Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100

Chapter 702: One move

Max stood tall, the wind fluttering his cloak as he smiled faintly behind his mask. ”Your previous sword attacks didn’t carry any sword concept,” he said evenly, his tone calm and unhurried. ”That’s why it was easy for me to defend against them. If you want a real battle, you should use your full strength. Otherwise, my flames will burn you to ash.”

Anya didn’t flinch. Her grip on the sword tightened slightly, and her stance straightened. ”You are strong,” she said, her voice as steady as ever, ”but not strong enough to defeat me.”

That caught Max’s attention. He tilted his head, just a little, a small gesture of curiosity. Her tone wasn’t arrogant—it was factual. As though she were stating something that didn’t need to be proven.

”Is that so?” he asked, a chuckle escaping his lips as he shook his head in amusement. ”I could say the same. I also think you can’t defeat me.”

The air around them thickened as their words clashed silently before the swords did. Anya’s eyes, now fully alive with the gleam of sharpened will, remained locked onto Max.

”Nobody can defeat me at my strength level,” she said without a shred of doubt. ”And you—at 1st level of Master Rank—you aren’t my opponent either.”

And then it happened.

Her aura flared, and her body overflowed with a fierce pressure that cut through the air like unseen blades. The world around her began to shimmer, as if reality itself was struggling to remain whole.

From her body rose the clear and unmistakable presence of Level 2 Sword Concept. It wasn’t just sword energy—it was the embodiment of everything she had trained for, fought for, and bled for.

Max’s smile remained behind his mask, but his eyes sharpened. This was it. The girl with dead eyes had awakened.

”I will only use one sword attack,” Anya said softly, her tone calm, without pride or arrogance—just certainty, like one simply stating a fact. Her dead eyes were gone now, completely replaced by a terrifying, resolute brilliance, the kind only true battle maniacs possessed. ”If you can survive that sword attack... then I will admit defeat.” As she raised her sword high above her head, the air around her began to tremble.

With the full release of her Level 2 Sword Concept, the world itself responded. The sky above darkened, not with clouds but with pressure, as if the heavens feared what was to come. Wind stopped blowing, birds fled the distant trees, and the vast grassy plain became deathly still.

From her sword exploded a wave of intent—not just the sharpness of the sword concept, but something else, something far more primal and consuming. It was a battle will so pure, so violent, it felt as if it could tear apart reality.

Max stood quietly, his flaming armor slowly flickering around him, eyes narrowing behind the mask. He could feel it now—not just the Level 2 Sword Concept... but something deeper.

’Concept of the Battle Sword?’ Max thought. It was rare, nearly unheard of. Unlike ordinary sword concepts, the Concept of Battle Sword was a manifestation of a will to fight everything—to clash blades against fate, gods, destiny itself. It was not a sword made to kill. It was a sword made to fight. And Anya... she had taken a step into it.

”White Death,” she called out, her voice now echoing with power. ”Take my sword.”

She moved. One step. That was all it took.

She crossed the distance in an instant, her body a blur of black hair, silent eyes, and god-slaying momentum. Her sword came down like a falling star, trailing light and battle will, splitting the air in half. As she slashed down, her voice roared like thunder, reverberating across the realm.

”Battle Crazy Sword Art – Final Move – Battling the Gods!”

The slash descended not like a sword strike—but like a heavenly punishment. The sky above cracked. The earth below split apart. The blade carved space itself in two, leaving a glowing gash in the air that extended into the clouds above.

From that single slash surged everything—rage, obsession, glory, despair, and the unyielding desire to fight until there was nothing left to fight. It wasn’t a move. It was a war cry turned into a blade.

Max reacted the moment he sensed the incoming sword strike, and the battlefield around him ignited in an instant. Black flames roared to life, swirling violently as a gauntlet formed over his right hand, forged entirely from condensed cursed fire—the mark of his Crimson Reaper Inheritance.

But he wasn’t done. Not even close. With a deep breath, Max activated the fearsome power slumbering within his bloodline—Dragon Scales Transformation. His skin shifted, hardened, transformed, as thick black glowing scales rapidly crept up his arms and shoulders, spreading across his chest, neck, and back in a gleaming cascade of power.

The transformation was terrifying to behold—like watching a beast awaken beneath a man’s flesh.

And then, he unleashed the final key—the full strength of all 600 Draconic Essences he had refined. The effect was instant and devastating. The black scales that armored his body pulsed once—then glowed softly, intensely, with golden light.

Every inch of him radiated unstoppable might, as if he were no longer merely a expert, but a divine beast incarnate cloaked in flame and fury. His aura surged to a level that made the air around him bend, tremble, and scream.

And in that exact moment—Anya’s sword arrived.

Her final attack, Battling the Gods, came crashing down like judgment itself, aimed to split him in two. But Max didn’t retreat. He didn’t even flinch. He stepped into the path of that divine strike, his expression calm behind the mask. Then, with inhuman speed and precision, he lifted his right hand and extended two fingers.

BANG!

He caught the blade. With two fingers.

The impact was cataclysmic. The moment the sword connected with his hand, the entire battlefield beneath them—grass, earth, stone—was obliterated.

The ground didn’t crack. It didn’t break. It was reduced to dust, completely erased by the sheer pressure of the clash. A massive shockwave thundered outward, carving trenches into the distance and turning the entire area into a smoking crater.

Anya’s eyes widened, stunned not just by the fact that he caught the strike with his bare hands—but because her sword concept was completely suppressed by Max’s sword concept before her sword could even reach him.

”Your sword conc—” she began, but never got the chance to finish her sentence.

In that exact breath, Max’s eyes flared with black and golden light, and he moved. Using the full might of his Dragon Scales Transformation, empowered by all 600 Draconic Essences, and focused entirely through the flame-forged gauntlet of his Flame Tyrant Inheritance, he drove his fist straight into her gut.

BANG!

The hit landed with a roar like a volcano erupting. The air shattered. The pressure was indescribable. Anya’s body arched, her mouth opened in silent shock—and then, in the next instant, her form exploded into a swirl of glowing red particles, fading into nothingness as the Battle Realm processed her defeat.

She was gone.

Not defeated in a drawn-out clash. Not pushed back or wounded. Erased. One punch. One overwhelming force that shattered everything in its path.

And Max—White Death—stood alone once more in the center of the destruction, unshaken, surrounded by a world he had just broken with his bare hands.