SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 56: Vaporized

"Who... who are you?" the leader of the Iron Dungeon stronghold asked, his voice wavering with a rising sense of dread.

His instincts screamed at him—something about this young man was terribly wrong.

No, not wrong—dangerous.

The way Damien had entered, like a cannonball launched from the heavens, still echoed in his bones. The crater in the wall, the heat radiating off Damien’s body, the sharp, inhuman aura... everything about him triggered primal fear.

The envoy of the Blood Fang Gang didn’t speak either. He stood quietly beside the throne, eyes narrowed, face ashen, observing Damien with a solemn expression. What truly unsettled him wasn’t the speed of the crash—but the steam rising from Damien’s body.

His skin, flayed and blackened from high-speed impact, was visibly healing in real-time, muscles knitting together, burns vanishing in puffs of steam.

It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t human.

It was unnatural.

A soft chuckle broke the silence.

Damien raised an eyebrow as if amused, brushing dust from his half-burnt sleeves with theatrical slowness.

"That’s quite rude, you know," he said, his voice casual, though his sharp eyes flicked between the two men like a predator studying prey. "Instead of answering my questions, you’re the ones asking?"

He took a slow step forward, his boots crunching against shattered stone.

"More importantly... you people sure have guts. Acting like the Valthorn Kingdom doesn’t even exist."

He paused and glanced directly at the Iron Dungeon leader.

"To not know the name of the kingdom’s crown prince... that’s really unprofessional."

Another puff of steam rose from his collar as more wounds sealed shut. Damien exhaled, his tone still light, yet something deeper—colder—ran beneath his words.

He could have ended them the moment he landed. A flick of his hand, a pulse of power, and the stronghold would’ve turned to ashes. But he didn’t.

Because something—someone—caught his attention.

That skeletal envoy.

A strange familiarity crawled up his spine, a sense of déjà vu clinging to his nerves like cobwebs.

He couldn’t place it, but the aura around that man stirred memories buried deep in his soul.

Meanwhile, the envoy’s eyes suddenly narrowed.

Damien’s nonchalance snapped him out of his stupor.

Crown prince? Iron rank?

His gaze dropped instinctively to Damien’s spiritual aura—indeed, it was Iron rank.

A brat.

Just a brat.

A surge of shame flared in his heart. Had I really... been intimidated by a low-ranked brat? Me? A proud Silver ranker of the Blood Fang Gang?

His jaw clenched, his pride ignited like dry parchment.

If word got out that he had flinched—flinched—because of some Iron rank kid, he’d be mocked across the entire underworld. People would wipe their shoes with his name. He’d become a walking joke.

No. That couldn’t happen.

His aura exploded outward.

Crimson mana flooded the room as his frail, skeletal frame pulsed with sudden vitality. Muscles bulged across his chest and arms, his figure thickening with unnatural speed as his core flared to life. His eyes, previously sunken, now glowed with bloodthirsty intensity.

The air grew heavy.

The leader of the Iron Dungeon stronghold instinctively took a step back, sensing the sudden spike in killing intent.

With a snarl, the envoy stepped forward, his body vanishing in a blur of speed as he thrust out his palm.

"Die—!"

The palm strike cracked the air, cutting through the space between them like a guillotine.

So fast that even the stronghold leader couldn’t react.

But Damien?

Damien didn’t move.

He just smiled.

A lazy, knowing smile that tugged at the corners of his lips.

Because to him, the envoy was moving like a slug.

Under the effects of Accelerated Cognition, every motion the envoy made unfolded in slow motion. Each ripple in his muscles, each twitch in his fingers, each flicker of mana was magnified and slowed to the point of ridicule.

Damien sighed, watching the deadly palm inch closer, still meters away.

"Hmph... so this guy wants to die first, huh?"

His voice was soft, but in the frozen moment of his mind, it echoed like thunder.

The envoy had no idea.

Before the envoy could even take a single step, Damien vanished from sight.

He didn’t leap. He didn’t charge.

He simply appeared—as if reality itself folded to place him right in front of the envoy’s face.

A thunderous shockwave erupted in his wake, the sudden displacement of air so violent it cracked the floor beneath and hurled loose stones across the room like shrapnel. A weaker Silver ranker caught in that blast would’ve been sent flying, bones shattered and breath stolen.

But Damien didn’t care.

He didn’t know that stage the envoy had reached in Silver rank—Stage 3, capable of generating over three tons of force with a casual punch.

Didn’t matter.

He didn’t give him time to speak.

Didn’t give him time to breathe.

Didn’t even give him time to think.

He simply punched.

Damien’s fist, wreathed in a strange flicker of ethereal silver, shot forward with devastating speed, drawing upon every ounce of his monstrous talent. The air warped around his arm, forming a faint trail of pressure and heat.

The envoy’s eyes hadn’t even finished widening in surprise before half of his body evaporated.

Literally.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically.

Vaporized.

BOOOOM!

The explosion that followed was cataclysmic. The wall behind the envoy disintegrated instantly, sending rubble and smoke exploding out into the next chamber. The residual force cracked the ceiling and sent the entire dungeon into a low tremor.

What remained of the envoy’s body—a shredded, blackened torso—slumped to the floor with a sickening thud.

For a moment, silence.

The acrid stench of burnt flesh mingled with dust in the air.

The leader of the Iron Dungeon stronghold stared, slack-jawed, his eyes twitching between Damien and the steaming pile of gore.

"Th-This...?"

He looked down at the half-charred corpse, the same envoy whose presence had made it hard for him to breathe just minutes ago.

The high and mighty Blood Fang Gang envoy—dead. Just like that.

Damien casually shook his hand, his healing flesh knitting back together as if nothing had happened.

He exhaled softly, then spoke with a voice that cut through the silence like a blade.

"Now that this annoying guy’s gone..." he said coldly, his expression unreadable, "let’s talk business."

His eyes flicked to the Iron Dungeon leader.

"How dare you cause chaos in my territory?" he asked, almost lazily. "Are you tired of living?"

The pressure in the room grew suffocating.

Just then, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Members of the Iron Dungeon stronghold poured in, weapons drawn, eyes frantic.

But the moment they laid eyes on the two gaping holes—one in the wall, and the other where a man used to be—they stopped dead.

No one dared to step closer.

They stood still, surrounding Damien from a distance, too afraid to move.

"Who... who is that guy?"

"What was that explosion earlier?"

"Look at the leader’s face... he looks like he swallowed shit..."

Indeed, the stronghold leader’s face had gone ghostly pale.

From what the subordinates knew, today was the day the feared Envoy of the Blood Fang Gang was supposed to arrive. Their minds raced, scrambling for a logical conclusion.

Could this young man be that envoy?

But then again... the two thin, smoking legs twitching on the floor painted another story.

No... That thought didn’t even occur to them. It couldn’t.

Because if the Envoy had been reduced to this, then who the hell was this monster standing in the middle of the room, still healing?

Damien didn’t care about their confusion. He tilted his head slightly, voice casual.

"Do you wanna live?"

The question hit like a death sentence.

The stronghold leader’s legs nearly buckled. His pride screamed, but his instincts begged him to obey. Even surrounded by his own men, he felt naked, helpless—as if all the weapons in the room were made of straw.

He nodded frantically.

Damien’s expression lightened.

"Good," he said, nodding in approval. "Then take me to your treasury."

The leader hesitated only for a second—then turned and gestured. "T-This way... honored guest."

The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Damien walked through, silent and untouchable. No one dared even meet his eyes.

After a few winding hallways and staircases, they reached a heavy stone door reinforced with steel chains. The leader signaled to the guard beside it, who trembled before unlocking the final seal.

The door creaked open to reveal a vault glittering with gold.

Stacks upon stacks of shimmering coins, jewelry, and ornate boxes lay within, so bright they nearly blinded Damien.

"Holy..." Damien blinked as the light reflected off his eyes. He couldn’t help but whistle. "Looks like someone’s been hoarding well."

A smile crept onto his lips. With this much, he could settle the kingdom’s military salaries for months.

Behind him, the stronghold leader turned toward the guard and barked out a command, voice tight with reluctant obedience.

"What are you gawking at?! Fill the bags—now—for our honored guest!"

The guard scrambled into motion.

As the coins clinked and clattered into sacks, the leader’s heart clenched. This was his life’s savings—his insurance, his retirement, his pride. All gone. Just like that.

But he didn’t dare speak.

Damien, however, frowned.

His gaze swept the room with renewed intensity.

"Hmm... where are the mana stones?"