Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100

Max floated gently down from the broken remains of the red sphere, his body draped in a red shimmering cloth that clung to him like a second skin, flickering softly with traces of energy. The floor beneath his feet felt strangely warm, alive even, as if the tower itself was welcoming him back.

He stood still for a moment, taking in a deep breath as his bare feet touched the white-tiled ground, before his eyes slowly opened—calm, sharp, yet heavy with memory.

”I never thought using the Violet Lightning would almost kill me...” he murmured quietly, voice hoarse but steady, the words drifting into the quiet air of the chamber.

His gaze drifted toward the golden figure of Xolo, who stood patiently nearby, and then to something else—an object floating silently in the air just in front of him. A golden key. It hovered there with a dignified stillness, as if it had waited centuries just for him.

”What is this key, Xolo?” Max asked, narrowing his eyes at the mysterious artifact, curiosity flaring in his voice.

”It’s one of the five keys of a treasured place within the Citadel of Atherion,” Xolo replied calmly. ”The key had been in the tower’s possession for nearly a thousand years—perhaps longer. And now, since you’ve been recognized by the tower, it has decided to bestow the key upon you.”

”I see,” Max nodded thoughtfully and extended his hand, allowing the golden key to drift gently into his palm. He looked at it for a brief moment before tucking it away inside his spatial space.

”How long was I out?” he asked, turning back to the spirit.

”About a year,” Xolo answered simply.

”A year...” Max sighed, his voice low and calm, but not burdened with regret. There was no disappointment in his expression—only a steady acceptance.

He knew the truth: he should have died. The Violet Lightning, one of the Seven Lightnings of Divine Punishment, had reduced his body to a burnt husk, scorched nearly beyond recognition.

Any other person, no matter how powerful, would have perished that day—Ava’s silver healing light could only slow the inevitable, not reverse it.

But Max wasn’t just anyone.

His Dragon bloodline—ancient, proud, and incomparably resilient—had clung to life with everything it had. It pulsed through him in those final moments, shielding the last fragile embers of his existence.

And then, just as the world was darkening around him, he felt it. A whisper. Not words, not a voice, but something deeper—a pull, a call from the Tower of Truth itself. It didn’t speak to him, but he _understood_. Somehow, someway, the tower could heal him.

And then—

With the last thread of strength he could summon, Max had sent a single vital essence voice transmission to Lenavira and Ava.

That whisper, that call, that final desperate act... had saved his life.

And now, one year later, he was standing again. Alive. Changed.

”One year...” Max whispered, eyes narrowing as his mind caught up with the timeline. A flicker of urgency stirred within him, and he quickly turned to Xolo, the tower’s golden spirit.

”Has the Citadel descended?” he asked, remembering vividly that when he had fallen, there had been just about a year left before the long-awaited descent of the Citadel of Atherion—a moment countless experts had been preparing for.

Xolo shook his golden head, his expression calm as ever. ”No. Every time a key is discovered and acknowledged, the descent slows. With the last key—the one you now possess—having been recognized, the Citadel’s descent has been delayed again. At the current pace, it won’t arrive for another year or two.”

Max exhaled, relief washing over his face. He had feared waking up to find that the world had already moved on without him, that he’d missed the most important opportunity in the Lower Domain.

The Citadel of Atherion wasn’t just a relic—it was a gateway to the truths buried deep within the Middle Domain, even clues tied to the Four God Nation. To miss it would have been a blow far worse than his injuries.

”I see,” he murmured, shoulders relaxing. There was still time. Time to grow stronger. Time to prepare. Time... to finish what he started.

Drevon.

’He escaped...’ Max’s fists clenched unconsciously, the veins bulging across the back of his hand as a wave of suppressed fury surged within him.

Even after unleashing everything he had, even after using the Violet Lightning—a power so destructive it had brought him to the brink of death—Drevon had still survived. Scarred, yes. But alive. And he had fled, leaving behind the ruins of war and the bitter taste of unfinished vengeance.

’The day I see you next time... I swear it will be the day you die.’ The vow echoed like a brand seared into his heart. His breathing slowed, and he forced the storm inside him to settle, the heat in his chest dimming into cold, razor-sharp resolve.

’I will focus this time before the descent of the Citadel to increase my strength.’ Max’s eyes narrowed with grim determination.

He had already lost a year—an entire year confined in recovery, sealed in that crimson cocoon by the tower’s will. A year while the world moved on, while enemies gathered strength, and while Drevon, the monster he had come so close to killing, slipped away into the shadows once more.

He couldn’t waste a moment more.

No distractions. No hesitation. No mercy.

With the Dimension of Time in his grasp and a talent that defied logic, Max believed he could do it. He could reach the unreachable height of strength of Drevon that no other being in the Lower Domain could reach. He could breach the difference in strength in just a year or constant practice.

He had to do it. His heart, body, and soul would be thrown into the forge of time, his every breath used to sharpen the blade he would one day use to cut Drevon down.

He would elevate his strength, layer by layer, step by ruthless step, until he stood at the very peak of the Lower Domain—not as a genius, but as an absolute.

And when the Citadel finally descended from the sky... the final reckoning between him and Drevon would begin. A battle not just of power, but of destiny. One that would decide not only the victor, but the fate of both continents.