SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 68: “...Is it really that tasty

Besides Niomi and Devrok, Damien had also invited Amyra to witness what real cooking looked like.

After all, he had a vendetta to settle—with the abomination known as "soup."

You don’t call a few soggy meat chunks swimming helplessly in lukewarm water food. That was a war crime.

All three of his guests sat at the long wooden dining table, anticipation rising with every passing second. The soft golden candlelight cast flickering shadows across their faces, highlighting the silent tension in the room.

Niomi’s eyes remained fixed on the dish Damien had prepared. Her gaze was ravenous, a glint of childlike hunger flashing behind her usual grace. A thin string of moisture pooled at the corner of her mouth, and she didn’t even realize it.

Damien noticed, of course, and his lips curved into a warm, self-satisfied smile. Without hesitation, he picked up a serving spoon and gently placed a generous portion of tender, honey-glazed meat onto her plate.

Niomi didn’t wait. She pounced on the food with unrestrained enthusiasm, sinking her teeth into the first bite with a soft gasp of pleasure. Juices burst across her tongue, rich and earthy, tinged with the perfect amount of sweetness. Her cheeks flushed slightly, and her expression melted into bliss.

A line of sauce trailed down the corner of her lips.

Still smiling, Damien leaned over and gently wiped it away with his thumb—his movements smooth and practiced.

Amyra, seated across from them, silently averted her gaze, her expression tightening into a frown.

She had watched the entire cooking process earlier, standing in the kitchen like a quiet statue. Her sharp mind had memorized every step Damien took—from trimming the goat’s thigh to the strange ritual of fanning the meat like it was sacred.

And yet, in her heart, there was only one reaction:

"What an utterly wasteful technique. Why go through so much trouble?"

In her opinion, he could have just thrown the meat in boiling water, maybe added a root vegetable or two, and it would have been done in half the time. No flipping, no fanning, no honey.

The flavor of meat was the flavor of meat. Simple. Direct.

But thankfully, Damien remained blissfully unaware of her culinary blasphemy. If he had known what was going through her head, he might have choked on his food right there and spat it across the table in disbelief.

"What is wrong with you, woman?"—he would have yelled in outrage.

But instead, unaware and pleased, he served Devrok and Amyra their portions, the rich aroma of seared herbs and honey-glazed meat wafting through the air like a promise of salvation.

The royal chef, still lurking at the edge of the room with silent dread in his eyes, now questioned his entire existence.

For that night, the kitchen had not belonged to him.

It had belonged to Damien.

And Damien cooked like a man declaring war on the entire culinary history of this kingdom.

---

However, if one were to take a step back and consider the broader picture, Amyra’s thought process made a certain kind of sense.

She and Damien came from two entirely different worlds—realms that could never truly understand each other.

Amyra had grown up in a post-apocalyptic world where survival was a daily battle. Food wasn’t measured by taste or elegance; it was measured by whether it could keep you alive. Anything edible was a luxury. Expectations were shackled by necessity.

Damien, on the other hand, had risen through the ranks of the criminal underworld on Earth as a mafia boss. A man of power and influence, he had enjoyed the best cuisine money could buy—meals crafted by world-renowned chefs, plated like artwork, served with vintage wine older than most men.

For Damien, food wasn’t just sustenance. It was expression. Identity. Art.

And now, those worlds had collided at a humble table.

The meal continued.

Devrok took a large bite, and for a second, his entire body stilled. His eyes widened as his jaw slowly worked the meat. Then came the tremble—subtle at first, before tears began to well up in his eyes.

Never in his life—never—had he tasted something so divine.

The meat melted in his mouth, perfectly tender, carrying with it the rich blend of herbs and honey that had seeped into every fiber. Sauces burst forth with every chew, a sweet-and-savory symphony that played across his tongue like the song of angels.

His taste buds, long abused by decades of soldier rations and watery broths, trembled with joy, like prisoners finally tasting freedom.

Meanwhile, across the table, Amyra took a bite—more out of obligation than curiosity, a flicker of disdain still lingering in her heart.

Then her body froze.

If one looked closely, they’d see a ripple pass through her spine and tiny goosebumps rise along her arms.

Her golden-rank instincts screamed for restraint—Don’t show weakness!—but even they couldn’t suppress the raw pleasure coursing through her senses. She clenched her jaw, fists tightening at her side, barely suppressing the sudden urge to yell in excitement.

In that moment, everything else faded.

Her pride. Her skepticism. Her training.

All that remained was the food.

And she devoured it like a starving beast, her hands moving faster than she realized. Each bite only intensified the sensation, as if the flavors refused to become predictable—every chew unlocking something new.

Within minutes, her plate was completely clean.

But Amyra wasn’t satisfied.

She stared down at the empty dish, her brows twitching slightly. Then her gaze lifted to Damien, eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in silent expectation.

Damien saw it. He chuckled softly and, without a word, served her another portion. He still had plenty.

Across the table, Devrok coughed pointedly.

Damien merely grinned and ladled a generous helping onto his plate as well.

If food was the way to hearts, tonight Damien had conquered them all.

---

No one spoke.

The once-bustling kitchen had gone utterly silent, save for the occasional soft clink of cutlery against porcelain. Conversation had been forgotten—abandoned in favor of the transcendent experience laid out before them.

All three of them ate with the solemnity of worshippers before a sacred offering.

This time, Amyra ate slowly—painstakingly so. She chewed each bite with deliberate care, as though savoring the dish was a ritual, not a meal. There was fear in her heart—not the fear of poison or enemies—but of finality. She was afraid that if she ate too fast, this fleeting joy would slip through her fingers like sand in a storm.

She wanted to hold on.

To the warmth of the flavor.

To the illusion of peace.

To something that reminded her of a world where survival wasn’t the only goal.

Half an hour passed.

By then, the plates gleamed under the candlelight, polished so thoroughly they reflected the ceiling above. Not a single crumb remained. Even the seasoned juices had been wiped clean with bits of bread and devoured in reverent silence.

A collective exhale followed.

Their bellies were full, their minds calm.

Damien leaned back in his chair, his fingers loosely cradling a silver goblet filled with spiced wine. His gaze turned toward Amyra, calm and steady.

"Have you considered my proposal?" he asked softly.

Some time ago, he had offered her a position—an important one. He wanted her to manage the bank.

Back then, she had outright rejected it, almost with offense in her tone. And so, Damien had taken on the responsibility himself for the time being.

But it was exhausting.

Between governance, diplomacy, and impending war, managing finances was a weight he didn’t need right now.

Amyra blinked, clearly surprised he brought it up again. Her mouth opened, ready to decline once more—but she paused. A shadow of uncertainty passed through her eyes.

"Crown Prince," she said slowly, "it’s not that I don’t want to... but I don’t even know what the hell a bank is, let alone how to manage it."

Damien nodded, visibly pleased by her blunt honesty.

"I’m only asking you to help temporarily. You won’t be running it solo. Just maintain a record of all the transactions, that’s all. Think of it as... bookkeeping."

Amyra looked at him for a moment longer, then sighed and gave a reluctant nod.

"I’ll try."

A genuine smile crept onto Damien’s face. "That’s all I ask."

Just then, Niomi, who had remained quiet up until now, leaned in with concern clouding her eyes.

"Husband, are you sure about your decision?"

Her voice held weight—not because she doubted Amyra, but because of what loomed on the horizon.

The whispers of war were growing louder with each passing day.

Everyone with influence could feel the pressure mounting. The winds were shifting, and Niomi, more than most, understood what that meant.

She had heard the reports.

She knew the name: Blue Hammer Kingdom.

A powerhouse. Ruthless and relentless.

Damien, however, remained unfazed.

He merely shrugged and replied with a calm, "Don’t worry. It’s no big deal."

Confidence—or madness—flickered behind his eyes.

As they continued to discuss, unaware of any danger, something stirred in the air above them.

Unseen by all, a presence lingered—silent and ghostly.

From high above, a pair of eyes watched the scene with peculiar intensity.

Not the conversation.

Not the people.

But the empty plates.

So clean.

So satisfied.

A low, barely audible whisper drifted through the room—so faint it almost seemed imagined.

"...Is it really that tasty?"

The voice, laced with curiosity and a sliver of longing, vanished into the silence as quickly as it had come.