SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 90: Wealth

Damien continued to walk, unchallenged and unhurried. In one hand, he held a thick, coarse rope. The other end of that rope was tied tightly around the ankles of a noblewoman—one of the unfortunate souls who had crossed paths with him today and lived to regret it.

She stumbled every few steps, her elegant gown torn and soiled, her dignity dragged along the dust-laden road behind her.

A fitting image for the downfall of a once-proud lineage.

The three noble families of Dreamy Sky City—Williams, Whitewash, and Dreamy Sky—had ruled this region with iron fists wrapped in silk gloves for decades. The bloated man belonged to the Williams family, while the sharp-eyed one hailed from the cunning Whitewash clan. As for the disgraced woman trailing behind like discarded trash—she was the last scion of the Dreamy Sky family.

Damien’s gaze flicked toward her, and a strange amusement flashed in his eyes.

Dreamy Sky City.

Dreamy Sky family.

What an arrogant naming sense.

He couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath, the coincidence tickling something within him.

Of course, it made sense. In cities ruled by old blood and older money, naming conventions often blurred the line between self-importance and delusion. That the city itself bore her family’s name was just another mark of how deeply their roots once ran here.

But now?

Their legacy trailed in the dust behind him, tied up like a dog.

After nearly half an hour of steady walking, a sprawling structure finally came into view—grand and arrogant in equal measure.

A castle.

No... calling it a castle felt insufficient.

It was a fortress-palace, stretching across dozens of kilometers, layered with towering spires and glowing rooftops that shimmered under the daylight. Ornate balconies spiraled like ivy along its exterior walls, while polished white marble staircases wound around like serpentine coils.

Well-manicured gardens bloomed with exotic flora imported from across the continent. A series of cleverly dug canals, glistening with fresh water siphoned from a nearby river, flowed through the property in artistic curves—both to irrigate the gardens and cool the air in the scorching summer months.

The gentle trickling of flowing water added a strange sense of calm to the opulence, a surreal contrast to the burning city behind them.

Everything about this place screamed absurd wealth...

And even more absurd entitlement.

Damien narrowed his eyes.

For a moment, just a brief flicker of time, he imagined being born here. With that much power... with that kind of comfort... would he too have ended up like her? Arrogant. Detached. Blind to the world’s suffering?

He quickly shook his head and snorted.

"No wonder she thought she could scream orders at me like I was some servant," he muttered to himself.

But his momentary reaction didn’t go unnoticed.

The fatty, ever the opportunist, caught it instantly. His eyes sparkled with a sly glint, and without missing a beat, he began to speak in a carefully measured tone—half explanation, half flattery.

"This estate, Your Highness, has stood for over three centuries. Built by my great-great-grandfather after striking the Frost Iron vein beneath the northern ridge. It was said even the King once envied the architecture... ha ha..."

The man’s laughter was hollow, nervous, eager to please.

Damien remained silent, his expression unreadable.

He had no interest in fairy tales of noble glory.

He had come to bury them.

"The Dreamy Sky family began mining Frost Iron even before the founding of the Blue Hammer Kingdom," the fatty continued, his tone carrying a strange blend of pride and fear. "After centuries... the amount of wealth they accumulated is..."

He trailed off, not daring to complete the sentence—but the meaning was crystal clear.

Generational wealth. The kind that could fund a war. Or build a kingdom.

Damien’s anticipation surged. His heart beat with quiet excitement, though his expression remained cool and unreadable. A treasure trove like this—hidden beneath the feet of the self-righteous and privileged—was about to fall into his hands.

But not everyone shared his calm. fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

To his left, the hawk-eyed man from the Whitewash family remained silent, his sharp gaze frequently drifting upward toward the sky. He hadn’t spoken a single word since they left the meeting hall, but his subtle movements didn’t escape Damien’s notice.

He’s waiting for something... or someone.

But Damien said nothing. He pretended not to notice the man’s behavior. Sometimes, the best way to catch a prey was to let it believe it still had a chance to escape.

Without breaking stride, Damien approached the castle gates.

They stood ahead like a relic from an age long gone—over twenty feet tall, forged from dark iron alloy and etched with ancient runes that shimmered faintly under the afternoon sun. The gate exuded an air of pride and arrogance, as if it, too, was a member of the noble lineage guarding its wealth from lesser beings.

The carvings along the gate’s surface twisted like snakes, symbols of long-dead traditions and forgotten magic.

But to Damien, it was just a door. One more threshold to cross.

He reached within a few paces of the gate when a voice rang out from beyond—sharp and brittle like ice cracking underfoot.

"Stop where you are and go back. This is not a place where you should be roaming around."

The voice was attempting to sound calm, composed—almost regal—but to Damien’s trained ears, it carried the unmistakable quiver of fear.

They’re scared.

And they should be.

Damien paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as a smirk tugged at the edge of his lips.

This gate, this castle, this entire city—they all belonged to the past. And like all relics of a decaying world, they were about to be buried beneath the weight of something new.

Him.

Meanwhile, behind the iron gate, a man stood cloaked in shadows—his features strikingly similar to the dead noblewoman’s pale corpse that lay behind Damien.

His lips parted slightly, trembling as if caught between grief and disbelief. A low, ghostly murmur escaped him.

"She’s... dead? How can she die...?"

The man’s name was Simon Dreamy Sky, Vice Head of the Dreamy Sky family—and the younger brother of the woman Damien had just executed.

His eyes, once calm and charming, now flickered with pale horror as they remained glued to his sister’s lifeless body.

That proud, arrogant figure... reduced to nothing more than blood and silence.

The grief in his chest twisted into something darker, more dangerous. But Simon was no fool. He forced his eyes away from the body, and for the first time, his gaze locked onto the two men standing beside Damien.

The heads of the Williams and Whitewash families.

A sharp jolt ran through him.

His expression shifted instantly—grief replaced by a grim solemnity.

This is bad. Really bad.

His heart began to race. The situation had spiraled out of control faster than he could’ve imagined.

I have to escape.

That single, desperate thought overrode everything else. His sister’s killer stood just a few paces away, armed, calm, and absolutely in control. Facing him now would be suicide. Simon wanted vengeance—but not today.

He clenched his jaw, bitter shame rising in his throat as he forced himself to look away from his sister’s body.

I’ll take revenge. But I need to survive first.

Without a word, Simon’s fingers flicked in a subtle gesture, calling over one of the guards who stood tense and alert near the inner corridor.

The guard’s eyes widened slightly at the signal but nodded, understanding the unspoken command.

Create a distraction. Anything. Just buy me time.

From behind the iron gate, the gears of a desperate plan began to turn.

The guard saluted sharply, then turned to face the approaching intruders. His voice rang out, loud and firm, though the words were lost on Simon—who was already turning his back and vanishing down a narrow corridor, his footsteps echoing like fading memories.

"Just you wait... I will have my revenge," Simon muttered under his breath, each word laced with cold fury.

His expression was twisted in grief and rage, but his movements were steady. Controlled.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

He repeated the phrase to himself like a mantra, forcing his legs to carry him further away from the confrontation behind the iron gate.

The loss of his sister—the shame of fleeing—burned at his chest, but he never once looked back.

The future would remember this moment.

He would carve his vengeance into history itself.

But not today.

Not while the serpent named Damien still held the blade.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion shattered the tense air behind them.

BOOM!

The massive iron gates—designed to withstand the charge of even the fiercest monsters—were torn from their hinges and sent hurtling through the sky like broken twigs in a storm.

CRASH!

They landed with a bone-rattling thud, metal groaning as it slammed into the stone courtyard. One of the unfortunate guards, caught completely off guard, didn’t even have time to scream.

A sickening crunch echoed across the estate as his body was mercilessly crushed beneath the gates, blood pooling in grim silence.

The shockwave from the blast sent dust and fragments of stone scattering in all directions, and a heavy silence followed in its wake—charged with dread.

Damien stepped forward through the settling dust, rope still in hand, eyes glowing with cold fire.

"Now..." he said softly, almost too softly.

"But where do you think you’re running,"