SSS-Grade Acceleration Talent made me Fastest Lord of Apocalypse-Chapter 29: Huh! Illness? My foot. I bet Roosevelt fled already—left us to die

Chapter 29 - Huh! Illness? My foot. I bet Roosevelt fled already—left us to die

Valthorn City

Dark, gloomy clouds loomed over the city skyline, thick and heavy, like the eyes of a demon god watching from above. The sunlight was faint and scattered, swallowed by the grey above, casting an ashen glow across the cobbled roads and crooked rooftops.

After a long day tending to the spirit fields beyond the walls, farmers trudged back to their homes, their backs hunched, eyes weary. With each step, they paused to glance back at the massive city gates—silent sentinels that stood between them and the ominous forest line. The air carried an uncomformtable chill.

Fully armored guards were stationed at the gates, their gazes locked onto the trees in the distance, muscles tensed beneath their armor. Their hands rarely left the hilts of their weapons, and their eyes flickered with nervous hesitation. Even the wind seemed to whisper warnings from the forest's depths.

One of the guards exhaled deeply and turned, stepping away from his post. His boots scraped along the stone as he entered the city, shoulders slumped, eyes dim.

The same heaviness gripped the soldiers along the walls. Their faces were grim, their eyes hollow. Conversations were rare. Laughs had vanished.

The cheerful laughter of children running down the alleys had disappeared. Hawkers, once vibrant and loud, had fallen silent. Market stalls stood empty, abandoned in haste. Doors and shutters were drawn. A ghostly stillness clung to the streets.

Day by day, more shops closed. Merchants packed their wares with shaking hands, ready to flee the moment an opportunity arose. Entire businesses vanished overnight.

Something terrible was looming over the kingdom.

No one knew when the fear began, but rumors had spread like wildfire. The heart of the whispers was the same—King Roosevelt Harrier, sovereign of the Valthorn Kingdom, had fallen gravely ill.

And with him out of commission, there was no one left to stop the beast wave.

A terrifying wave.

The very mention of it drained the color from people's faces. And no one believed in the two princes, the so-called heirs who hadn't even awakened. To the people, they were jokes—nobles by blood, but powerless in truth.

The royal bloodline had become a fragile lifeline—one stretched thin, about to snap.

Without a protector, the city's morale crumbled. Those with coin were already plotting their escape. Caravans were being quietly arranged, bribes offered to city guards. Carriages left in the dead of night, bearing the wealthier classes far from danger.

But the poor... they had no such luxury.

They stayed, watching the walls with dread, waiting for the ground to shake and the sky to howl.

"That crooked good-for-nothing Roosevelt and his two useless sons..." an old woman spat bitterly, holding her two small grandchildren close, shielding them from the cold wind that seeped through the cracks in their wooden home.

"Huh! Illness? My foot. I bet Roosevelt fled already—left us to die!" another old woman scoffed nearby, her face twisted into a sneer.

She walked away after that, but oddly enough, she was soon seen on the other side of the city, repeating the exact same words, her movements jerky and inhuman, her voice unchanging.

Something—or someone—was fanning the flames of hatred against the royal family.

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Harrier Family Estate

Within the heart of the estate, behind marble pillars and gilded halls, a very different atmosphere reigned.

Here, a meeting of utmost importance was about to begin.

The corridor was wide and immaculate, bathed in soft golden light from hanging spirit lanterns. The floors gleamed, and the windows had been shuttered long ago. Silence reigned.

Damien walked in step behind Devrok. Neither spoke.

Only the soft rhythm of their boots echoed through the hallways, a slow, steady cadence.

Their destination loomed ahead—the conference hall.

A place meant for deliberation and strategy.

But depending on what occurred next, it could become something far more dangerous. A place of judgment. A trap. An execution ground cloaked in formality.

Things are getting more and more complicated, Damien thought, narrowing his eyes.

The deeper they went, the darker the corridor became. Windows disappeared entirely, replaced by embedded glowing stones overhead that cast a pale, ghostly light.

The mood was oppressive.

Eventually, the pair reached a wide aisle draped in a dark red carpet. Several armored knights stood to the sides, still as statues, their swords sheathed but ready.

Upon seeing them, the knights raised their weapons in salute.

Devrok responded with a polite nod and kept walking. Damien followed, still silent.

Then they saw her—standing just beyond the guards and in front of the enormous door that led to the conference room.

A woman with striking red hair, her presence fierce and commanding.

Two thick braids fell over her shoulders, and a scar stretched diagonally across her face—from her forehead down to her chin. A massive sword rested on her back, its hilt carved with runes that shimmered faintly.

"Hmph. You sure took your time," she said, her tone light despite the sharp glint in her eyes.

Devrok bowed slightly, respectful. The generals had once served their father and thus held a status that even the royal sons acknowledged.

"General Rebecca. I hope we didn't keep you waiting too long."

Damien studied her, a strange feeling bubbling in his chest. Even before stepping inside, they had already run into one of the generals.

Valthorn City had four.

Each one responsible for guarding a direction of the city. Each one a Silver Rank powerhouse.

Though Rebecca stood with a relaxed posture, her mere presence seemed to weigh down the corridor.

A pressure that made breathing slightly harder.

Her gaze shifted to Damien. "The crown prince himself joining us? That's rare," she said with a tilt of her chin.

"Yes. He's leading this meeting," Devrok replied.

Rebecca raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised.

"Oh? Now that is unexpected. I wonder what's so serious that it brought the heir out of hiding?"

Before Devrok could respond, he simply said, "Let's not waste more time."

With a faint smile, Rebecca turned and pushed open the massive doors.

Cooong!

The heavy wood creaked, groaning on its ancient hinges as the grand doors slowly parted, the sound echoing deep within the estate.

Rebecca stepped inside first.

Devrok gestured to Damien. "Let's go."

They entered the conference hall together.

And with the very first step, Damien felt it—pressure.

Piercing gazes locked onto him from all around. A sudden weight settled on his shoulders. The air itself felt thick, heavy. Breathing became an effort.

It wasn't a metaphor. It was real.

This was the presence of Silver Rank warriors concentrated in one place.

The room was larger than Damien had expected. Shadows gathered in the corners. The ceiling was high and dimly lit, giving the space a solemn, ancient atmosphere.

At the center stood a massive round table, carved from a single slab of blackwood. Seated around it were three figures—no, three beings.

Each one radiated power.

"Welcome, Prince Devrok and Crown Prince Damien," a deep, kindly voice broke the silence.

The speaker was a short, thick man seated directly across from the entrance. His skin was tanned, his beard long and wild beneath his chin. His body was dense with muscle—like stone shaped into flesh.

It wasn't just strength—it was talent that forged such a body.

This was General Claymen Meroon, also known as Blood Mist, commander of the Northern forces.

It was said with the help of his heavy hammers, he turned his enemies into blood mist hence the name.

He smiled, but his eyes gleamed with intent.

And the meeting had only just begun.