SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 67: I alone am enough

Damien turned his gaze toward the southern sky, his expression hardening into something grim and unreadable. A chilling stillness settled over him, like the calm before a brewing storm.

His dark eyes, half-shadowed by the falling dusk, seemed to pierce through the horizon itself—as if he could already see the Blue Hammer Kingdom beyond it, and all the retribution it had just earned.

A quiet weight settled over the group.

Devrok and Anek exchanged subtle glances but dared not speak. There was something unsettling in Damien’s silence—something lethal.

Even the Iron Dungeon Stronghold leader, a man who had weathered countless battles and border skirmishes, found himself holding his breath. The air felt thick with foreboding. His instinct screamed that something monumental was about to unfold.

He didn’t know why—but a strange, involuntary sense of pity bloomed in his chest.

For the Blue Hammer Kingdom.

They had no idea what they had just awakened.

No idea who they had provoked.

If they had seen what he had seen... if they had witnessed the sheer, terrifying might of this young man... they would have never dared to even breathe in the direction of Damien’s domain.

They wouldn’t have touched his lands.

They wouldn’t have touched his authority.

But it was too late.

Damien turned around slowly, the wind tugging at the hem of his long black coat as he faced them. His voice, when it came, was cold, unyielding—yet filled with fire that crackled beneath every word.

"Blue Hammer Kingdom’s actions are tantamount to crushing the lifeblood of my nation."

"This act of war will not be tolerated."

He took a step forward, and the very air trembled around him. Mana, thick and oppressive, began to surge in waves—unstoppable and commanding. The air buzzed with latent force as he continued, every word like the tolling of a war drum.

"We will let them know that our two arms are not mere appendages, but two arms capable of drawing blood and fighting for self-respect."

"Before the sun rises tomorrow, the army of the Valthorn Kingdom will march."

His words were no longer just words. They carried weight, authority, and most terrifying of all—certainty.

The sheer mana woven into his voice thundered through the stronghold, carried across the scorched fields and crumbling walls. It rang through the bones of every soldier within earshot, igniting something primal inside them.

Hearts pounded.

Swords trembled in their scabbards.

A storm was rising—and they would follow it.

The Iron Dungeon Stronghold leader could only smile, a wry glint in his eyes as he looked upon Damien. It was the smile of a man who had just seen his suspicions confirmed.

"I knew it," his eyes seemed to say.

But not everyone shared his confidence.

Both Devrok and Anek wore dark, uneasy expressions. Their faces had gone pale, shadows falling across their brows like omens.

They weren’t fools. They understood the weight of Damien’s words better than most.

War against the Blue Hammer Kingdom? It was like throwing oneself into a furnace and hoping to come out unburned.

The kingdom of Valthorn had suffered years of attrition, its backbone worn down by skirmishes and internal strife. The Southern Unit, in particular, was a scattered mess of fresh recruits and half-trained warriors—men who had never even heard the cry of real battle, let alone survived it.

Anek’s lips parted, but the words failed him. He could not bring himself to voice what he feared.

Devrok, however, stepped forward, his tone steady but urgent.

"Damien, my brother, I am also angered by the Blue Hammer Kingdom’s actions, but are you sure this is the way to go?"

"At this stage, we can’t afford to suffer another loss."

For a brief moment, silence followed.

Then Damien chuckled.

Not out of mockery or dismissal—but with a quiet confidence that sent a chill down Devrok’s spine.

He didn’t turn.

He didn’t explain.

He didn’t need to.

Because Damien already knew what they were all thinking.

He was no fool. Of course, he knew that the army was inadequate.

He knew Valthorn’s forces couldn’t match the seasoned legions of Blue Hammer.

But that was precisely where everyone misunderstood him.

He didn’t need an army.

He never intended to rely on one.

His power alone—his will alone—was more than enough.

The corners of Damien’s lips curved ever so slightly as his thoughts turned dangerous, sharp, and clear as forged steel. A glint like tempered lightning flashed in his eyes.

Tomorrow, he would move.

And he would flatten the Blue Hammer Kingdom into dust.

---

Later that evening.

The steam of warm water curled around Damien’s bare shoulders as he reclined in the marble bath, eyes closed, tension dissolving into the lavender-scented mist. The soft glow of spirit lanterns danced on the water’s surface, casting wavering golden lights across the intricately carved walls. He let out a slow breath.

For the first time in days, a genuine peaceful smile graced his face.

When he emerged, wrapped in fresh robes of soft white silk that carried a faint, floral scent, he looked more like a serene noble scholar than the war-forging tempest he had been just hours earlier.

And yet, beneath the calm—fire still brewed.

He padded quietly across the polished floors of the estate and made his way to the kitchen.

Tonight, he would cook.

He had had enough of that godforsaken soup.

He was sure even the worst prisons back on Earth had served better meals. The flavorless slop served earlier made him question if the royal chefs were secretly trying to assassinate his taste buds.

Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—the staff had already been warned of his intentions. Though thoroughly shocked, none dared question his command. The kitchen was cleared out, save for a few curious spectators and a royal chef lingering discreetly in the background.

Laid out on the central table was the carcass of an unfortunate wild goat, cleaned and prepped.

Before Damien could begin, a soft voice broke the silence.

"Husband, when did you learn how to cook?"

Niomi stood in the doorway, her wide, curious eyes blinking at the sight of Damien inside the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and hair still slightly damp from the bath.

In all the years she’d known him, not once had she seen him so much as touch a kitchen knife.

Forget cooking—she doubted he’d ever even opened a pantry door.

Damien paused, frowning slightly at her tone, then gave her a dazzling, confident grin. There was an almost theatrical flair as he rolled his sleeves up further, exposing his forearms like a veteran chef preparing for a show.

"Just wait and watch. Let me show you what real cooking looks like."

Internally, though?

He was panicking.

In truth, even back on Earth—before he became a major power player—he had never cooked more than instant noodles. But none of that mattered. Compared to the miserable soup that had assaulted his senses earlier, even his worst attempts were sure to taste like divine cuisine.

Royal chefs, my ass. Dogs could’ve brewed better flavor from bark and boiled rocks.

He approached the table with a practiced calm that masked his inexperience, eyes scanning the wild goat until he located the most promising cut—a thick, meaty thigh, firm yet yielding beneath his fingers. He began trimming with slow, deliberate motions, slicing away the fat with surprising finesse.

The confidence in his grip, the way he handled the blade—it all looked convincing, even if his experience was shallow.

The seasoning came next.

He kept it simple but precise. Coarse white salt from the Sea of Whispers. Freshly crushed pepper, pungent and biting. He added a handful of finely chopped forest herbs from the Thousand Beasts Forest, their aroma sharp and earthy.

Then came the finishing touch—Snowbess honey, harvested from ice-sheltered hives in the far north, known for its subtle sweetness and trace spiritual energy. He drizzled it slowly across the meat, the golden threads catching the kitchen light like liquid amber.

When the seasoned meat finally touched the hot, silver-plated pan, the kitchen exploded with a sharp sizzle that was music to the ears.

A thick, primal aroma wafted upward, mingling spices and meat in a heavenly perfume that wrapped itself around the senses.

The royal chef, who had been quietly observing from a distance with thinly veiled skepticism, suddenly straightened. His eyes widened slightly, nostrils flaring. For the first time in years, someone had managed to shock him in his own domain.

Damien, completely unaware—or perhaps pretending not to notice—grabbed a small fan from the counter and began furiously fanning the sizzling meat, determined to keep the aromas concentrated. He didn’t want the essence to bleed into the air. Every wisp of flavor had to be locked into the flesh.

With a precise flick, he placed a golden lid over the pan to trap the heat.

Then, with a chef’s flair he didn’t truly possess, Damien turned toward a nearby shelf, retrieving a bottle of aged red wine, its label marked with foreign sigils. He poured it slowly into a small bowl, mixing in crushed green leaves that would form the base of a rich, herbal sauce.

The moment he returned to the flame and tipped the wine into the pan, there was a brief flash of blue flame—a quick, elegant flare that danced and died within seconds, searing the meat with a final kiss of fire.

The aroma deepened.

The kitchen fell into reverent silence.

Even Niomi, still standing near the doorway, found herself swallowing unconsciously. Her curiosity had shifted into genuine interest—and maybe, just maybe, a little awe.

Damien straightened his back, glanced at the sizzling pan, and smirked.

He didn’t know what he was doing, not really.

But damn it, it smelled like victory.