SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 69: Roan’s return, Hugo ambition

The next morning, a dust-laced wind stirred through the Southern Gate of the capital as the creaking sound of wooden wheels echoed across the cobbled path. A royal carriage, old but stately in design, rumbled steadily forward. The Iron Hooves horses—massive, muscular beasts clad in blackened armor—pulled it with a solemn grace, their snorts steaming in the cool morning air.

"Open the gate! Master Roan has returned!"

A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the early haze, echoing from atop the high watchtowers.

Almost instantly, a flurry of movement erupted within the garrison. Guards scrambled into position, straightening their armor and clearing the path. Gates groaned as they were drawn open, and even Master Anek, the stern commander of the Southern Guard, broke protocol and came rushing out to personally greet the arriving carriage.

Roan’s reputation preceded him. His seniority alone demanded such reverence—his presence was not just expected; it was respected.

After a grueling week-long journey, the Roan family was finally returning from Mesarith City.

Inside the carriage...

"Father, why do we have to use this trashy carriage when the royal one is just sitting around gathering dust?" Hugo’s voice dripped with irritation. His arms were crossed, brows furrowed with lingering resentment. The entire journey had been a test of patience—the creaky suspension, the cramped seats, the mockery he had suffered from Mesarith’s young nobles. It had all festered into one bitter complaint.

Adriana, seated gracefully beside her son, shifted her gaze toward her husband. Her feline eyes—sharp, intelligent, and laced with restrained judgment—rested on Roan’s calm face.

Roan sighed softly, the lines around his eyes deepening as he responded without turning. "Hugo, how many times do I have to tell you? That carriage is reserved solely for the king and his heir."

His tone was gentle but firm, as if he had repeated this same explanation countless times before.

Adriana’s expression soured the moment the words left his mouth. Her disappointment wasn’t loud or dramatic—it was a subtle tightening of the jaw, a narrowing of the eyes. But it spoke volumes.

Hugo, on the other hand, seemed unbothered by the response, as though he had expected it. He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering with intensity.

"Father, I’ve decided. I’m going to challenge Damien to a duel. If I defeat him, he’ll have no choice but to give up his claim to the throne."

His eyes burned with ambition. "The destiny of the Valthorn Kingdom should rest in the hands of the strong."

He paused, gauging his father’s reaction, then added, "Once Uncle hears that I’ve awakened an A-Grade talent, I’m sure he’ll support me. No one can ignore that kind of potential."

Roan didn’t respond.

Silence fell inside the carriage, heavy and suffocating.

He gazed out the small window, watching the city gates draw closer. The faint cheers of the guards and the clattering hooves did nothing to distract him from the storm brewing in his mind.

He didn’t want this—division, rivalry, blood spilled between kin. Especially not now, when threats loomed beyond the borders like hungry wolves. The family couldn’t afford internal strife, not when enemies circled from both the north and south.

And yet, he knew Hugo. Once that fire had been lit in his son’s heart, it would not be easily extinguished.

Roan closed his eyes for a brief moment.

Sons were born to carry on a legacy... but sometimes, they forgot that legacies built on blood often ended in ash.

Hugo watched his father in silence, disappointment creeping into his heart like a slow leak. He hadn’t asked for anything unreasonable. He wasn’t demanding underhanded support, nor was he planning anything dishonorable. All he wanted was his father’s blessing—to fight for the throne openly, to pursue his ambition with pride.

But Roan’s silence spoke louder than any rejection. And that silence stung.

Across from him, Adriana’s gaze turned colder. Her golden, cat-like eyes narrowed ever so slightly as her thoughts darkened.

Spineless... utterly spineless.

Internally, she snorted with disdain. What madness possessed me to marry such a man?

Roan had been a promising warrior once, but now, in her eyes, he was a shadow of his younger self. Passive, cautious, soft—the very opposite of his bold and decisive brother. The same brother who now sat on the throne.

The carriage rolled forward, heavy with unsaid words. The wooden wheels groaned over loose stones, but no one spoke. The silence between them was brittle—ready to shatter at the lightest provocation. Yet, no one dared break it.

---

Meanwhile, within the royal castle...

On the sun-kissed training grounds, the gentle morning light spilled across Damien’s figure like a divine spotlight.

He stood tall, clad in the sharp, black-and-silver armor of the Valthorn military. The crest of the kingdom gleamed on his shoulder, and the long crimson scarf trailing behind him fluttered gently in the wind. His sword was sheathed at his side, but the faint spiritual pressure he emitted made it clear—he was ready for war.

To his right stood Niomi and Devrok, both tense and quiet.

Niomi’s hands were clenched tightly at her sides. She looked up at Damien, her brows furrowed in worry and determination.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"Husband, please... let me accompany you. I want to fight."

Her voice was clear, and her eyes burned with resolve. "I’ve trained every day under Mrs. Amyra’s guidance. I’m not the same as before. I’ve grown stronger—strong enough to contribute."

For a brief second, Damien’s stern façade softened. His lips curled upward, forming a faint smile.

"Oh?" he said, raising a brow. "So you mean to say... you’ve gotten strong enough to defeat me?"

His voice was light, but the question hit with the weight of a mountain. He tilted his head slightly, wearing an innocent expression—as if he had asked something casual and not a challenge.

Niomi stiffened. Devrok looked away, his face turning grim.

Damien’s terms were clear. He didn’t outright reject them—he wasn’t cruel. But he laid down a condition: only those who could defeat him would be allowed to join the battlefield.

And that... was no small thing.

Niomi and Devrok both knew just how absurd that condition was. Defeating Damien was not merely difficult—it was borderline impossible.

The man was a monster in human skin, a war god in the making. Even with their progress, they were nowhere near his level.

Seeing the dark clouds gather on their faces, Damien let out a quiet chuckle. His tone softened as he stepped closer, the wind rustling the edges of his cloak.

"Don’t be disheartened," he said warmly. "This won’t be the last war. There will be countless more."

His eyes gleamed with pride and certainty.

"Until then... train harder. Grow stronger. One day, you’ll surpass me. I’ll be waiting."

His voice held no mockery—only encouragement.

Niomi opened her mouth, wanting to protest, to say something more—

"But...!"

Niomi opened her mouth, wanting to speak again—her voice low, hesitant—but before a single word could escape her lips, a loud cry echoed from the outer courtyard.

"Master Roan and his family have successfully returned!"

The declaration rang out with fanfare and urgency, carried by the crisp morning breeze.

Damien’s expression shifted.

His faint smile grew wider.

So... they’re finally back.

The announcement had barely faded when a rhythmic set of footsteps followed—soft but firm, gliding across the tender morning grass with practiced grace.

Moments later, three figures came into view.

Damien’s gaze sharpened. The moment he laid eyes on them, his brow furrowed ever so slightly.

Hugo walked at the front, his chin high, shoulders squared, radiating confidence—perhaps too much of it. Behind him trailed Roan, calm but visibly exhausted, and Adriana, who moved like a feline—elegant, watchful, and cold.

Roan’s steps slowed as his eyes fell upon Damien, who stood clad in full battle dress, ready for war.

"This battle attire...?" Roan muttered under his breath, his brows knitting together. The metal glinted in the light, and the weight of the armor clearly wasn’t ceremonial. "Why is he dressed like that?"

He instinctively knew—this wasn’t a drill. Damien was preparing for something real.

While Roan stood there, piecing things together, Hugo had already come to a halt just a few feet away from Damien.

With a puffed chest and unwavering tone, he declared:

"Damien, I challenge you to a duel. Whoever loses must give up their claim to the throne."

For a few seconds, silence reigned.

Damien blinked, his expression frozen. Come again?

He looked at Hugo with open confusion, as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

Even Devrok’s face twisted into a frown, and instead of watching Hugo, he turned his attention toward his uncle Roan.

The moment his eyes met the older man’s, he saw it—fatigue, resignation, and something unspoken swirling behind those eyes.

So... that’s how it is.

Meanwhile, Damien, still recovering from the absurdity of the moment, finally broke the silence.

His voice was casual, but carried a faint chill.

"Cousin, are you... right in the head?"

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze narrowing.

"You don’t look fine to me. The journey seems to have taken quite a toll. Maybe some rest would help."

Then he straightened, and his tone turned even more pointed.

"You don’t even know what nonsense you’re spouting."

His words weren’t angry, but firm—like a hand gripping steel. There was no humor in his voice now. No curiosity. Just quiet disdain and a hint of disappointment.