Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100

Unlike the Valora Continent, where humans held the reins of power, the Lost Continent was a battlefield of races. The Elves—with their terrifying grace and control over nature. The Demons—with their raw brutality and ancient bloodlines.

Together, they overshadowed the human forces in the Lost Continent.

It was precisely because of that imbalance that the humans there had turned to Valora—seeking reinforcements.

Seeking geniuses.

Despite being weaker as a whole, the humans of the Lost Continent were desperate. Constantly struggling. Constantly surviving.

They fought for every scrap of land. Every spiritual vein. Every rare resource—contested by Elves, Demons, and the deadly beasts that roamed the wilderness.

The Tower of Truth, standing tall amidst it all, had become more than a place of legend. It was a beacon. A place where names were written and fates were changed.

And now, the youths of Valora had been given their chance to rise.

But many of them couldn't shake the unease in their hearts.

This wasn't just a trial.

This was stepping into a continent of chaos, politics, and bloodshed.

Yes, they were excited.

But beneath that excitement…

They were nervous.

Very nervous.

Because they knew—once they stepped onto the Lost Continent, there would be no turning back.

"Anton, Jack, Revenna, Amelia, Bruce, Asha, Arthur, Alice, Aelric… all of you."

King Magnar's voice echoed across the courtyard of the villa, calm but firm, carrying the weight of experience and command. His gaze swept across the gathered geniuses—dozens of the most talented youths the Valora Continent had to offer.

He paused for a breath, then continued.

"This is your last chance."

A heavy silence fell over the group.

"If any of you wish to step back, do it now. No one will question you. No one will blame you."

His eyes lingered on a few faces, gauging reactions.

"But once you step through those teleportation runes, the only thing waiting for you is uncertainty. You will be far from home. Surrounded by power, politics, danger—and worse."

He let those words hang in the air for a few long seconds.

But no one moved.

No one flinched.

Not a single genius backed away.

King Magnar gave a small nod of approval. "Good," he said. "You have ten minutes. Say what you need to say. After that, you're on your way."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the youths to themselves.

The atmosphere shifted.

Some of the geniuses wandered toward their factions—seeking final words from mentors, parents, or elders. Others grouped together, exchanging casual conversation, forced laughter, and uncertain smiles.

Near one edge of the courtyard, Amelia turned toward Alice.

"You know you don't have to go," she said gently. "No one's forcing you."

Alice met her gaze and shook her head. "If I stayed behind, I'd be bored out of my mind. Everyone I care about is going."

Her smile was light, but Amelia could still see the shadows beneath it.

Anton, nearby, sighed. His eyes flicked to his sister with a mix of worry and resignation. He'd tried—multiple times—to talk her out of this journey. But in the end… Alice had always made her own choices.

Amelia placed a comforting hand on Alice's shoulder. "Don't worry about Max," she said softly. "I believe he'll come out of the Mourning Depths soon. We just have to wait."

She didn't mention how she'd seen Alice crying in silence for days after Max disappeared. How she'd watched her break down when she thought he was gone forever.

Alice gave a small nod, her eyes distant.

On the other side of the group, Crown Prince Aelric gathered his close friends.

"Alright, listen up," he said. "Word is, the southern faction is keeping to themselves. They're sending their own leader and won't be joining us."

He looked across the group of familiar faces.

"So, I'll lead this team—mostly those from the East and West, with a few from the North."

He paused, then added, "As for the Central Region… ever since Veylin died, they've gone completely silent. Not a single genius showed up today. It's like they've withdrawn altogether."

He glanced toward Anton and Amelia.

"And it looks like the four noble families and several powerful guilds from the East have formed their own group, as usual."

Anton nodded lightly. "Yeah, not surprising. Those families have history. They always move in their own circles when it comes to trips like this."

Amelia added, "They've done it for generations. It's tradition by now. But it'll be fine—we all have our own paths."

Aelric nodded. "Good. As long as we watch each other's backs."

Just then, three familiar figures approached—Kate, Aurelia, and Klaus, the latter hidden beneath his ever-present mask.

"You all should be very careful," Kate said, her tone sharp with concern. "We've told you everything we could about the Tower of Truth. But once you're inside, the rules don't matter. Anything can happen."

Aurelia's gaze drifted toward her daughter.

"Alice," she said softly. "Are you… really going?"

Alice folded her arms and pouted. "Mother. How many times do I have to tell you? Yes, I'm going. You can't stop me. No one can."

Aurelia sighed, then gave her a small smile. "Then take care of each other out there. All of you."

Beside her, Klaus said nothing. His eyes briefly met Asha's—or rather, Callie's—and she gave a small nod in return. A silent exchange. One that said far more than words ever could.

With final hugs, nods, and quiet goodbyes, the geniuses stepped onto the teleportation runes, arranged in a perfect circle across the stone floor.

The runes began to glow—softly at first, then brighter, shifting from pale blue to a vivid azure light that lit up the entire courtyard.

And then—

WHOOSH.

They vanished.

Every last one.

Gone from the Valora Continent.

On their way to the Lost Continent.

Silence returned to the villa.

Envoy Lucas stood beside King Magnar, arms crossed.

"Well, that's that," he said with a yawn. "Another half a year of peace and boredom for me."

He stretched his shoulders and added dryly, "But hey, if you need anything in the meantime, just give me a call. I'm officially on vacation."

Magnar didn't respond.

He simply stared at the fading glow of the teleportation runes… eyes narrowed with a storm brewing behind them.

—-

With the geniuses gone, people in the the Valora Continent continued with their usual life styles as if nothing happened.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

And before anyone realized it, another month had quietly slipped by.

The Divine Palace had returned to its usual rhythm—calm, ordered, and ever watchful. But beneath that calm was a question that no one dared speak aloud:

Was he still alive?

And then—

BANG!

A thunderous explosion shattered the silence.

The sealed doors to the Mourning Depths—untouched for four long months—burst open with a deafening roar.

Stone cracked. Dust exploded outward. The entire palace shook under the sudden shockwave.

Guards staggered. Servants screamed. The force of it sent ripples through the ground like an earthquake had erupted from beneath their feet.

Amidst the swirling dust and raining debris, a lone figure emerged.

But before anyone could get a clear look—

WHOOSH!

A beam of dark red light shot upward from the broken hall, tearing straight through the gilded ceiling of the Divine Palace. It punched into the sky above like a spear of infernal fury, splitting the clouds with raw, untamed power.

Eyes across the palace snapped upward.

And there—

Floating high above the palace, bathed in the eerie crimson glow of infernal energy, was a figure.

Max.

But not the Max they remembered.

His body hovered in the air, suspended by sheer power.

Both of his arms—from fingertips to shoulders—were completely covered in dark, blood-red infernal demon tattoos, glowing and pulsating like they were alive.

His face, too, was veiled in those same cursed markings, leaving only his burning eyes visible beneath the tattoos.

And behind him—stretching wide and ominous—were wings.

Not angelic.

Not divine.

But wings forged from the same dark red infernal energy, sharp-edged and menacing, like blades sculpted from smoke and fire.

In his right hand, resting casually against his shoulder, was a sword.

The Abyss Dragon Sword.

Still humming. Still alive.

Still hungry.