn’t the first time.

He’d felt it before, in the quiet gestures, the lingering touches. But now, it was undeniable. The woman in his arms truly cared about him.

Before he could speak again, the training hall’s heavy doors slammed open.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Dozens of soldiers burst in, armored boots pounding against stone, swords drawn, eyes blazing. Devrok was at their helm, a gleaming blade clutched in his calloused hands. His gaze swept the room, sharp and probing.

The moment his eyes landed on the cracked strength-measuring pillar and the demolished wall behind it, he halted mid-stride.

"What the hell is going on here?"

The words slipped out of him, low and awestruck.

The soldiers paused, their tension dissipating when they saw Damien upright and unscathed—well, mostly. His skin had a pale sheen, and faint sweat glistened on his forehead, but otherwise, he stood firm and calm. Alive.

Devrok narrowed his eyes slightly. Something was off.

Meanwhile, Amyra had yet to move or blink.

Her eyes were locked on the pillar, and her expression slowly contorted into disbelief. She stepped forward, her footsteps soft but her heart racing.

She noticed something the others hadn’t.

The previously pristine surface of the iron pillar now bore a three-inch-deep fist imprint, etched like a mark from a giant’s strike. Web-like cracks radiated outward in every direction, running across its surface like broken glass frozen mid-shatter.

Impossible.

She had examined this pillar herself after it was first moved to the castle. It was a masterwork of defensive formations—constructed by a Rank 2 Formation Master, layered in silver-rank durability enchantments. Even she, at the peak of Gold rank and famed for her brute strength, wouldn’t be able to scratch it.

And yet, here it stood—cracked, broken, and almost caved in.

Her gaze slowly drifted across the room, finally landing on Damien.

No. It couldn’t be him.

Not him.

She immediately dismissed the thought. No matter how much she tried to entertain the idea, it refused to fit the reality she knew. Not even King Roosevelt, with all his power and years of cultivation, could have done this to the pillar.

She would sooner believe pigs could soar through the sky than accept Damien was responsible.

Yet... there was no one else here.

Devrok’s expression, in contrast, was harder to read. His jaw clenched slightly, and his brow furrowed with thought.

He had seen the aftermath of Damien’s battle with Felix. The general had been a mess—bruised, bloodied, and barely conscious. At first, Devrok thought it was a fluke, perhaps an ambush or a weaponized scheme.

But after some investigation, he’d heard the whispers.

Damien had done it. Alone.

An Iron ranker utterly dominating a Silver rank.

The thought alone had made Devrok’s skin crawl, but now, looking at the shattered pillar, everything clicked into place.

He exhaled slowly, composing himself, and raised a hand in a subtle gesture, signaling Damien.

Damien caught it and gave a slight nod. He gently loosened his grip on Niomi and whispered softly, "Relax. I’m really fine." His fingers lingered briefly on her shoulder before he turned and walked toward Devrok.

Together, the two men exited the hall, leaving behind a room filled with silence, questions, and a creeping sense of awe.

The moment Damien stepped beyond the threshold of the hall, his voice broke the silence with a calm, steady tone.

"What is it?"

There was no urgency in his voice, just a cool, practiced control, as if he’d anticipated this conversation long before it began.

As he waited for Devrok’s reply, Damien took the opportunity to quietly study his elder brother.

It didn’t take long for him to notice something was... different.

The aura surrounding Devrok had shifted. No longer did it flare with brute strength or radiate reckless force. Now it felt refined—like a blade honed over countless battles, tempered and finally returned to its sheath. There was still sharpness in his presence, but it was veiled, disciplined. His black eyes no longer glimmered with the impulsiveness of a warrior craving battle—they were calm, carrying depth, like still water hiding a storm beneath.

Huh?

Damien’s brows furrowed subtly as he picked up on the mana fluctuations swirling around Devrok. They were faint, but he could feel them clearly—rising and surging with an eerie steadiness.

"Five percent refinement..."

His heart stirred with genuine surprise.

Devrok was now on the brink of reaching Stage 2. The progress he’d made was startling—almost monstrous. Only Damien himself had moved faster. Even Niomi, with her rich foundation and diligent cultivation, couldn’t match this pace.

But that made no sense.

Devrok was walking the False Path. Such a leap in cultivation should’ve been impossible, especially with the spiritual field’s natural limitations.

Before Damien could delve further into his thoughts, Devrok halted and turned slightly, catching the faint flicker of astonishment in Damien’s expression.

"Something wrong?" he asked, tilting his head.

Damien chuckled, brushing it off with practiced ease.

"Hahaha, nothing. I just remembered something funny..."

But behind the laugh, his thoughts churned.

His expression remained casual, yet inwardly he scrutinized his elder brother with a hint of unease.

"No, this isn’t normal," Damien thought, eyes narrowing slightly. "That aura... his progress... even his presence feels different."

Suddely a strong sense of Dejavu hit him, and a strange notion tickled the edge of his mind. An idea so ridiculous, he almost scoffed at himself for entertaining it.

When he was at the peak of of power, in order to kill boredom, he had read few novelkisss, Devrok actions and behavior reminded him of certain template.

"My elder brother really couldn’t be the protagonist... could he?"

That thought alone made his heart skip. A flicker of instinct—perhaps caution—rose from deep within.

"I have to be careful."

Before his musings could continue, Devrok spoke again, his voice low but direct.

"General Claymen and the others are waiting for you downstairs. They said it’s something urgent."

Damien gave a curt nod. He had expected as much. The southern gate was left exposed—Felix was no longer fit for command. Naturally, the generals would waste no time in demanding a solution.

Without another word, Damien turned, his robe fluttering lightly behind him as he made his way toward his quarters. He needed to change before facing the council.

Devrok remained behind, silent.

He watched his younger brother’s back, his gaze unreadable. Only after Damien disappeared into a different corridor did he slowly turn away.

He didn’t ask how Damien had gained such overwhelming strength in such a short time. Didn’t inquire about the gun or the fight with Felix. He didn’t even press for answers about the impossible damage to the training pillar.

He understood something Damien also knew—everyone had their own secrets, their own encounters with fate.

He had his own, too.

His hand drifted to the black ring encircling his index finger. A small, unassuming band, easily dismissed as scrap.

He had found it while rummaging through an old, forgotten armory, originally looking for a spare sword. At first, he thought it was worthless, even prepared to toss it aside.

But the moment he touched it, he felt his mana stir—rushing through his body like a storm unleashed. His absorption speed surged tenfold.

A miracle.

The ring, which seemed like nothing more than discarded junk, had become the key to unlocking his potential. A turning point.

And he wasn’t about to waste it.

While Devrok quietly contemplated the changes within himself, something else stirred in the shadows.

Unseen, unknown, a presence watched the corridor Damien had disappeared into.

A pair of ethereal eyes—beautiful beyond comprehension—gazed in that direction, filled with intrigue and confusion. A soft shimmer of mana danced in the void, barely perceptible, like a whisper in the wind.

Then a voice—cold as ancient ice, yet hauntingly melodic—drifted through the unseen space.

"Indeed... it wasn’t an illusion."

"That was the aura of a Soul Weapon..."

It would have been interesting to see how Damein would have reacted if he had witnessed this scene.

However given his suspicion, he definately wouldn’t be surprised.