SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 54: Creating out of thin air

"It is the good luck of our Valthorn Kingdom," Damien declared, his voice steady and deep, "that such bravehearts were born among us."

He stood tall atop the grand ceremonial stage, dressed in royal battle attire, his cloak catching the wind with a regal flutter. The late afternoon sun cast a golden hue on his figure, making him look like a painting come to life—equal parts warrior and prince.

"They may have left this world... journeyed to a place even more beautiful..." he continued, pausing for a breath, "but none shall be forgotten."

The words echoed through the quiet crowd.

Before him sat hundreds of people, dressed in muted colors, their eyes fixed on the Crown Prince. Faces old and young bore expressions of solemn reverence, the kind reserved only for the dead... and for those who honored them.

At the very front, the families of the twenty fallen soldiers sat in a reserved section. Each wore a medallion of remembrance, gifted by the royal family. Grief was carved into their posture, but there was pride there too—silent, unyielding pride for the ones who had given everything.

Among the attendees sat Devrok Harrier, the oldest of the royal siblings, a man of towering stature and few words. He leaned forward slightly, brows raised as he watched his younger brother speak.

Since when did Damien become such a good orator?

That thought lingered in his mind, unspoken but clear in his surprised expression.

The ceremony continued with quiet dignity. The names of each fallen soldier were read aloud, followed by a moment of silence. Damien descended the stage to personally present a folded flag and a royal token to each bereaved family. He bowed deeply to every mother, every widow, every child—never once faltering.

It wasn’t just a gesture.

It was a promise.

Only when the last family had been honored did Damien return to the stage.

He waited for silence to return before raising his voice once more.

"I have two important announcements to make today."

The atmosphere shifted. Anticipation rippled through the crowd.

"First, Sword Master Anek has been appointed the new Guardian of the South."

Applause followed—respectful, yet sincere.

Anek, dressed in a crisp black-and-gold uniform, stood near the stage and gave a silent nod. His blade, worn from battles past, hung at his side like an extension of his will.

"Second," Damien continued, his voice now laced with both gravity and ambition, "to combat the rise in theft, and to provide our citizens a steady source of income, I hereby announce the formation of the Valthorn Royal Bank."

A wave of murmurs swept across the crowd.

The concept was alien—strange, even absurd to many.

"A bank that will pay you," Damien repeated with clarity, "to store your money with it. Your savings will no longer be locked away in homes or buried beneath floors. Instead, they will grow, protected by the Crown and used to build a stronger kingdom."

Confusion became visible.

Eyebrows furrowed. Necks craned. Some scratched their heads. Others exchanged puzzled looks with neighbors.

And then—

"Mother," a small voice piped up, "what is a bank? Can it be eaten?"

A few chuckles escaped before decorum silenced them. Several mothers smiled awkwardly, brushing their children’s hair back while whispering quiet answers—none of them confident.

Damien chuckled too, his eyes briefly softening as he looked at the children in the back rows, many of whom were visibly bored, fidgeting from hunger and the long hours of sitting.

He didn’t scold. He didn’t mind. This was their first exposure to a new future—one they would come to understand in time.

---

Soon after, the ceremony drew to a close.

A sumptuous feast was served across the courtyard—platters of roasted meats, seasonal fruits, honeyed bread, and wine drawn from the royal cellars. Music played faintly in the background, courtesy of a quiet quartet, but most of the hall’s tone remained respectful, subdued by the memories of the fallen.

One by one, the attendees left, offering final bows to the royal family and paying their respects to the generals. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the marble floors of the courtyard as the evening wind carried the scent of herbs and roasted spices into the far corners of the castle.

Eventually, only a handful remained.

The four generals.

Devrok.

Niomi, dressed in a crimson gown embroidered with the sigil of her house, her presence regal and watchful.

And Damien.

He approached Sword Master Anek, who stood tall despite the long day, his sword still fastened at his hip as if the war had not yet ended.

Damien placed a hand on his shoulder and met his eyes.

"I fully trust your abilities," he said quietly, but firmly. "With you stationed there, I believe our Southern border will be absolutely safe."

Anek gave a deep nod, his expression as solemn as the oath he silently swore.

"I will not fail, Your Highness."

Damien offered a brief smile, then stepped back, hands folded behind him as his gaze swept the quiet courtyard.

The day had honored the dead.

But now... the future had begun.

Just then, Niomi tilted her head slightly and asked, her voice soft but curious.

"Husband, what is this ’bank’ that you spoke of...?"

She stood out in the dimming evening light, dressed in an elegant white gown that shimmered faintly with silver threads. Her raven hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, a delicate contrast to the sharp intelligence in her eyes—eyes now filled with genuine confusion.

Damien blinked, caught mid-thought. He hadn’t expected the question to come from her.

He turned his head slightly—and realized that everyone else had gone silent as well.

The three generals. Devrok. Even Anek. All of them were looking at him.

Waiting.

With a sigh, Damien stepped toward a low table near the banquet’s remnants. He picked up a small chest—ornate, reinforced with silver corners—and placed it down with a gentle thud.

He tapped the lid once, then twice, letting the hollow sound draw their attention.

"This," he began, his voice slow and deliberate, "is where your coin usually sleeps. Alone. Hidden beneath floorboards, tucked in cupboards, or buried under trees. Exposed to theft... fire... or greedy kin."

His eyes met Niomi’s, then swept across the room.

"But a bank?" he said, letting the word hang for a heartbeat. "A bank is a fortress. A fortress made of trust and steel."

That caught their interest.

"It’s a place where people store their gold, gems, and valuables safely," he continued. "But more than that, it helps your wealth grow."

Brows lifted. The idea was foreign, but his tone—confident, certain—made it sound like a vision from the future.

"Say you leave fifty gold with the bank," Damien explained, his tone measured, "I lend part of that to a blacksmith who needs new tools. Or a caravan master who needs to repair his wagons before the winter trade run. They return the gold—with extra. That extra, a share of it, comes back to you. That share... is interest."

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the room.

For people who had never heard the word before, the concept was enchanting.

"What an interesting institution!" General Claymen exclaimed, his face lighting up. "With it, we can solve the money crunch easily!"

He slapped his thigh with enthusiasm, clearly impressed. The man had been chasing thieves and guarding trade routes for years—he could immediately see the benefit of such a system.

Indeed, robbery and theft were on the rise. Merchants were growing more cautious. And now, suddenly, there was a proposal for a secure vault protected by the Crown and capable of generating gold from gold.

But not everyone was swept away by the dream.

Niomi, who had been quietly absorbing everything, now looked at Damien with a tilt of her head, her voice soft and playful:

"But husband... where do we get the money to pay this interest?"

It was a fair question—simple, but piercing.

Damien’s confident facade faltered for just a second.

He chuckled, a little too forcefully, scratching the back of his neck.

"That... is a problem for a later date."

Some of the generals raised an eyebrow. Devrok snorted in amusement but didn’t speak.

"Honestly," Damien muttered, half to himself, "it’s not that serious. We’ll be earning interest from loans—we pay with that."

Still, even as he spoke, his mind drifted to a far more pressing concern:

Who was going to run the bank?

He could create the building. He could rally the people. But managing accounts, calculating interest, recording loans... that required skill. Precision.

Valthorn lacked such talent.

No trained alchemists. No master scholars. Not even a proper formation master to protect vaults with sigils.

Damien sighed inwardly.

Still, he already knew what needed to come next. If Valthorn couldn’t attract talent... it would have to produce its own.

After the bank, his next goal was clear.

An academy.

A place to raise the very minds that Valthorn lacked.

But that was a matter for another day.

As the conversation winded down, a pair of beautiful eyes observed them from up above—a quiet figure on a distant balcony, shrouded in moonlight.

She leaned against the carved railing, eyes narrowed with interest.

"Bank?" she murmured to herself, lips curving into a faint smile. "What an interesting concept..."

...

By dawn, the news had spread like wildfire through the city.

The Crown Prince has created a magic vault!

He’s offering to grow your money!

Whispers echoed through taverns and shops, across marketplaces and alleys. Children repeated rumors they barely understood. Vendors debated the idea between haggling with customers.

The more sensible and experienced citizens, however, simply shook their heads.

"Create money from nothing? Absurd," muttered a retired merchant. "If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is."

And they were right to be skeptical.

But not everyone had the luxury of doubt.

The widow with two young children, who left her home every morning to clean taverns, had to hide her savings in a broken clay jar beneath her kitchen tiles. She didn’t care whether interest was real. She just wanted her coins safe.

The elderly couple who lived on the outskirts of the city—who feared bandits every time they heard a dog bark at night—longed for any promise of security.

They didn’t care if the bank was perfect.

They only cared that it was better than what they had.

And that was how it began.

...

Some time later...

Damien stood atop a rocky outcrop, surveying the land before him.

The wind whistled through the grasses of the Eastern Highlands, ruffling his cloak as the clouds above drifted lazily across crimson sky.

He narrowed his eyes.

"So this is the Eastern Highlands..." he muttered.

Valthorn lay nestled within a mountain pass—sheltered by nature and steel. To its north stretched the shadowy depths of the Thousand Beast Forest. The Blue Hammer Kingdom marked its southern border, their watchtowers visible in the far distance.

And here, to the east, lay the rugged highlands—rocky, wild, and sparsely populated.

Rumors said thieves had taken refuge here. Bandits. Smugglers. Even some who had once worn the royal uniform but now lived by blade and blood.

Damien moved, stepping lightly over uneven terrain.

He wasn’t here to theorize.

He was here to find them.