SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 73: War!!

Damien stood atop the southern wall, clad in a sharp, darkened battle uniform that fluttered gently in the rising morning wind. The gleam of steel reflected off the pauldrons on his shoulders, and his deep gaze swept over the vast formation below—an ocean of soldiers assembled in solemn ranks.

His expression was calm, but carved from stone—resolute, unflinching.

Before him stretched the disciplined army of the Valthorn Kingdom, each man and woman standing tall beneath the weight of anticipation. Their armor bore the faint marks of training, and their eyes glimmered not with fear, but with an eerie blend of determination and silent tension.

By Damien’s side stood Southern General Anek, his jaw clenched, back ramrod straight. Today marked a turning point in his life—not as a common soldier charging into battle, but as a general commanding from the front, holding not a spear, but the fates of hundreds in his calloused hands.

The fields beyond the walls were barren, wind-swept, and grim—mirroring the emotions that churned within the soldiers stationed below. For many of the young recruits, this would be their first war, their first time stepping away from the warmth of hearth and home and into the bloodstained theater of death and honor.

Their youthful eyes were no longer carefree. They stared ahead, chins raised, but hearts trembling.

The veterans among them, though more composed, bore grave expressions. They had seen war—felt its teeth sink into their flesh and seen it rip friends away. And they knew the enemy they would face today wasn’t a nameless foe.

It was the Blue Hammer Kingdom—an enemy whose hatred had brewed across ten long years of bitter rivalry.

Not far from the main ranks stood the warriors of the Iron Dungeon stronghold, clustered together in steely silence. Their presence was an unfamiliar sight, and it was clear that many of them didn’t want to be there.

Especially their leader.

He stood with his arms crossed and a scowl shadowing his rugged face. But no matter how unwilling, no matter how heavy the resentment in his heart, even he had no choice today.

The war had come, and no one could afford to stay behind.

It was in that silence Damien finally spoke.

The wind ceased. Conversations died mid-sentence. Boots ceased shifting on gravel.

All ears turned toward him.

"I know some of you might be expecting me to give you a motivational speech..."

His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the morning air like a blade, clean and sharp. Each word echoed like a thunderclap on a cloudless day—measured, deliberate, unflinching.

"...glorifying war, painting heroism with bright colors and empty promises. But I’m not someone who lies or dresses up the truth for the men who’ve sworn loyalty to me."

His gaze narrowed, sweeping across the crowd.

"War is not beautiful. It is not noble. It is suffering, it is brutality, it is fire and steel and blood."

He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle into the bones of every soldier present.

"But even knowing that, we will march forward. We will not stop until our banners are planted deep in the heart of their capital."

A low murmur of steel boots shifting uneasily swept across the crowd—but no one dared interrupt.

"This war is not for the faint-hearted. So I will say this once—if any among you wishes to leave, walk away now. I will not stop you. The kingdom will not brand you a coward. You will not be judged."

As Damien’s final words echoed across the southern wall, a ripple passed through the sea of soldiers.

Some faces visibly shifted—eyes dimming, jaws tightening.

Visions flashed unbidden through their minds: the innocent smiles of their children waving goodbye, the soft whispers of lovers who had clung to them the night before departure. Memories of warmth, of home, of lives they might never return to.

Even Southern General Anek, standing beside Damien, turned toward him with a look of disbelief. His brow furrowed, confusion dancing in his gaze.

What was the Crown Prince doing?

To give men the chance to walk away now—right at the edge of war—was reckless. Foolish, even. Anek couldn’t comprehend it.

Who in their right mind would choose to march into death if given a choice?

He braced himself for what he believed was inevitable.

Any second now, he expected to see soldiers break formation, to hear the shuffle of feet stepping back. Anek’s heart tensed as he waited for the cracks to show.

But the moment never came.

Seconds stretched into minutes, and Damien’s speech rolled on with unwavering force. The tension thickened—yet not a single man moved.

Not one turned away.

Anek’s eyes scanned the ranks. He had seen it—the flicker of hesitation in dozens of eyes. The haunted silence of choice. But now, each of those gazes had hardened, their spines straightened.

A fire had been lit.

Even the soldiers themselves didn’t understand the sudden surge of resolve rising in their chests. But when they looked up—into Damien’s black, abyss-like eyes—something invisible yet undeniable gripped their hearts.

A possibility. A certainty.

As long as this man leads us, we will not lose.

It was madness. It was faith.

And it burned brighter than fear.

Damien’s expression remained unreadable as he watched them all.

Then, his voice rang out once more.

"With that, I officially declare war on the Blue Hammer Kingdom."

His final declaration rolled like thunder across the horizon, echoing through the bones of every man and woman present.

The silence shattered.

Roars erupted.

The air itself seemed to tremble as the soldiers let loose a battle cry that could rattle the sky.

"All hail Crown Prince Damien!"

"Long live Valthorn Kingdom! Long live the King!"

The sound of hundreds roaring in unison washed over the southern wall, powerful enough to shake the clouds. Damien lifted his hand slightly in acknowledgment, and like dry leaves caught in a gust, the volume surged even higher.

Even in the furthest corners of the city, one could hear the cries.

Anek, his doubts dissolved in the fire of the moment, turned to Damien with something new in his gaze—respect, and perhaps awe.

Damien simply nodded and gestured forward.

"Lead the troops," he said calmly.

"As you wish..." Anek snapped into a military salute, his voice firm and filled with purpose. Then he turned and began descending the wall, ready to lead the march toward war.

---

Elsewhere, on the northern front of the city, General Claymen stood beside his war table, surrounded by aides hastily relaying the latest reports from the Royal Castle.

He had only just begun reading when something shifted.

His head turned instinctively toward the south.

Then it came—the roar of hundreds of warriors, rising like a storm rolling across the land.

The walls seemed to hum with their fury.

Claymen’s hand trembled slightly around the parchment. Goosebumps prickled along his skin despite the familiarity of war. He had heard the cries of men charging into battle before—but today, it felt different.

A deep chill ran down his spine, accompanied by a strange reverence.

His voice was low, almost lost in the distant noise.

"So... it has finally begun."

He exhaled slowly, eyes distant.

Damien had insisted that all other generals remain in the city. Only Anek would march out, ensuring Valthorn wouldn’t be left vulnerable.

So Claymen remained. Watching. Waiting.

Guarding the heart of the kingdom, from the ferocious monsters of Ten Thousand Bests Forest.

---

In a quiet chamber not far from the central shrine, Naomi sat cross-legged, lost in meditation.

She had been still, tranquil, trying to silence the storm inside her heart.

But the thunderous roar shattered her focus.

Her eyes flew open.

She turned sharply toward the direction of the southern gate, her heart pounding with sudden urgency. Worry clouded her usually calm expression.

She believed in Damien. Completely, almost blind faith.

Yet still... a cold fear crept at the edges of her thoughts.

A fear she refused to let bloom.

She clenched her fists tightly, drawing in a shaky breath.

"No," she whispered fiercely, "my husband will be safe. He’ll return victorious."

---

Within a training courtyard surrounded by shattered stone dummies and sword racks, Devrok’s blade danced in the air, his movements sharp and relentless.

He had been practicing all morning, trying to lose himself in the rhythm of steel.

Trying to numb the gnawing unease lodged in his chest.

But the shouts cut through the air like a tidal wave. They pulled him out of his focused state, his sword freezing mid-swing.

He stood still, sweat rolling down his brow.

His gaze drifted toward the southern gate, jaw tight, eyes glimmering with emotion.

"You have to come back safely, my brother..."

He didn’t say it as a prayer.

He said it as a promise.

This time, he might have agreed to Damein wishes but next time the situation will not be like this, he will not hide behind the safety of the castle walls like a coward.