SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 84: Rain of Arrows

The central war tower rumbled softly as arcane arrays spun into action, scanning the incoming force with precision and speed. Dim blue light glowed from the analysis panels, casting strange shadows across the war room’s stone walls.

Henriks stood still, a mountain of muscle wrapped in silent menace, eyes locked on the live projection hovering in the center of the command platform.

His gaze narrowed at the sight of nearly a thousand soldiers marching across the dry plains in perfect formation. Dust churned beneath their synchronized steps, creating a rolling veil that trailed them like a funeral shroud.

From a distance, it was an awe-inspiring sight—one that could stir dread into lesser hearts.

But something felt... off.

The soldiers at the front line, the ones leading the march, looked visibly different. Their formation was tight, but their faces betrayed them—pale, anxious, their brows slick with sweat despite the wind cutting across the open terrain.

Henriks noticed this slight but telling detail, but instead of alarm, disdain crept into his lips. He chuckled lowly, mistaking their fear as a sign of weakness.

"They’ve seen what happened to the last tower," he muttered. "Good. Let them tremble before their end."

Around him, the other officers voiced similar derision.

"These fools dare to invade Dreamy Sky?"

"Look at them! They look ready to wet themselves!"

"Hah, what a joke. Should’ve sent children instead."

The war room echoed with cruel laughter, all of them unaware of the cruel irony unraveling before them—the ’cowards’ at the front were not Valthorn troops at all, but their own men: soldiers of the Blue Hammer Kingdom, dressed in their enemies’ uniforms.

...

Out on the battlefield, Damien’s gaze was sharp and unblinking, fixed on the towering structure in the distance.

A jet-black obsidian watchtower loomed like a death god over the plains, bristling with armaments and humming with mana energy. Arcane circuits ran down its sides like glowing veins.

"One... two... three..." he whispered, his lips barely moving.

His sharp eyes locked onto each protruding muzzle hidden along the upper tiers of the tower. Ten in total.

Ten cannons, all charged and waiting for the first soul to step into their kill zone.

His frown deepened.

Even if he sprinted at full speed with everything he had, there was no way to intercept all of them in time. Someone was going to die. This part of the plan had always been a gamble.

Damien didn’t like gambles—but he had no choice.

He slowly turned his head toward the soldiers marching at the front, disguised in the stolen Blue Hammer uniforms. Fear clung to their bodies like chains. Their faces were pale, eyes wide and flickering with suppressed panic.

Some of them looked like they were on the verge of screaming.

But they didn’t.

Because they knew.

If even a single one of them shouted, if they so much as whispered a plea, the men marching behind them—Valthorn warriors, blades drawn—would cut them down without hesitation.

Their only hope now lay in silence.

And in the faintest, most desperate possibility that someone in Dreamy Sky headquarters might recognize them before the first volley was fired.

A long shot.

But when death marched just a few hundred paces ahead, even a fool’s hope felt like salvation.

Their boots pounded the dry earth, the sound now louder than any heartbeat. Sweat dripped into their eyes, but none dared blink.

Every step forward carried the weight of an axe against their necks.

Every breath they took might be their last.

And above it all, Damien watched—silent, calculating, prepared for what was to come.

The game had already begun.

And it was a game of blood, fire, and deception.

Damien stopped paying attention to the trembling soldiers at the front. His eyes calmly shifted toward Sword Master Anek and the Iron Dungeon stronghold leader.

Sensing his gaze, both men nodded solemnly.

There was no need for words. They had already discussed their roles in this deadly orchestration. Once the first wave of death rained down, they would burst forward at their fastest possible speed and regroup at Damien’s position.

Time and coordination would determine who lived and who didn’t.

As tension grew thick enough to choke on, Damien’s head suddenly snapped forward, his senses flaring.

Dozens of kilometers ahead, atop the obsidian fortress of the enemy watchtower, something ancient stirred.

The cannons, carved with runes and mounted like dragons on perches, let out a deep, resonant hum—low and throaty, like dormant beasts awakening from a thousand-year slumber.

Every inch of Damien’s body reacted to it. Muscles tensed, nerves fired. He didn’t need to wait for visual confirmation—the sound alone was enough.

His voice cut through the growing chaos like a blade.

"Brace for impact—!"

His shout echoed across the battlefield, booming louder than war drums, snapping every soldier out of their fear-fueled daze.

Even before his words had finished reverberating, the marble nestled deep in Damien’s spiritual space lit up—the Acceleration Marble, a precious treasure that warped the laws of motion and energy, began devouring ambient mana like a starving predator.

It didn’t simply power Damien—it amplified him.

Within moments, his body surged with raw speed. A silvery aura bloomed around his heart, radiating outward, wrapping his entire being in a shimmering layer of temporal distortion.

The next sound was like that of a fighter jet breaking the sound barrier.

A piercing whistle.

And then—Damien vanished.

A blur in the shape of a man. A wisp of silver light. A distorted shadow.

He was gone.

Almost at the exact moment his figure disappeared, the sky darkened.

Thousands—tens of thousands—of alloyed arrows filled the heavens like a metallic swarm. Their razor-sharp tips howled as they tore through the air, each shaft infused with mana, each designed to punch through iron-ranked armor like wet parchment.

The soldiers at the front had no time to scream.

There was no room for fear anymore.

The bloodbath had begun, and Damien was going to make sure, every single Soldier of Valthorn walked out of this pit alive.