SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 86: Death was inevitable

Henrik’s mind didn’t even have time to process the blur that had appeared before him—by the time awareness flickered into existence, Damien’s punch was already inches from his face, cutting through space at such overwhelming velocity that only the most elite Gold Rankers in the continent could hope to perceive it.

The seemingly empty air between them—normally formless, weightless—suddenly hardened.

Compressed. Dense. Immovable.

It was no longer just air—it was a barrier of resistance, forged by the sheer force behind Damien’s acceleration.

And Damien?

He punched right through it.

BOOOOM!

The sound echoed like thunder inside a mountain cave, bouncing violently off the steel-reinforced walls of the control chamber.

The moment his fist collided with that pocket of solidified air, it ignited, combusting in a shockwave that rippled outward like a miniature starburst, scorching the ground and leaving a crater-like dent in the reinforced alloy floor.

The explosion didn’t just come from Damien’s punch—it was the result of him shattering space and pressure itself.

Henrik’s instincts, honed through countless battles and decades of warfare, barely managed to kick in. His pupils shrank into pinpricks. His fingers twitched toward the hidden console near his side. His lips parted into an ’O’, a trained reflex to utter the activation phrase for the Rank 3 defense system.

But before he could form the first syllable—

Damien struck again.

And this time, the punch didn’t stop at the air.

It met flesh.

BBOOOOOOM!

A second, deafening blast tore through the chamber—strong enough to split the steel pillars lining the control room, enough to crack the reinforced glass displays in the far corners.

Henrik didn’t even have time to scream.

His body disintegrated on impact.

One moment he was there, the next—gone, reduced to fragments of glowing ash and vapor, shredded by the force of a man wielding kinetic death like a hammer of judgment.

The only trace that he ever existed—

a single finger.

Charred. Twisted. Severed at the knuckle.

It hit the ground with a faint metallic clack, bouncing twice before slowly rolling to a stop beside a fallen control panel.

The silence that followed was surreal.

Outside the control room, soldiers remained oblivious, continuing to monitor formations or gossip about the supposed enemy charge.

After all, how could they know?

From the moment Damien appeared in the room to the instant Henrik was annihilated—barely three seconds had passed.

And expecting Iron Rank soldiers to follow that sequence of events?

Impossible.

Damien didn’t wait for the aftermath.

His silver aura still blazed, his breath steady despite the blood streaking his arms. His body was already moving again—toward the final components of the defense system, toward the last gate that stood between him and full domination over Dreamy Sky City.

The war wasn’t over.

But the first piece—the keystone of their command—had just been shattered.

However, after what felt like an eternity of stunned silence, the soldiers finally spoke—panicked voices cutting through the aftermath like shattered glass.

"Oh my god! Where did Commander Henriks suddenly disappear to?"

"Commander, is everything okay?!"

"W-Who is that black-haired young man?!"

They looked around wildly, as if searching for a logical explanation—some reason to believe their reality hadn’t just collapsed. But Henriks was gone. Vaporized. And in his place stood a stranger cloaked in silver light and dripping with death.

The control room erupted into chaos.

Confusion turned to dread.

Panic took hold.

Like lost sheep without a shepherd, they stumbled, frozen between fight and flight—until a new sound tore through the air.

Whiiistle—Bang! Bang!

Shots were fired.

Precise. Ruthless. Absolute.

One after another, soldiers dropped to the ground, their chests blown open or heads shattered like overripe fruit. There was no time for mercy, no room for hesitation.

Drip. Drop.

Blood rained in crimson arcs, painting the silvery-white walls with gruesome strokes of finality.

The command center—the proud nerve of the Dreamy Sky tower—was reduced to a slaughterhouse.

And Damien?

He didn’t even glance back at the corpses.

His figure blurred as he shot forward, vanishing deeper into the structure like a vengeful spirit with a singular mission.

He wasn’t naïve anymore.

This wasn’t his first blood-soaked battle—and he knew exactly what to expect.

"Tenth floor..." he muttered under his breath, narrowing his eyes as he vaulted over a shattered railing.

From the blueprint etched into his memory, every Dreamy Sky tower had ten layers, each protected by its own defense teams and embedded formations. Judging from the architecture, he’d just exited the fifth floor.

"Five more. Then the city."

There was no hesitation in his voice—only cold efficiency.

He knew what he came for.

Wars were rarely about ideals or justice.

They were fought for power, for position—and most of all, for resources.

And this war?

Damien intended to bleed this city dry. Every vault, every treasure hoarded by the Blue Hammer Kingdom—it would all fall into the hands of Valthorn. That was the mission. That was his promise.

Even while planning plunder and precision strikes, Damien didn’t slow down for a second.

His form blurred again, a silver streak of destruction crashing through the core of the tower like a divine judgment.

If one were to view the tower from the outside, it would look like a silvery meteor had been summoned from the heavens, smashing through floor after floor with unstoppable force.

Fifth. Sixth. Seventh. Ninth. Tenth.

In mere moments, Damien reduced entire squads to nothing more than statistics—soldiers butchered before they could even scream.

The once-vaunted defenders of Blue Hammer Kingdom, known for their structure and valor, were now no different than pigs on a butcher’s block—lined up for execution without ever knowing who had killed them or why.

The tower groaned from the structural pressure. Walls split. Floors cracked. Panels sparked violently.

He was already heading for the exit.

Because his real target—

Dreamy Sky City itself—

was now within reach.

The Valthorn Army, led by Iron Dungeon stronghold leader Anek, was still several kilometers away when Damien finished clearing out the tower and the elite Blue Hammer Kingdom soldiers stationed within.

Now, he stood alone atop the warm, blood-soaked earth, surrounded by the remains of what had once been a proud feat of military engineering.

The once-mighty structure now lay in utter ruin—jagged metal ribs jutting from shattered stone, smoke curling lazily from exposed circuits, and scorch marks branding every surface. Damien’s assault hadn’t left much behind.

What remained barely resembled a tower.

More like a broken spine—crushed and left to rot under the sun.

His eyes scanned the devastation.

The only thing of real value left were the alloyed plates that had once formed the tower’s reinforced skeleton.

Damien clicked his tongue.

"Tch. Should’ve brought some blacksmiths with me..."

There was a hint of regret in his tone—not for the lives lost, but for the resources wasted. Those damn smiths would’ve probably seen gold in every hinge and support beam.

He shook his head, smirking faintly at the thought, when suddenly—

KRRRRRRAAAK!

A sharp crack echoed, followed by a violent implosion.

With a thunderous WHOOOOM, the tower collapsed inward upon itself, as if sucked into a void. Dust exploded in every direction, sweeping across the ground like a tidal wave of ash.

Damien’s eyes twitched as the cloud rushed toward him.

"...Are you kidding me?"

His voice was flat, annoyed.

A moment passed in silence before he exhaled and waved the dust away from his face.

"Right... of course it would collapse."

After all, he had shattered the foundational support systems, melted structural linchpins, and turned crucial junctions into scrap.

Still... it pissed him off.

He clicked his neck and turned away, brushing dirt off his shoulders with a lazy motion.

His gaze lifted—drawn toward the distant silhouette rising above the hazy plains.

Dreamy Sky City.

The towering walls stood tall and defiant in the horizon light, sturdy and immovable, like a stone guardian daring him to come closer.

But Damien’s smirk returned—sharp, wicked, and full of intent.

"Now, let’s see what secrets you’re hiding."

The tower might have fallen, but the city...

The city was going to be fun.

Meanwhile, on top of the wall...

The guards stood frozen, eyes wide as they watched the carnage unfold just outside the city gates. A chill ran down their spines like icy fingers tracing their backs.

A watchtower—one specifically engineered to withstand an assault from ten thousand beasts—had collapsed like a house of cards.

And it wasn’t just the tower.

Even the soldiers stationed within... had vanished.

Gone. As if swept off the map.

"Damn... how could this happen?"

A middle-aged man muttered, voice barely above a whisper, eyes trembling as he stared at the rising dust cloud.

He was one of the many captains assigned to the city’s outer defenses. A veteran Silver-rank warrior, battle-hardened and seasoned... yet at this moment, even his heart trembled with unease.

He gripped the edge of the parapet tightly, knuckles turning white.

"Damn it, what is the Noble Council doing..." he hissed, grinding his teeth in frustration.

In normal times, every chain of command in Dreamy Sky City led directly to General Henriks. The man’s word was law. His presence alone enough to calm even the most chaotic battlefield.

But now?

Now there was only silence from his side.

Henriks hadn’t responded to any emergency transmissions.

And with his absence... the city’s military authority had shifted—

To the Noble Council.

A group of elite aristocrats whose bloodlines held more power than their swords. Politicians. Bureaucrats.

Not warriors.

The captain’s lips curled in disdain.

He had seen enough battlefields to know—

When the ones in charge had no battlefield instincts...

Death was inevitable.

He turned back toward the city.

And prayed it wouldn’t come too late.