SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 53: Establishing a bank

"The royal family is supposed to pay the salaries..."

The words hung in the air, deceptively simple—yet they landed like a hammer blow.

The chamber fell deathly still.

Damien’s eyes narrowed. His lips parted slightly, but no immediate response came. A deep frown etched itself across his face as he absorbed the implications.

He hadn’t expected this.

He should’ve known. But hearing it now, so bluntly, shook him more than he cared to admit.

Slowly, he inhaled, steadying the storm swirling inside. His voice, when it came, was low but sharp.

"What is the amount?"

The three generals glanced at one another, a silent exchange of concern before Claymen finally spoke. freewebnøvel.com

"We have roughly seven hundred men under arms," he began, tone careful, measured. "In addition, we’ll need funds to reestablish the Southern Army’s infrastructure..."

He hesitated for only a heartbeat before delivering the number.

"Altogether, we’ll need... one thousand gold coins."

The room seemed to grow colder.

Claymen didn’t say more. He let the number settle in the air, heavy and oppressive, like an invisible weight pressing down on everyone.

"One thousand gold coins... huh?" Damien murmured, his voice distant as if he were speaking to the shadows lining the corners of the war room.

His eyes shimmered briefly with a dangerous glint, like dark steel catching the light. It was a tremendous sum—an overwhelming burden even for a royal treasury.

Valthorn’s economy was a peculiar one, propped up not by trade or taxation, but by the spoils of monster hunting. The fangs, hides, claws, and cores of slain beasts served as the lifeblood of the kingdom’s wealth. Unlike other nations, Valthorn demanded no taxes from its citizens. Only a yearly offering—a symbolic gesture of loyalty, not a reliable source of income.

That left the kingdom’s fortune tied to the ebb and flow of bloodshed.

Damien’s face remained placid, a mask of indifference that betrayed nothing. But beneath that calm exterior, his thoughts churned like a black tide.

So not everything can be solved through strength alone...

With a quiet sigh, he nodded.

"I’ll arrange the funds in a few days. Don’t worry about it."

His tone was steady, confident. The kind of voice that inspired trust—even when that trust came at a personal cost.

The truth didn’t matter.

Whether the royal vaults were overflowing or gathering dust... the soldiers had to be paid. A sword may win battles, but only gold bought loyalty.

Claymen gave a silent nod, but the slump in his shoulders revealed his doubts. There was no joy in his posture—only resignation.

Because if the money could have been found... they would’ve found it by now.

With that unspoken weight lingering between them, the meeting was brought to a close. One by one, the generals filed out, their armor faintly clinking as they disappeared down the corridor to oversee preparations for the day’s ceremony.

Damien remained seated for a moment, his mind still lingering on the treasury.

But time waited for no one. Another meeting demanded his presence.

---

The mood outside was no better.

"How can we live in peace in this kingdom when our belongings aren’t even safe..."

"If the Crown can’t protect us, what’s the point of living here?"

"My cousin in Blue Hammer hasn’t even heard of a robbery in years..."

The voices reached him before the people did—angry, bitter, and loud enough to pierce stone walls.

Damien’s frown deepened.

The tension in the city had reached a boiling point.

At his side, Gray Silver Back—his new follower—saw his expression darken and immediately leaned in.

"Crown Prince, these people are ignorant. They speak out of fear, not reason. Pay them no mind."

Damien didn’t reply.

He simply shook his head and continued walking, his boots echoing through the corridor as Gray led him into a modest hall already thick with voices and frustration.

The moment Damien entered, the change was palpable.

Dozens of civilians stood crowded in the space—traders, farmers, and artisans alike. Rage simmered in their eyes, their brows furrowed with distrust and desperation. But the moment they caught sight of him, their anger gave way to awe and hope.

The murmurs began.

"Shhh! Crown Prince Damien is here..."

"He’s come to hear us himself—surely, he’ll help us..."

Hope, fragile and fleeting, sparked across the room.

And then, like water breaking through a dam, they surged forward.

"Your Highness!"

"Please, you must listen—"

"They raided my home, took everything!"

They pressed in, forming a desperate ring around him, each eager to be heard.

But before they could draw any closer, Gray stepped forward and released a sharp, commanding breath. His voice rang out like a war drum, laced with mana.

"Maintain distance—" he growled, "—or do not blame me for being rude."

His words cracked through the hall like thunder.

It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck the floor.

In an instant, the crowd froze. The air grew still. Not a single soul dared take another step.

Silence reigned.

Damien stepped forward, eyes scanning the tense crowd. His presence was regal, but not unreachable. Powerful, yet not arrogant.

There was no need for titles or ceremony now.

The people needed more than promises.

They needed a solution.

Then, through the silence, an elderly woman stepped forward.

Her frame was frail, hunched with the weight of years and hardship. Wisps of gray hair clung to her temples, and her eyes, clouded with age, brimmed with tears that slipped silently down her weathered cheeks.

Her voice trembled, cracked with grief.

"Crown Prince... you have to help me. They... they took everything. All my life’s savings, gone in a night..."

She wept openly, her shoulders shaking as she clutched a faded cloth bundle to her chest—perhaps all she had left.

Her sorrow seemed to break the dam that held the others in place.

One by one, more people stepped forward.

A young merchant with bruises under his eyes, clutching a ledger smeared with blood.

A blacksmith with soot still on his face, speaking of thugs who stole his coinbox and beat his apprentice.

A mother who had lost not just coin, but the food meant to last her children through the week.

Every story, every plea, echoed with desperation and injustice.

Damien stood quietly in the center of the storm, listening to them all. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t rush. He bore their grief like a knight bears armor—heavy, but never discarded.

When the voices finally quieted, Damien spoke.

His tone was calm, yet it carried through the hall with absolute authority.

"Worry not," he said, eyes sweeping across the crowd. "All of your belongings will be returned. This—"is my promise to you."

For a moment, the hall was still.

The crowd didn’t erupt in cheers, nor did they fall to their knees in gratitude. There was only silence—a silence heavy with uncertainty.

Damien’s name was known far and wide. His feats on the battlefield were the stuff of rumor and awe. He had stood alone before the monster tide and come back drenched in blood that wasn’t his.

But words, no matter how bold, could not feed empty stomachs or replace stolen coin.

Then, from amidst the crowd, a small voice rose.

"But... how long do we have to wait?"

All heads turned toward the speaker.

It was a boy—no older than fifteen—his fists clenched at his sides. The lines on his face were too sharp for someone so young. Life had forced him to grow up too quickly.

Beside him, a middle-aged woman—his mother, perhaps—grabbed his arm, trying to hush him.

But he stood firm, refusing to look away from Damien.

His question was simple, but in that moment, it carried the weight of every person in the room.

And yet... Damien didn’t scowl or snap. He didn’t unleash the wrath that had humbled generals.

He simply chuckled.

A soft, unexpected sound that broke the tension like a breeze cutting through fog.

Then he smiled.

"Soon," Damien said, his voice like iron wrapped in velvet. "Very soon. Before the sun rises, all of your lost property will be returned."

His words didn’t feel like hope—they felt like certainty.

And somehow... that was enough.

The weight lifted, just a little. Faces softened. Shoulders relaxed.

The people believed him—not because they understood how it would be done, but because he had said it would be.

Damien gave a nod, then turned on his heel. Before leaving, he spoke to Gray.

"See to it. Handle any other problems they bring to you."

"As you command," Gray replied with a respectful bow.

As Damien stepped back into the corridor, the torchlight flickered against the polished stone, dancing with the thoughts churning in his mind.

"One thousand gold coins..." he muttered. "And constant theft and instability..."

A spark ignited behind his eyes.

The solution came to him like a blade drawn from its sheath—sudden, sharp, and undeniable.

Bank.

A bank backed by the Crown.

His steps quickened, boots thudding with purpose. "A state-backed bank... yes, that’s it. That’s the answer."

It was elegant in its simplicity.

With a royal bank, he could offer the people a safe haven for their savings. He could mobilize those idle coins—thousand, perhaps—and use them to stabilize the kingdom’s finances. Pay the soldiers. Rebuild the army. Fund defenses.

Not only would it deter crime, but it would also forge a bond of trust between the Crown and the common folk—something stronger than any sword.

And he would announce it during the ceremony.

---

Time flowed like a river after the storm—fast, constant, indifferent.

Three hours passed in the blink of an eye.

In the sprawling training grounds of the Harrier family’s castle, preparations were nearing completion.

A large ceremonial tent stood at the center, its white-and-blue fabric billowing gently in the afternoon breeze. Rows of polished wooden chairs had been arranged in front of a raised platform adorned with banners bearing the royal sigil.

Servants and castle guards moved briskly, adjusting seating, laying carpets, and making final touches under the watchful eyes of the event overseers.

At the front, in a place of honor, sat the families of the twenty brave soldiers who had fallen during the recent monster tide.

Their expressions were a blend of pride and grief—mothers holding tightly to medallions, fathers clutching keepsakes of their sons, children too young to understand why they were dressed in black.

On the stage above them, the three generals stood in silence.

Claymen, ever composed, had his hands clasped behind his back. Reid’s expression was stoic, while General Thorne’s eyes shifted occasionally, as if measuring the weight of the moment.

They waited.

All eyes were now on the entrance.

Waiting for the man who had fought back death itself.

Waiting for Crown Prince Damien Harrier.