SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 66: Despicable Act of Blue Hammer Kingdom

Swish!

A sharp gust cut through the air as Devrok swung his sword in a wide, fluid arc.

Each movement flowed into the next with perfect discipline, carrying not just strength, but an intensity that made the wind itself tremble. His breaths were slow, deep—every fiber of his being locked in unnatural focus.

Swish. Swish.

The grass beneath his feet barely rustled despite the raw power behind each swing. Around him, the garden remained silent, as if holding its breath in reverence.

Suddenly, Devrok came to a complete halt. His muscles froze mid-motion, but it wasn’t due to fatigue.

It was realization.

"I’m very close..." he muttered under his breath, eyes gleaming with a strange light. "Very close to the first Realm of the Sword..."

The Realm of Oneself.

There were three known realms that every true swordsman aspired to reach, each a monumental leap in mastery.

The first: One with Oneself—a state where body and blade ceased to be separate. Where every nerve, every instinct, moved in seamless harmony with the world. In this realm, a swordsman didn’t react to his environment; he flowed with it.

Devrok could feel it. The barrier was thin, like a veil he could reach through at any moment.

Ever since he had acquired that mysterious ring, his comprehension of the sword had surged forward like a dam broken open. The strange artifact didn’t speak, didn’t glow, and yet... it pulsed with insight. Each time he trained, it was as if the ring whispered deeper truths about the blade.

But before he could dwell further, hurried footsteps echoed from beyond the courtyard.

A soldier came running, his armor clinking faintly as he crossed the tiled path with urgency in every step. Dust clung to his boots, and sweat streaked down the sides of his face.

In the shade of the nearby pavilion, Damien sat idly—his posture relaxed, yet his eyes sharp with quiet awareness.

The moment he saw the soldier’s expression, Damien stood.

His casual demeanor vanished in an instant, replaced by calm vigilance.

The soldier dropped to one knee and saluted crisply. "I greet the Crown Prince..."

Damien returned a short nod. "Speak."

The soldier inhaled deeply, steadying his breath before delivering his report in a steady tone.

"The army of the Blue Hammer Kingdom has launched a sudden assault on the Southern Gate."

For a moment, silence followed.

"Attack?" Damien echoed, eyes narrowing.

From the side, Devrok stepped forward, his brow furrowed.

The Blue Hammer Kingdom?

The two nations had long held a fragile, unwritten truce. A sudden strike like this—unprovoked, without warning—made no strategic sense. There were no recent tensions. No border disputes. Nothing.

Devrok’s thoughts raced, trying to fit the pieces together, but the picture remained blurred.

Damien didn’t waste time.

"Let’s go," he said, already turning on his heel.

His voice carried a weight that cut through hesitation. The possibility of this being a distraction or feint wasn’t lost on him—but if the Southern Gate fell, the city’s entire defense line would unravel.

Sword Master Anek had only recently taken command of the gate. Damien wasn’t yet confident in the man’s ability to manage a chaotic battlefield alone.

He had to be there. Now.

Devrok clenched his jaw, casting one last glance at the sword he had just sheathed.

He hesitated for only a heartbeat.

"Wait for me, Damien. I’ll come with you."

Then, without another word, he followed.

The calm of the training grounds faded behind them, replaced by the distant beat of war drums and the winds of uncertainty.

---

Southern Gate.

Battle cries echoed through the scorched landscape, fierce and unrelenting.

The metallic clang of weapons and the muffled thuds of falling bodies painted a grim soundtrack to the chaos below. A heavy, sulfurous stench hung in the air—acrid and choking—mixing with the iron scent of blood and the dry smoke rising from the plains.

High above the tumult, Sword Master Anek stood atop a weathered watchtower, his sharp eyes sweeping across the battlefield like a hawk surveying prey. His gaze was steady, yet beneath that calm exterior, a storm of anger brewed.

A tinge of seriousness tightened the corners of his eyes, and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he muttered, his voice barely audible above the din.

"This time, the Blue Hammer bastards went too far..."

The moment he had received word of the sudden assault, Anek had wasted no time. He had rallied his forces, drawn up formations, and issued commands with military precision.

But even as the skirmish unfolded, a chilling realization had begun to sink in.

The Blue Hammer Kingdom didn’t come for conquest.

They weren’t here for territory.

They came to destroy.

Anek’s gaze drifted toward the reclaimed plains, the very lands they had fought so hard to secure over the past year. Rich, fertile earth that had promised future harvests—now blackened and cracked under sheets of flame.

Smoke billowed upward in thick, gray spirals, a silent scream into the heavens. Charred remains of soil lay burning, the land scorched beyond recognition.

Anek’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword as fury burned through his veins.

"They didn’t come for the city..." he thought darkly. "They came for the fields. The lifeblood of our people."

Down below, the leader of the Iron Dungeon Stronghold stood in stiff silence, his face drawn and pale as he surveyed the destruction.

None of them had anticipated this.

This wasn’t war—it was punishment.

A cold wind swept through the tower, carrying with it the smoke and the heavy silence of the watching soldiers.

Suddenly, a deep voice, low and solemn, broke the air behind him.

"What happened?"

Anek turned swiftly.

Damien.

He walked with slow, deliberate steps, the long black overcoat trailing behind him like a shadow. Each footfall was heavy with suppressed rage, and his eyes—dark and piercing—held a glacial calm that was somehow more terrifying than any outburst.

As he approached, the air seemed to shift. The soldiers near the tower instinctively lowered their heads, not out of formality but from something else entirely.

Shame.

None dared to meet Damien’s gaze.

They had fought. They had followed orders. But still, they had failed to protect the land.

And now, standing in his presence, it felt like the weight of their failure was being measured.

Too ashamed...

Even those with blood on their blades avoided his eyes, as if they feared seeing disappointment more than death.

---

Anek descended the watchtower with firm steps, boots thudding against the wooden planks in a rhythm that echoed discipline and urgency. Dust clung to the hem of his battle cloak, and the wind pulled at his hair as he came to a halt before the arriving princes.

With a crisp motion, he performed a military salute, his posture unwavering.

"Greetings, Crown Prince. Greetings, Eldest Prince."

Damien gave only a slight nod in return, his gaze cold and unreadable. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Devrok, on the other hand, crossed his arms and spoke with a blunt edge in his voice.

"There is no need to be pretentious, General Anek. Quickly tell us what really happened."

But Damien had no patience left for formalities or briefings. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode forward, the black overcoat billowing slightly as his long strides carried him toward the source of the stench filling the air.

The moment he stepped beyond the barricade, the foul wind struck him like a wall.

His face twisted in disgust.

The air reeked—a putrid blend of methane, sulfur, and something far worse, something unnatural. The stink clung to the inside of his throat, making it burn, and he instinctively raised a hand to cover his nose.

"What are these things?" Damien muttered aloud, his voice muffled behind his gloved hand.

Before him lay a sight more grotesque than anything he had expected.

The once-verdant plains were crawling with motion. Tens of thousands—perhaps hundreds of thousands—of grotesque, glistening insects blanketed the soil like a carpet of rot. Their translucent abdomens pulsed and swelled grotesquely as they devoured the land itself, burrowing into the earth, chewing through root and stone alike.

And then—pop.

Each time an insect reached its limit, it burst, splattering sickly fluids and releasing that revolting stench into the air. The scene was like a festering battlefield, not of war, but of ruin.

From the side, the Iron Dungeon Stronghold leader, a grizzled man with a scorched pauldron and sweat beading on his brow, rushed toward Damien. He had already noticed the prince’s arrival and had hurried to intercept him before things escalated further.

He arrived just in time to hear Damien’s question.

"These are Vitality Devouring Insects..." he began, his voice tense with dread.

But Damien cut him off, eyes narrowed to cold slits.

"I know that these are Vitality Devouring Insects," he said sharply, "but how did they appear here?"

The question struck the commander like a blade.

He faltered.

"This...?" The words died in his throat. He stood stiffly, as though even breathing wrong might provoke Damien’s ire.

The silence that followed was thick and oppressive.

He could feel Damien’s gaze boring into him—measuring, weighing, judging. The commander clenched his jaw and said nothing more.

He had no answer that wouldn’t feel like an excuse. And in Damien’s current mood, excuses were as good as treason.

Damien slowly turned his attention back to the field, eyes cold and distant.

He knew exactly what these things were.

The Vitality Devouring Insects. The Sorrow of Mountbatten.

Once, Mountbatten had been the jewel of the southern lands—a proud kingdom whose rich fields produced over ninety percent of the continent’s spiritual wheat. Their bounty fed nations.

Until the day came when their fields turned to dust.

No war, no warning. Just a morning where the skies darkened, the earth cracked, and the insects swarmed.

Within a week, their entire agricultural base had been annihilated.

Mountbatten had withered.

Not by swords, but by a curse disguised as insects.

Damien’s hands slowly curled into fists.

This wasn’t just a skirmish or a warning shot from Blue Hammer Kingdom.

It was a declaration, a heavy declaration of war.