SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse

Ten tons of force—that was the kind of strength a seasoned mid-Silver rank warrior could unleash at their peak.

Not bad at all, considering Damien hadn't used any flashy technique or spiritual augmentation. It was pure, raw strength—no elemental boost, no domain support, nothing but a clean, direct punch.

"If I used a proper combat technique…"

He didn't finish the thought. The result wouldn't have been a mere ten tons—that much was certain.

From what he had gathered so far, some elite martial techniques could temporarily double a warrior's maximum output. A ten-ton punch could become twenty. That was the difference between blowing open a gate and collapsing a fortress.

Of course, he wasn't in a rush to get his hands on such techniques.

He had something far more unique: his acceleration talent.

And right now, what truly intrigued him was this—

"What happens if I stack my acceleration with one of those high-tier explosive techniques?"

The thought made his lips curl slightly.

With that question buzzing in his mind, Damien turned and casually left the training room, his steps echoing faintly across the vast, empty floor.

Time to pay a visit to the library.

From what he remembered, the technique the Blue Hammer King had used in their battle—Seven Strikes of the Divine Hammer—was supposedly stored there, sealed in one of its deeper vaults.

It wasn't a secret, surprisingly.

"Why would something so powerful be so... publicly known?"

But that question had an answer too. According to the whispers of court scholars and frightened stewards, the Divine Hammer technique could only be inherited by those carrying the direct bloodline of the Blue Hammer family.

A divine restriction or perhaps a blood-seal condition tied to the inheritance itself.

Damien didn't put blind faith in rumors. The world was vast and weird, and things weren't always what they appeared to be.

"Guess I'll find out in a few minutes."

With that thought, he crossed the palace corridors, flanked by half-crumbled statues and fresh paintings his men had recently hung. The scent of fresh ink and cleaned stone mixed with the lingering iron of past battles.

He finally stopped before a large stone gate nestled between twin pillars engraved with hammer sigils. The surface of the gate was etched with layers of faded script and worn runes—ancient, no doubt.

Its presence alone radiated weight—figuratively and spiritually.

Damien placed a hand on its cool surface and muttered under his breath.

"Let's see what secrets you're hiding."

The gate opend soundlessly.

Immediately, an old woman with a long scar running down the left side of her cheek stepped into view, her back straight and eyes sharp like unsheathed blades.

"Welcome to the library, Crown Prince," she said with quiet dignity.

Even her bow was graceful, but not subservient. There was something about the way she moved—measured, calm, authoritative. Though her appearance was aged, the aura surrounding her was anything but frail. It was steady. Enduring.

Damien smiled faintly. "There's no need for formality, Lady Rivera."

He stepped past her with relaxed ease.

This woman, Lady Rivera, was the original guardian and curator of the Blue Hammer library.

The first time Damien encountered her, he had braced himself for a fight. After all, she had been loyal to the previous regime. But surprisingly, she had simply greeted him with the same composed expression she wore now.

To Rivera, rulers came and went—but knowledge endured.

As long as the library stood unharmed, she didn't seem to care who wore the crown.

Wise woman, Damien thought, lips twitching with amusement.

Thank the heavens he hadn't destroyed the library in his conquest. It would've been a tragedy beyond words.

With a faint chuckle under his breath, Damien walked deeper into the maze of shelves.

The scent of old parchment and ancient ink wrapped around him like a living fog. Dust motes danced lazily in beams of light filtering through narrow windows, casting long shadows between the endless rows of books.

He reached out, trailing a finger across a shelf lined with weathered spines. His fingers paused at a random title. Curious, he pulled it free and flipped it open.

The first sentence made his brow arch in disbelief.

"The Perfect Time to Look for a Mate"

Caught off guard, he snapped the book shut and plucked another from the same shelf.

This one was worse.

"How to Seduce the Woman of Your Dreams Using Only Words"

He stared blankly for a second.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Only losers read these."

With an amused shake of his head, he replaced the book and moved on. Apparently, this corner of the library had been someone's personal stash of forgotten romance manuals or desperate dating advice.

Blue Hammer king must've been lonelier than I thought.

Damien turned the corner and stepped into the deeper archive halls, where the air grew colder, heavier. The shelves here were older, their contents more refined.

Fifteen minutes passed.

He scanned titles with focused patience—treatises on spiritual fields, old cultivation manuals, journals of past kings—until finally, something caught his eye.

A thick, weathered tome rested alone on a pedestal, sealed in a protective glass case. The cover looked to be made from the hide of some ancient beast, its surface marked by faint claw-like scars and sigils.

The bold lettering etched across the surface read:

Brief History of Radiant Dawn Continent

Damien's eyes lit up.

This was it.

He reached out and gently removed the protective case, his fingers brushing against the worn leather. A faint tingle passed into his skin, as though the book remembered the hands of those who had held it before.

Without wasting a second, he opened it to the first page, eyes scanning the ancient script.

Just from one glance, anyone could tell—the author of this tome was no ordinary individual.

The script was sharp, deliberate, etched with the confidence of someone who had lived long, seen much, and carved truth from experience.

Filled with curiosity and growing anticipation, Damien opened the first page and began to read:

"A ship doesn't sink because there's a hole in it; it only sinks when the water gets inside it."

He paused.

A single line—but one that carried immense weight.

It was the kind of quote that clung to your thoughts like a shadow, surfacing again when you least expected it.

That's a damn good line, Damien thought, eyes narrowing with interest.

Impressed, he continued reading.

"This is the mantra to use if you want to survive in a brutal world. The world treats the weak with ruthless cruelty, and it is a crime against yourself to hope it will treat you kindly. Delete that notion from your mind. It is the only way to survive."

"If you let the world chaos affect your mental state you will have to face death, only those who aren't affected cab continue to walk forward."

The tone was raw—unfiltered. It carried the same cold realism that Damien himself lived by.

But then, unexpectedly, the writing took a sharp turn.

"If you've read this far, it means you're truly interested in the history of the proud Profound Radiant Continent. Then prepare yourself, for what comes next may defy your expectations."

"You may not believe it, but this world was forged from cosmic dust, gathered over billions of years. Shaped by collisions, gravity, and celestial will—it was not made by gods as claimed by those chuches, but by chaos, fire, and time."

Damien blinked.

Cosmic dust? Celestial will?

The language struck a familiar chord. It was startlingly similar to the planetary formation theories he'd learned back on Earth. Gravity wells, ancient collisions, accretion—concepts that felt alien in this mana-rich world.

What the hell…? Who wrote this?

Was this some sort of hidden scholar? A transmigrator like him?

Still, the cosmic philosophy, while fascinating, wasn't what he was after. He needed something practical—something useful to his present goals. Information on current empires, major threats, influential figures, power structures.

With a sigh, he was about to close the book.

Then his eyes caught something buried in a dense block of text near the back of the chapter.

A single line that made his pulse quicken.

"In the age when the Eternal Flame Sect and the Empire of Verdant Skies waged war over control of the Skyfall Vein, there emerged a warrior born with natural mana channel's..."

Damien froze.

That... that wasn't normal.

He read on with sharpened focus.

"...this warrior, through the forbidden practice of Mana Infusion, managed to cultivate to unimaginable levels."

"However heavens are fair...."

"The resulting backlash destroyed his mortal shell, but before his death, he left behind a single inheritance site... marked by a scar in the sky that never fades."

"It is said that even now, those who stand near the Sky Scar and close their eyes can hear the whisper of a soul who challenged the gods themselves."

Damien's fingers tightened around the edge of the page.

Natural Mana channels...

Now that's was something interesting!