SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 88: Blaming

After a momentary glance at the sprawling city before him, Damien turned his head away.

The look had lasted no more than a few seconds, yet it revealed all he needed to know.

Dreamy Sky City was rich—obscenely so.

Ornate buildings lined its avenues, their rooftops gilded with fine metalwork. Stone-paved streets glinted under the sunlight, and banners woven from expensive silks fluttered weakly in the wind. The scent of perfumed incense and spices drifted faintly from the inner walls, a stark contrast to the battlefield stench behind them.

And yet, none of this opulence had ever benefited Valthorn.

All of that wealth could have belonged to their kingdom—should have belonged to them—if not for the relentless harassment and bloody history between the two.

Despite being situated beside a forest teeming with resources, Valthorn had been shackled by conflict. Every step forward had been met with sabotage. Every spark of progress, snuffed out.

Even when they managed to attract talent, it never lasted. Blue Hammer Kingdom would send its agents with coin, privilege, and false promises. One by one, those who could’ve changed Valthorn’s future were lured away.

A glint of cold decisiveness flickered in Damien’s eyes.

He turned his head slowly, facing the Valthorn soldiers behind him—men who had marched through fire and blood to get here.

"The city is in front of you," Damien announced, his voice steady and unyielding. "Loot whatever you want—it will be considered your war booty."

For a brief moment, silence lingered in the air.

Then the cheer erupted like a tidal wave crashing against the gates of heaven.

"Long live the Crown Prince! Long live the Valthorn Kingdom!"

Fists rose high into the air, weapons were raised in victory, and ecstatic voices echoed across the battlefield. Their cheers weren’t just noise—they were release, catharsis, and triumph wrapped in raw emotion.

None of the soldiers questioned the command.

None batted an eye.

Looting a city—to some, it might have seemed too far, too cruel. But this wasn’t peacetime. This wasn’t a negotiation. This was war, and in war, mercy was a luxury most couldn’t afford.

Besides, Damien hadn’t spoken it aloud, but the soldiers understood.

The command wasn’t aimed at the poor, the starving, or the desperate.

It was the nobles—the parasites who had hoarded generations of wealth in golden vaults and underground chambers—who would feel the weight of retribution.

The common folk of Dreamy Sky City had long been suffering. While noble houses dressed in luxury and drank aged wine, ordinary citizens were struggling to afford two meals a day. Their bones showed through worn-out clothing, and their backs were bent from labor meant to fuel their masters’ indulgence.

No matter the world, no matter the age—inequality always found a way to thrive.

Now, it was time to break the cycle.

While Damien and his troops stood ready to storm the city and reclaim what had been stolen across generations, far behind the gates—deep within the heart of Dreamy Sky City—a different kind of storm was brewing.

In a hall of polished obsidian and high vaulted ceilings, lit by golden chandeliers, the Council of Three Noble Houses sat in anxious silence.

Their eyes were grim. Their hands clenched tight around goblets and armrests. No servants spoke. No whispers filled the space.

Only the sounds of distant explosions and the cries of frightened citizens made it through the thick stone walls.

The enemy had arrived.

And their time was running out.

Dreamy Sky City was renowned across the kingdom for one thing above all—its vast, open-pit Frost Iron mines. Deep, jagged scars carved into the earth, these mines shimmered with silvery-blue luster, a resource so valuable that wars had been fought over its control.

Over decades, the city’s influence grew, and with it came consolidation. Eventually, power fell into the hands of three noble families, each controlling a third of the city’s wealth and political structure.

But those days were fading.

Now, the once-mighty families were on the brink of collapse. The new generation of heirs—coddled, sheltered, and utterly unprepared—had squandered resources and fractured long-standing alliances. Their incompetence had become so apparent that even the Blue Hammer Royal Family could no longer ignore it.

The shift was subtle at first: oversight. Then, inspection. Now, total control.

The city’s true importance was highlighted by one irrefutable fact—even the Crown Prince himself, before earning his title as heir, had been sent to govern Dreamy Sky City for five full years. It was a crucible of administration and diplomacy, a trial by frost and steel that had tested even royal blood.

Now, that legacy stood threatened.

---

Inside the main hall of the ruling estate, tension swirled like a choking fog. The air was thick with incense and fear. Velvet drapes rustled slightly, stirred by a breeze that carried the scent of smoke and blood from the city’s edge.

Seated at the round obsidian table were the three current heads of the noble families. The room, once filled with boasting and laughter, now held only grim expressions and uneasy glances.

Suddenly, a plump man with glossy, floral skin slammed his jeweled hand on the armrest.

"How could this happen?" he cried out, his voice cracking between disbelief and panic.

His soft cheeks quivered with emotion. His silk robe was hastily thrown on, clearly interrupting an evening of indulgence. His scent still carried hints of wine, perfume, and rose oil.

Just minutes ago, he had been lounging in luxury—fine wine in hand, nestled between two well-paid companions.

Now, everything had changed.

His power, his safety, even his family legacy—all under threat.

"Damn that old man!" he hissed bitterly. "Why didn’t he secure control of the defense systems when he had the chance? If the weapons were under our command, none of this would’ve happened!"

His voice grew shrill with resentment, a child denied his toy.

Across the table, a lean, hawk-eyed man in tight black robes nodded in agreement, his fingers tapping nervously against the wooden edge. Beside him, a woman in a pink embroidered gown, regal yet cold, remained silent but visibly displeased. Her gaze was distant, her brows furrowed in suppressed fury.

Not a single one of them spoke of their own failings.

Not their squandered opportunities.

Not their disregard for warning signs.

Instead, the three noble heirs found solace in blame—pointing fingers at the elders who had once built this city into a beacon of wealth and power.

They saw the present collapse not as the result of their own mismanagement, but as the lingering consequence of outdated decisions and inconvenient wisdom.

They were too blind to see it: the fall had already begun. The ground was cracking beneath them, and a storm named Damien was knocking at the gates.

Just then, a wave of panicked shouts erupted from beyond the chamber walls.

"Enemy attack! Protect the young masters!"

"Damn it, we’re outnumbered! Someone block the entrance—now!"

The clash of steel rang out almost immediately—

Clink! Clink!

Each strike was a jarring note in the chaos-fueled symphony echoing through the estate.

Inside the grand meeting hall, the three noble heirs froze like deer caught in the path of an oncoming storm. Their luxurious robes, gleaming jewelry, and pampered composure felt laughably out of place as panic seeped in from every corner of the city they had failed to defend.

They had squandered precious minutes. If they had acted the moment reports arrived... If they had organized even the barest line of defense... perhaps the Valthorn Army wouldn’t have stormed this deep into Dreamy Sky City.

But now, the storm was at their doorstep.

The plump noble, sweat beading on his forehead, trembled as he stared toward the door.

"The Valthorn Army is already this deep into our territory? What the hell are those good-for-nothing soldiers doing?!"

he shrieked, his voice cracking with panic and disbelief.

Before anyone could respond, the doors of the chamber were thrown open with a thunderous crash.

A gust of wind carried in the scent of smoke, blood, and ash.

And then he walked in—

Damien.

Tall and composed, dressed in battle-worn garb, his black hair ruffled by the wind. He looked like a blade forged in war, sharp and merciless. His steps were slow, measured—but there was no mistaking the predator behind those calm eyes.

He had marched straight here after receiving word of the nobles’ meeting.

He wasn’t about to let his prey escape.

As Damien advanced, the iron-rich scent of blood clung to him like a shroud. It was thick, oppressive—almost alive. The expressions on the nobles’ faces shifted from confusion to recognition... then to pure dread.

The plump heir recoiled, clutching his nose in revulsion.

"Ugh—what is that smell?"

he spat, glaring at Damien as if he were some filthy beast. "Stay back!"

The woman, regal and venomous in her silk pink gown, narrowed her eyes with arrogance rather than fear.

"Who let you in?" she snapped. "Guards! Throw this trash out at once!"

A beat passed.

Then Damien smiled.

A cold, cutting smile that sent an unexplainable chill down their spines.

"Very good," he said softly, voice rich with mock amusement.

"I was eagerly waiting to meet all three of you."

He took another step forward, the shadows stretching at his feet like silent wolves.

"Now... tell me why I should let any of you walk out of this room alive."

There was no need to raise his voice. His words carried with them the weight of inevitability.

"If your answer doesn’t satisfy me..."

Swish.

Epoch Breaker materialized in his hand like a whisper of death—silent, seamless, absolute.

The air turned thick. The nobles could barely breathe.

The executioner had arrived, and their time to plead had just begun.