SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 52: Another crisis

A Few Moments Ago, Inside the Meeting Hall

The atmosphere inside the meeting hall was thick with tension. Dim sunlight filtered through the high arched windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor and the heavy wooden conference table that stood at the room’s center like a silent witness to the storm brewing within.

Seated around it were three of the kingdom’s most formidable powerhouses—General Claymen, Iron Fist, and Rebecca. Each wore an expression carved from stone, their faces unreadable yet heavy with unspoken thoughts.

They had all received the devastating news the previous night. General Felix—once the unshakable wall of the southern front—had fallen. But it wasn’t fate that shocked them; it was the manner of his defeat.

Claymen had reacted with immediate disbelief. His voice had thundered through his quarters as he cursed the messengers, threatening to shatter their legs if they dared spread falsehoods in the name of the honoured general.

But the soldiers hadn’t flinched. Despite the threat of violence, their accounts had remained unchanged—firm, unwavering.

Unwilling to believe, Claymen had left the northern gate under the cover of darkness, riding with grim purpose beneath the pale moonlight toward the southern outpost.

And what he saw there had chilled him to the marrow.

General Felix—once a living symbol of might and command—was now a broken husk. Limbless. Tied upright to an iron pole like a slaughtered beast awaiting burial.

The blood had dried, the wounds had festered, but the image was branded into Claymen’s mind.

Rumors whispered that the one responsible for this humiliating defeat was none other than the newly awakened crown prince, Damien Harrier.

Claymen had scoffed at first. How could that be? Yes, the boy had performed admirably in the battle against the Armoured Rats, but those were brainless beasts—far removed from the skill and ruthlessness of a seasoned Silver-ranked False Path warrior like Felix.

There had to be more to the story.

Before his thoughts could spiral any further, the door creaked open.

The clack of polished boots echoed in the silence as a tall figure entered the chamber. Damien strode in, clad in a sleek black long coat that brushed his calves with every step. A commanding presence seemed to trail in his wake, not loud or overwhelming—just natural. Earned.

He didn’t hesitate. He offered a polite smile, then moved to the head of the table, sitting with the quiet confidence of someone who had already won a war only others were waking up to.

Claymen’s eyes narrowed slightly. The prince’s posture was too relaxed, too self-assured. It wasn’t arrogance—it was certainty that came from confidence in your own abilities. That alone made Claymen frown deeper.

Iron Fist’s gaze was fixed on Damien from the moment he entered. There was curiosity there, but also calculation. The gears behind her stern face were already turning, measuring the boy—not as a royal, but as someone equal.

Then there was Rebecca.

Fiery, sharp-tongued, and proud, she leaned forward in her seat, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to contain the spark building within her. Her red hair shimmered like a flame beneath the light.

With a smirk tugging at her lips, she spoke without any reservations, her voice cutting through the silence.

"Let’s have a duel, crown prince."

Her eyes glimmered, her body shifting subtly as if she might leap across the table and throw the first punch right then and there.

Claymen looked scandalized.

This little brat...!

But Damien didn’t seem fazed. Instead, he offered the same small smile and responded in a calm, steady tone.

Then, addressing everyone in the room, he began to speak.

"All of you might already be aware," he said, his voice steady, commanding yet without bravado, "but let me repeat it for formality’s sake."

"Due to unfortunate circumstances, we have lost General Felix. Appointing someone who can guard the southern front is now a matter of urgent importance."

He paused, letting the weight of those words settle over the room like a velvet curtain.

"Tell me—do you have a candidate in mind?"

His gaze swept across the table, sharp yet composed. He wasn’t just asking; he was probing—testing their thoughts, their loyalties, their sense of responsibility.

He already had someone in mind, but this was not the time to act unilaterally. Listening, gauging their reactions—that was the strategy of a ruler, not a mere soldier.

Iron Fist nodded in agreement, her brow furrowed.

She didn’t need reminding. The Southern Gate stood dangerously exposed, and without a new commander, it would become a bleeding wound the Blue Hammer Kingdom would be more than eager to exploit.

Why merely harass the Valthorn Kingdom when you could plunder it entirely?

And yet, Iron Fist knew better. Blue Hammer had always been wary of claiming Valthorn outright. It wasn’t out of mercy—it was strategy. Conquest came with burdens.

Should they annex Valthorn, the responsibility of defending its borders from the endless beast hordes would fall on them. And that, they didn’t want.

But looting? Pillaging? Reducing the city to a husk that barely clung to survival?

That was well within their plans.

Now that the agenda of the meeting had been laid bare, the weight of responsibility settled over the chamber like a dense fog. The air was still, filled with anticipation as one by one, names began to be offered up for consideration.

"Hmm... Burning Hawk from the Eastern Gate is also suitable," Claymen said thoughtfully, stroking the edge of his chin. "He’s at peak Iron Rank. Given the right push, he could break into Silver soon enough."

Damien remained silent, his expression unreadable. He neither nodded nor frowned.

Claymen glanced at him, hoping for a reaction. But the prince gave him nothing—only the stillness of someone who was listening intently yet withholding judgment. Taking that silence as quiet disapproval, Claymen continued without pause.

Iron Fist chimed in here and there, occasionally offering brief comments or corrections, but she mostly stayed reserved, watching Damien closely. Rebecca, by contrast, remained entirely silent. She had leaned back in her chair, arms folded, her sharp eyes glinting with a strange sort of interest—waiting, watching, letting the others talk.

Damien didn’t rush.

He waited, letting the list of candidates rise and fall like the tide. Each name was weighed and dismissed in his mind, but he said nothing.

And then—

"Sword Master Anek..."

The name floated across the table like a spark carried on the wind.

A flicker of a smile appeared on Damien’s lips. Subtle, but unmistakable. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com

Claymen saw it instantly.

That was it. That was the name Damien had been waiting for.

He exhaled softly and leaned forward with a knowing tone. "Sword Master Anek is indeed a capable individual."

Damien gave a short, approving nod.

"Inform him of his appointment," he said with finality. "During the ceremony to honor the martyrs today, we’ll make the announcement official."

His tone was clipped and decisive.

Then, as if remembering something crucial, Damien turned his gaze toward Claymen.

"By the way, General Claymen, I trust the preparations for the ceremony are complete?"

Claymen answered with a solemn nod. "Yes, everything is ready."

A brief smile returned to Damien’s face as the meeting progressed smoothly. The tension in the room had started to loosen, the conversation now flowing with more ease.

But just as he was about to bring the meeting to a close, something caught his attention—a shadow that passed across Claymen’s face.

A flicker of hesitation.

A tightness around the eyes.

Damien narrowed his gaze slightly. "Is there something on your mind, General?"

Claymen shifted in his seat. For a moment, he looked like he might deny it, but then he let out a slow, heavy breath—one that seemed to carry the weight of weeks.

"This..."

He paused, collecting himself, then finally spoke.

"It has been two months since the soldiers were last paid. So far, they’ve remained disciplined... but discontent is beginning to take root. Impatientce is growing in the ranks."

Iron Fist let out a grunt and looked away. Rebecca crossed her arms tighter but said nothing. All three generals wore similar expressions—equal parts concern and helplessness.

Damien felt his heart skip.

His jaw tightened ever so slightly.

"Two months...?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. This was the first time he was hearing of such a thing.

It struck him like a slap.

Valthorn’s soldiers were not mere conscripts. They were elites, fiercely loyal and battle-hardened. To keep their morale high and ensure their loyalty remained unshaken, the kingdom paid them well—a gold coin a month at minimum, with high-ranking officers even receiving mana stones as part of their compensation.

It was a heavy burden on the treasury, yes—but one deemed necessary.

After all, no man would willingly risk his life for scraps. Loyalty demanded respect—and reward.

Damien’s eyes turned cold. His voice dropped to a low, cutting register.

"Why haven’t they been paid?"

The question cracked through the room like a whip.

But the moment he asked it, he noticed something... strange.

The expressions of the three generals shifted—subtle, but undeniable. Not fear. Not guilt. Just... discomfort. Hesitation. That silent language only veterans shared when discussing something ugly.

His brow twitched. A foreboding chill crept down his spine.

What the hell is this?

He didn’t like the look in their eyes—especially not when all three wore it.

His instincts, honed over years of battle and blood, whispered that something unpleasant was coming.

And sure enough, Claymen’s next words were exactly what Damien feared.

They made his shoulders sag ever so slightly.

And forced a quiet sigh from deep within his chest.

Man, this kingdom is just... sigh!