SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 57: Time Essence

Gulp!

The Iron Dungeon stronghold leader swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork in a stormy sea. Every instinct screamed at him to kneel, to beg, to vanish into the cracks in the stone floor before the youth standing before him decided to obliterate him with a flick of the wrist.

Iron rank? He might have been called that on paper, but this young man’s strength... it defied understanding.

The leader didn’t know exactly how powerful Damien was—but he knew this: survival hinged on complete, unquestioning obedience.

With a tremble running through his spine like a live wire, he forced his lips into a stiff, serviceable smile.

"T-They’re here only for honored guests..."

The words were delivered with all the sincerity of a man trying to offer his soul in exchange for mercy. As he spoke, he bent slightly at the waist, as if this act of servitude was not only routine—but sacred.

Then, with a quick clap, the echo of his hands snapped through the silence. Two men immediately darted toward the corner of the treasury room, their movements rushed and jittery.

Clink!

The metallic groan of iron hinges echoed as the boxes opened. A cool, crystalline glow washed over the room.

Light spilled outward, ethereal and steady, as the lids came off—revealing a gleaming cache of mana stones. Damien’s eyes widened slightly, the shine of raw magic reflected in his gaze. The momentary gleam of greed flickered behind his calm expression, though he quickly hid it behind a smirk.

His throat turned dry.

There had to be at least five hundred mana stones inside those boxes. Though they were clearly low-grade—judging by the pale glow—they were still immensely valuable to someone at his level.

From what Damien had gathered, mana stones were ranked in three tiers—low, mid, and high grade—each denoting the density of pure mana contained within. Most low-level warriors, like himself, rarely even laid eyes on a mid-grade stone in their lifetime.

This... this was a windfall.

As he stood still, his eyes drinking in the sight, a tremor rippled through his body. No—through his soul.

Damien’s gaze sharpened.

Hmmm...?

A pulse throbbed within his spiritual space. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and his perception slipped inward—into that boundless place of power. There, nestled within, the purple marble—the Epoch Breaker—shimmered with anticipation. It vibrated gently, its surface humming with eager energy, like a child spotting its favorite treat after weeks of hunger.

Damien’s breath hitched.

There was something in this room that the soul weapon wanted. Craved, even. It wasn’t a subtle tug—it was a visceral, primal pull.

His eyes slowly scanned the surroundings—walls of carved stone, crates of weapons, and then back to the two iron boxes filled with mana stones.

There.

The marble hadn’t stirred until those boxes had appeared. There was no mistaking it.

The leader, seeing the subtle shift in Damien’s expression—the sudden narrowing of his gaze, the intensity that sharpened around his irises—felt cold sweat bead along his temples. Misinterpreting the silence, he lowered his head and stammered again, his voice tight with desperation.

"H-Honored guest... if these aren’t enough, if you wish for something else—anything—please, say the word. I... I will do everything in my power to satisfy your needs."

His tone was almost pleading, like a condemned man offering his executioner gold and wine for a second chance at life.

Damien didn’t reply.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Each footfall echoed with an unnatural weight, as though gravity itself deepened in his presence.

With each step closer to the boxes, the pulsing within his spiritual space grew more urgent. The Epoch Breaker trembled wildly now, like it was on the verge of waking up—truly waking up.

There was something buried beneath this treasure—or perhaps within it—that the weapon recognized. Something ancient. Something powerful.

And Damien intended to find out exactly what it was.

---

Just then, something unusual caught Damien’s eye.

Amidst the sea of softly glowing mana stones, all glimmering in shades of pale blue, green, and white, one stone stood apart—quiet and solemn.

It lay at the center of the box like a discarded relic: a dull, purple-hued stone, completely devoid of light. Unlike the others, it emitted no trace of mana. It was like a dead ember among burning coals.

Damien’s brow furrowed.

What is this...?

There was no reaction from the dungeon leader or his men. They hadn’t even noticed it. But Damien felt a quiet pulse from deep within him—a whisper from his soul.

Cautiously, he bent down and reached out.

The moment his fingers brushed the surface of the stone, the tremble inside his spiritual space surged into a storm.

Whumm!

The stone vanished—no explosion, no flash. Just gone.

Erased from reality as if swallowed by the void.

But Damien knew better.

Not the void.

His gaze turned inward again—and the confirmation appeared, crisp and undeniable.

[Time Essence consumed.]

A ripple of awareness flowed through him. He summoned the Epoch Breaker, and with a faint shimmer, the soul weapon manifested in his hand.

It looked as it always had: majestic, arcane, and ancient.

Its sleek obsidian body was wrapped in arcane runes that twisted and shimmered with incomprehensible purpose. Even glancing at them for too long made Damien’s temples ache, like his mind was being pushed against a wall it couldn’t pass through.

The stronghold leader gasped audibly.

His face turned pale as he stared, stunned and disoriented, at the weapon in Damien’s hand—his mouth hung slightly open, lips trembling.

"W-What... What is this weapon...?"

He looked as if he were standing before a divine artifact... and perhaps, he was.

Damien ignored him. His eyes scanned the weapon—and that’s when he noticed the change.

On the right side of the grip, a fresh marking had emerged.

A dark streak, winding and coiling like a serpent—or perhaps a dragon—along the metal frame. It wasn’t fully formed, and the pattern remained incomplete, but it was unmistakably new.

Damien’s eyes narrowed. He focused, and the weapon responded.

[Soul Weapon: Epoch Breaker]

Grade: ??? — A Divine treasure of mysterious origin.

[Available Skill: Temporal Displacement Shot]

A single bullet that exists outside linear time.

When fired, the shooter chooses:

1. Rewind Shot – travels 5 seconds into the past.

2. Fast-Forward Shot – travels 5 seconds into the future.

Note: Has enough energy for one use.

[Evolve Epoch Breaker to unlock new skills.]

A rush of understanding flowed into him. The Time Essence—that strange, inert stone—was the key. It had activated Epoch Breaker’s first skill.

One use.

One moment where time itself would bend to his will.

Damien’s fingers tightened around the grip. This was no ordinary ability—this was the kind of power that decided life or death in the span of seconds. A trump card that could tip the scales in any battle.

But it was precious. Far too precious to waste.

He holstered the weapon and let it dissolve back into his spiritual space, buried in shadowy brilliance.

Then he turned slowly, eyes gleaming with quiet authority, and faced the Iron Dungeon stronghold leader.

"Pack everything," he said, his voice as cold as a mountain stream. "We’re leaving in half an hour."

The leader blinked, confused. "W-We...?"

His voice trembled, and a chill raced down his spine as a heavy feeling settled in his gut. That single word—we—was a warning bell.

Damien smiled slightly, but his eyes remained hard as stone.

"Yes... we."

---

General Northern Fist stood silently, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the jagged ridges of the Eastern Highlands faded into mist. Her expression was unreadable—stoic, almost cold—like a stone statue carved by war and time. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking, or what, if anything, she was searching for in the distance.

The soldier beside her stood stiffly at attention. Beads of sweat formed at his brow, not from heat, but from the weight of her silence. He dared not speak, dared not even shift. He simply waited—like a leaf trembling before a storm.

At last, General Northern Fist turned her head, her sharp eyes like twin blades cutting through the soldier’s composure.

"So... you’re saying Crown Prince Damien went alone," she said slowly, voice low but firm, "without taking a single guard?"

The words weren’t a question. They were a blade held just short of the throat.

The soldier, who had remained silent for what felt like an eternity, immediately straightened his back and gave a crisp nod.

"Replying to the General—everything this subordinate reported is absolutely true."

Northern Fist didn’t react right away. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but her expression remained unreadable. Of all people, she understood better than anyone just what kind of place the Eastern Highlands were. Treacherous terrain, unpredictable weather, and monsters lurking in every shadow—it was a death trap even for a fully equipped military unit.

"Just what is he thinking..." she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the breeze that whistled past the outpost.

But before she could contemplate further, a loud voice rang out from the front lines.

"Isn’t that the Crown Prince?! Why is he suddenly here?!"

Northern Fist’s eyes flickered. She heard the shout clearly and, despite her usual restraint, let out a faint internal sigh.

So... he didn’t go far after all. He returned.

There was relief hidden behind her calm façade, but she buried it deep, like everything else.