SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 25: sacrifice must be studied

"Someone from the cultists...?"

Damien walked through the city streets, his steps slow, gaze unfocused. His thoughts drifted back to the wave of killing intent he had felt just outside the city gates.

It wasn't a random feeling. That sort of hatred—sharp, targeted, personal—only came from someone who knew him.

He was almost certain.

It had come from someone among the Forbidden Breath cultists.

But... why?

He had never interfered with them. Never crossed paths. He hadn't even taken an interest in them until today. So what reason would they have to mark him?

His brow furrowed in thought.

Then, without warning, a silver gleam lit up his pupils.

Unknowingly, his [Accelerated Cognition] skill had activated, responding to his surge of curiosity. His mind sped up, filtering through memories like flipping through a book at lightning speed.

And then—

A flash.

A memory surfaced, rising from deep within the fog of his mind.

"So strange..." Damien muttered under his breath, eyes distant.

The memory was fractured—like a painting shattered into fragments. Colors and faces bled together, voices mixed. But buried within the noise, one detail stood out.

He had once been invited by the Forbidden Breath cult.

To their headquarters.

A headache slammed into him like a hammer. He staggered, clutching his head.

Pain pulsed through his skull the moment he tried to peer deeper into the memory.

Then, as suddenly as it came—it vanished.

He straightened slowly, breathing heavily. The pain receded like a tide pulling back, leaving him shaken but intact.

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Damien's eyes narrowed, a cold gleam flashing through them.

"Hmm... I need to investigate this cult," he muttered.

There was no question now—there was a connection between the Forbidden Breath cult and the previous Damien, the man whose body he now inhabited.

Could it be... that his death wasn't as simple as I assumed?

He glanced behind him. His group was still laughing, relaxed, completely unaware of his strange state.

A few moments later, Damien's figure melted into the crowded city, vanishing among its winding streets. The guards at the gate, seeing him disappear, finally allowed themselves to relax.

But someone else hadn't missed his arrival.

Far from the city gates, in the shadow of a crumbling watchtower, a man stood silently.

Draped in eerie white robes stained with dried crimson blood, the figure resembled a ghost more than a man. His eyes were glassy—hollow like a dead fish, devoid of life or emotion.

He watched Damien vanish into the city's depths, then spoke in a flat, lifeless tone.

"So the rumors are true... the Crown Prince survived."

"This is extremely unusual. A letter must be sent to headquarters. The failed sacrifice must be studied..."

His voice was empty, almost mechanical, like a lifeless puppet reciting lines.

As he spoke, a cold wind swept through the trees, carrying dry leaves that rustled along the stone ground. Behind him, the cultists continued their frenzied ritual around the grotesque idol.

Their chants reached a feverish crescendo.

And then... something unnatural occurred.

Shadows stretched from their feet, rising as though alive. Writhing, reaching, they merged silently with the flames at the center of the altar.

The fire roared in response, swelling with unnatural intensity. It cast light so bright the city guards instinctively looked toward it, alarmed.

But the cultists didn't stop.

Their voices climbed another octave, mad and euphoric, the night air trembling with their zealotry.

...

Elsewhere in the city, Damien's eyes followed Devrok's retreating figure. The young man practically skipped toward the training grounds, excitement written all over his face.

Today was the day he would attempt to fuse with the Stone-hearted Knight's core—and begin his path as a cultivator.

Even so, Devrok wasn't reckless. He knew this was a delicate process. Rushing could lead to backlash, even death.

So before heading to the training hall on the castle's first floor, he planned to check in on Niomi—and then visit King Roosevelt to heal him again.

...

"Oh? She's already asleep."

Damien paused at the door, lips twitching in amusement.

Niomi was sprawled on the bed, limbs tangled in the sheets, mouth slightly open with a thread of drool trailing down her chin. Her clothes were a mess, exposing glimpses of snow-pale skin beneath.

But Damien wasn't a hormonal teenager. His gaze lingered for a moment—appreciative, but not lecherous.

A man of refined taste, he had seen many beautiful women in his past life—supermodels, celebrities, powerful women from high society. Few could match Niomi's natural charm.

Even among those countless lovers, she would easily rank in the top three.

Still, she looked tired. Best to let her rest.

Without a word, Damien turned and headed toward the upper floor.

Unbeknownst to him, Niomi had spent the afternoon practicing the Harrier family's spiritual technique and made surprising progress. Even Amyra had praised her, impressed by her talent.

But Damien never knew.

And even if he had, it wouldn't have changed anything.

...

The castle at night was silent.

Only the distant sound of armored footsteps echoed through the marble halls—night guards patrolling, ever watchful.

The magic crystals embedded in the ceiling gave off a steady, cool glow. Their light shimmered across the polished floor, bathing Damien's figure in ghostly luminescence.

Tik. Tok.

The sound of his boots echoed rhythmically, like a ticking clock in a dead hallway.

He climbed the final stair, arriving at the king's chamber.

As his hand reached for the doorknob, he paused.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face—but only for an instant.

The handle was warm.

Metal cooled quickly, especially in stone buildings like these. Which meant someone had used this door... very recently.

Someone entered.

Damien's instincts sharpened like a blade.

He opened the door slowly.

Creak.

The heavy door opened without resistance, revealing the king's resting chamber.

King Roosevelt lay on the bed, still pale and weakened. On the side table, a glass bottle gleamed with white pills.

But aside from the king... the room was empty.

Or so it seemed.

Damien frowned inwardly.

No... someone was here. Just moments ago.

His senses, forged from a lifetime of survival, were screaming at him.

Still keeping his expression neutral, Damien stepped further inside.

He approached the bed calmly, giving no sign that anything was wrong.

But behind him...

The shadow cast by the magic lamp began to writhe.

Flowing like liquid.

Stretching.

From the shifting shadow, a figure emerged.

Clad in full black armor, the assassin moved without sound. His blade gleamed in his hand, raised high, aimed at Damien's back.

And then—

White light flashed.