Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100 - Chapter 432

Chapter 432: A Complicated Situation
“Kill us? Craig, are you forgetting something?” Fagus sneered, taking a half-step forward, his arms still behind his back, posture relaxed but words sharp as blades. “If you go through with killing Max, your Authority will be used up the moment the battle starts. You’ll lose it the second you initiate combat. Which means—after that—you won’t be able to touch anyone else. Not Adam. Not me. No one.”

The words struck like a hammer, ringing clear through the tense silence that had overtaken the hall. Craig’s grin faltered, the smugness in his eyes giving way to a flicker of hesitation. His jaw clenched tightly, and his frown deepened as the implications sank in.

Fagus was right. Authority wasn’t limitless—it was a one-time privilege. The moment he launched an attack on Max, it would be considered used, and then? He’d be just like everyone else, bound by the Tower’s unbreakable rules. No killing. No second chance.

Craig didn’t waver outwardly, but inside, a storm raged. He couldn’t back down—not with the eyes of the entire Tower watching, not with the weight of the Demon Race’s pride, and definitely not with the orders he had received from the higher-ups in the Expert Rank.

They had made it clear—Max Voidwalker was a threat that needed to be eliminated before he rose any further. Disobeying wasn’t an option. Not now. Not yet.

‘Damn,’ he cursed internally, gritting his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. The situation had spiraled beyond what he’d expected. He hadn’t anticipated this much resistance, especially not from the humans themselves, and certainly not at this speed.

And then—like the tension wasn’t thick enough—another figure stepped forward, emerging from the gathering of elves like a flame through mist. A woman with flowing crimson hair and a smile that held equal parts charm and danger. Her beauty was mesmerizing, otherworldly, and her eyes shimmered with casual amusement.

“While I have no real care for humans,” she said, her voice as smooth as silk but carrying a razor edge, “I would absolutely love the opportunity to kill you, Craig—even if I have to use my Authority to do it.”

Gasps rang out through the floor.

“That’s Arier…!” a demon whispered harshly, his voice trembling. “The Second Seat of the Elf Race—Arier the Succubus!”

“Shhhh!” another demon hissed, eyes wide in panic. “Don’t say that word! Don’t you remember what happened the last time someone called her that?!”

“Damn, I almost got myself killed just hearing about it,” muttered the first demon, sweat trickling down his face. “Anyway, this… this is looking really bad for us.”

“Hmph, you demons are always acting lawless,” an elf nearby muttered with pride. “Charming Arier is going to teach that brute a proper lesson.”

“Yeah, I say she kills Craig,” another elf added with a shrug.

“We won’t get a better opportunity,” a third elf said coldly. “End him while we can.”

The mood had shifted drastically. The crowd, once silent and unsure, was now simmering with anticipation. Craig, the unshakable First Seat of the Demon Race, was now surrounded by hostility on all sides—from humans, from elves, even from within his own kind.

And at the center of it all, Max’s name still glowed at the top of the Pillar, silent and unmoving… as if daring the world to see what came next.

Neared the pillar, two figures one in golden hair and one in red stood close to each other. However, the former was calm while the latter was anxious.

“Don’t worry. My people won’t let Max die,” Princess Lenavira said calmly, her voice steady like the roots of an ancient tree, unaffected by the rising tension around her. “And it seems… not all humans hate Max. At least that is something good that this situation has brought him.”

Her gaze flickered briefly toward Adam and Fagus standing defiantly in Craig’s path, and then toward Arier, who had added her blade and status to the standoff. That subtle alliance—humans and elves—might be enough to keep the demon at bay, even if only temporarily.

Alice nodded slowly, exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The words of reassurance did calm her, even if just a little, and her shoulders relaxed slightly. But deep down, the worry still clung to her chest like a shadow that wouldn’t leave. She wasn’t naïve.

No matter how many allies Max had now, no matter how much respect or fear he commanded from this long assessment, she knew it couldn’t last. He would come out of the Pillar of Divine Appraisal eventually. And when he did… a confrontation was inevitable.

There was no avoiding it—not with Craig ready to unleash his Authority, not with the pressure mounting from all sides.

But she also had this strange confidence in Max that no matter if anyone helped Max or not, he wouldn’t die in the hands of Craig and instead it should be Craig who should be fearful of Max.

—

Max’s sword carved cleanly through the torso of yet another mist warrior, the blade cutting with precise control and effortless grace.

The figure didn’t cry out or even react—it simply froze in place for a heartbeat, then crumbled into a fine dust, dissolving back into the swirling grey mist from which it had been born.

Max exhaled softly, the faint heat of exertion rising from his skin as he straightened his posture, blade lowering slightly. Around him, the eerie silence returned once more, broken only by the faint rustling of the ever-moving fog.

“How many of these warriors are there?” Max asked aloud, his voice echoing faintly as he turned his gaze toward the glowing red eyes hidden deep within the mist—the voice of the Tower’s spirit, ever watchful, ever silent unless spoken to.

“About seventeen of them,” the spirit replied without pause, as though it had been keeping count the entire time.

“Seventeen?” Max laughed, a low chuckle escaping his lips as he wiped his blade clean against the mist, though it left no mark. “Then I guess… I’m left with only one.” His tone was light, but there was steel behind it—resolve that had been forged through each battle, every strike refining not just his technique, but his understanding of the sword and himself.