SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 51: Anti-National element

After parting ways, Devrok quietly made his way toward the training hall, his footsteps heavy with thought. As Damien’s elder brother, he had long accepted the gap between them—but today, seeing his little brother unleash such monstrous strength had stirred something deep within him.

The kind of power Damien displayed... it was absurd. Overwhelming. Unreachable.

Devrok sighed.

No matter how much he pushed himself, the truth remained—Damien walked the True Path, gifted and chosen, while he could only stumble along the False Path. It was a cruel divide, one that effort alone couldn’t bridge.

Yet, just as his mind was dipping into frustration, his gaze drifted downward—to the strange black ring coiled around his finger.

A glimmer of hope sparked in his eyes.

That ring... it had changed everything.

"Hmmm, I can’t keep calling it ’the ring’..." he muttered, narrowing his eyes in contemplation. This mysterious treasure had ignited a new fire within him, a chance to rise from the so called mediocrity.

Such a miraculous artifact deserved a name.

His brows furrowed, then relaxed as inspiration struck. A slow grin pulled at his lips.

"As you give me hope once more... let’s call you ’New Hope’..."

He said the name aloud with quiet pride, the words sounding just right. If Damien were nearby, he would probably have narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Naming skills like that bordered dangerously close to protagonist levels.

Still feeling rather pleased with himself, Devrok found a secluded corner of the expansive training hall—far from the shattered walls and debris left behind by Damien’s earlier display. He sat down cross-legged, adjusting his posture until it was perfect.

Then, without hesitation, he began to meditate.

Breath steady. Spine straight. Focus razor-sharp.

The ancient meditative technique of the Valthorn family was slow, but reliable. As he activated the familiar method, the marble used for False Path training within him trembled faintly, letting out a low hum—like an old engine sputtering to life.

A thin, sluggish thread of grayish mana began to seep from the air around him, trickling into his mana pool, then circulating through his body.

Devrok frowned slightly.

’The Valthorn technique... it’s really below average,’ he thought grimly. ’At this rate, even a full year might not be enough to refine a single bone.’

Frustration ate at the edge of his thoughts, but he pushed it away. Only now was he starting to understand the deeper reason behind the kingdom’s stagnant strength. If even the royal family’s technique was this lackluster, then what of the commoners?

Still, he didn’t stop.

Giving up wasn’t in his nature.

Suddenly, his aura shifted—sharp and focused like a sword drawn from its scabbard. The air around him grew still, tense. Behind him, an ethereal figure began to materialize—his phantom.

The Stone-hearted Knight.

This time, the knight’s form was more distinct, its once-rigid features softened into something... more human. A faint calm rested on the knight’s spectral face, as though it, too, had begun to evolve.

As the phantom solidified, the mana around Devrok stirred faster, responding to the silent presence. His absorption rate quickened slightly.

It wasn’t much. But it was a start.

And Devrok wasn’t done.

He gently raised his hand, brushing a fingertip across the surface of New Hope.

Instantly, his soul trembled.

A rush of mana surged into him like a tide breaking free from a dam. His body buzzed with power. The sluggish trickle became a roaring stream.

Tenfold.

Devrok didn’t smile, didn’t smirk. His eyes simply closed as he entered a trance-like focus, letting the mana refine his bones, his spirit, his will.

He had found his edge. And he wasn’t going to waste a single second of it.

But he wasn’t alone.

High above, hidden in the shadows where light dared not reach, a pair of divine, piercing eyes opened. They shimmered with ancient knowledge and a dangerous curiosity.

A melodious voice—cold, yet dripping with allure—reverberated through the void.

"He’s not too bad..."

The voice observed him for a moment, then shifted its gaze.

Its attention landed on the cracked strength-measuring pillar in the distance. A small frown creased the air as a note of irritation crept into the voice.

"Using ten circuits to carve a rank 2 formation... Which retard created this pillar?"

A pause.

"Don’t they know using multiple circuits just makes the formation inefficient?"

The eyes narrowed, moving toward the pillar—only to suddenly halt, as if striking an invisible barrier.

The air around them grew tense.

"Damn... this prison," the voice cursed with restrained fury. "Still locking me out..."

The divine presence seethed in silence, then slowly retreated, its gaze lingering on the boy below.

Unaware of the watcher in the shadows, Devrok remained still—his presence calm, resolute.

In this moment, he was at peace.

Though his body bore the scars of failure, and the False Path was steeped in peril, he didn’t flinch.

He had been a genius once. Born talented. Driven. Unshakable.

But failure had a way of carving deep wounds. The day he failed to awaken—when his True Path never bloomed—was the day a quiet darkness took root in his heart.

He’d masked it with pride. Dismissed it with smiles.

But inside, it haunted him.

Now, though... with New Hope wrapped around his finger and an edge to chase after, he felt like that boy again—the one who once believed he could stand above all.

The future remained uncertain. It always would.

But for now, Devrok sharpened himself.

He would rise—not because destiny chose him—but because he refused to be forgotten.

After all... who knew how long the ring’s miracle would last?

Though the odds were slim, if it disappeared one day...

He had to be ready.

Always.

....

While Devrok and Niomi immersed themselves in their training, Damien had already eaten his fill and changed into a fresh set of long black coats. The cloth clung crisply to his frame, dark as shadow and dignified in its simplicity, a stark contrast to the weight of responsibility he now bore.

It was nearly time for the meeting with the Generals—an important discussion that would determine the next Guardian of the South.

As he adjusted the cuffs of his coat, his thoughts briefly drifted to the two Divine Researchers. Ever since their brief exchange during the banquet, they had remained silent.

"Hmph... Still too early," Damien muttered under his breath, brushing the thought aside like an unwanted fly.

With his composure settled, he made his way through the polished marble corridors of the castle, the faint echo of his boots trailing behind him. The large conference room soon came into view, framed by imposing silverwood doors adorned with the sigil of the Valthorn Kingdom.

The two guards flanking the doorway snapped to attention the moment they saw him.

"We greet the Crown Prince!" they chorused, fists striking their chests in a crisp salute.

After the string of security failures, the castle’s defenses had been completely reorganized. Every layer of rot had been scraped clean, and only those with pristine records remained. These two were living proof of that—elite warriors of the Valthorn army, their Iron-rank cultivation radiating like steady flames beneath iron discipline.

Damien offered them a polite nod. Small gestures held weight now. Ever since his overwhelming perfomance in the battlefield, every movement of his was watched, measured, and remembered.

The effect was immediate. The soldiers straightened further, their shoulders squaring, chests puffed out, a fire of pride igniting in their eyes.

Damien didn’t comment. He turned to push open the doors—when a sudden clamor burst from the far end of the hallway.

"Please, let this old lady meet with the prince!"

"My life savings! All stolen!"

"What are we supposed to do now?!"

Multiple voices rose in a wave of desperation and outrage. Damien paused, frowning slightly, the sharpness of the disruption pulling his attention. His gaze shifted toward the guards, seeking answers.

The soldier to his right—burly, dark-eyed, and built like a moving wall—stepped forward, his voice deep and composed.

"Your Highness, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Gray Silverback."

A curt nod followed the introduction. Gray wasted no time on pleasantries and spoke with the clipped clarity of a seasoned soldier.

"Yesterday, during the Armoured Rat tide, certain anti-national elements exploited the chaos. Multiple instances of robbery and murder were reported across the city."

His words were precise, the tone neither panicked nor apologetic. Just facts laid bare.

"Anti-national elements... hmm," Damien echoed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. His expression eased slightly. "Good. You’re sharp. You handled this well."

A subtle flicker of pride passed over Gray’s face, though he didn’t show it outwardly. Beside him, the second guard’s face darkened—clearly regretting his decision to stay silent while Gray seized the opportunity.

Then, in a tone laced with detached confidence, Damien asked, "So what’s the issue? Surely the criminals were apprehended by now. Just return their money."

He narrowed his eyes, a chill beginning to creep into his voice.

"Or... was the money never found?"

His gaze turned cold, the weight of suspicion settling on his shoulders like a black mantle. The thought surfaced uninvited—could the soldiers have kept the stolen goods for themselves?

Gray sensed the shift immediately. His back stiffened, and he bowed slightly in haste.

"Forgive me, Your Highness. The situation isn’t that simple. These weren’t just petty criminals... they were trained. Organized. Vanished without a trace. We recovered some stolen property, but most remains unaccounted for."

Damien fell silent, the hallway holding its breath with him. The cries outside continued—wails of grief, voices clinging to hope.

Then he spoke, his voice steady and authoritative. "Tell the people outside I’ll meet with them after the meeting."

At once, the second guard—desperate to regain lost ground—saluted and marched out, his boots thudding with newfound purpose.

Gray blinked, mildly surprised by his comrade’s sudden initiative.

But Damien had already turned away, stepping through the great doors without another word.

The hall swallowed him whole.