Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100 - Chapter 449

Chapter 449: Hands on the Sword
“Damn, this is difficult… but I ain’t giving up this easily,” Max muttered under his breath, his voice low and strained as he struggled against the invisible force trying to crush him into the earth.

His whole body trembled violently under the pressure, and every inch he moved forward felt like dragging a mountain chained to his back.

Gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, Max reached into his storage space and, with a flash of determination, pulled out a blood-red sword—the Abyss Devouring Sword, the very blade that had once almost devoured him whole.

The moment the sword appeared in his hand, the atmosphere around him twisted. A wave of evil, dense and almost tangible, burst out from the blade, swirling like a dark storm. The air crackled with corrupted energy as the aura spread across the field.

Some of the ancient sword intents around Max recoiled, their pure wills instinctively retreating from the abyssal evil, creating a bubble of space around him that allowed him to push himself back onto his feet with a trembling, unsteady motion.

The Abyss Devouring Sword, for all its wickedness, carved a small path for him, shielding him from the worst of the Tomb’s overwhelming pressure.

But everything came with a price.

As Max held the cursed sword tightly in his hand, he could feel it—like countless invisible fangs sinking into his soul.

The Abyss Devouring Sword wasn’t helping him out of goodwill; it was devouring him, little by little, pulling at his mind, whispering promises of slaughter, vengeance, and destruction into his ears.

His Infernal Demon Tattoo, burned onto his right hand long ago, reacted violently to the evil aura, flaring to life with a searing, hellish heat, trying to devour him the same under the influence of the evil sword.

His fingers trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from the sheer effort of keeping himself together.

Max’s vision flickered for a moment, and dark images flashed before his eyes—visions of him cutting down everything, everyone, friend and foe alike, turning the world into a sea of blood under the Abyss Devouring Sword. The urge to kill clawed at his sanity, pulling at the walls of his mind, trying to drown him in bloodlust.

But Max was no longer the boy who had once lost himself to this sword’s hunger.

He gritted his teeth harder, forcing the roaring voices in his mind into silence, forcing the killing intent boiling in his veins to heel. His steps were heavy, his body soaked in sweat, his soul torn between the righteous fire of his will and the abyssal pull of the sword—but still, he moved forward

Slowly, painfully, inch by inch, he made his way toward the sword that resonated with him at the peak of the Tomb. His heart burned with unshakable determination.

‘I am not the same fool who once bowed to you,’ Max thought fiercely, feeling the Abyss Devouring Sword struggle against his will. ‘You are my weapon. Not my master.’

And so, carrying the burden of the Tomb’s crushing pressure and the Abyss Devouring Sword’s devouring madness, Max advanced—every step a battle of will, every breath a victory against the darkness clawing at his soul. The sword he sought shimmered faintly at the peak ahead, waiting for him to prove he was worthy.

—

Sometime later, after what felt like a lifetime of dragging himself through a swamp of pressure, madness, and bloodlust, Max finally arrived at the very front of the sword—the one that had resonated with him so fiercely from the moment he set foot near the peak. He staggered the last few steps, his body trembling violently, and then collapsed to one knee, panting heavily.

“Finally…” he muttered, a grim smile twitching on his lips even as fresh blood leaked from the corners of his mouth, staining his teeth crimson.

His right arm was completely engulfed in black, demonic markings—the Infernal Demon Tattoo had fully consumed it under the influence of the Abyss Devouring Sword’s evil will, a terrifying sight that would have made even seasoned warriors shudder.

But Max held firm.

The relentless hours he had spent mastering control over the Infernal Demon Tattoo—the agonizing training, the brutal meditation, the fights against his own inner demons—they all came to fruition here.

Even though the evil sword had tried everything, absolutely everything, to break him—sending him visions of slaughter so vivid he could smell the blood, whispering to him promises of power if he gave in, twisting the Infernal Demon Tattoo into an uncontrollable force of destruction just like last time—Max didn’t bend. He didn’t shatter. He didn’t lose himself.

He just kept moving forward, with relentless, stubborn will, step by agonizing step, until he finally stood before the sword that called to his very soul.

‘I will definitely control you one day,’ Max swore silently, casting a glance at the blood-red Abyss Devouring Sword still trembling faintly in his hand. Without hesitation, he shoved it back into his storage space, sealing it away once again.

He was fully prepared for the crushing weight of the Tomb’s pressure to return the moment he put away the evil sword—prepared for it to slam him back to his knees, maybe even kill him now that the abyssal aura wasn’t shielding him anymore.

But to his utter surprise, no such pressure came.

Instead, the moment he put the Abyss Devouring Sword away, an almost eerie calm descended around him. The overwhelming force that had been trying to crush him just moments ago faded, as if it had been an illusion all along.

‘It doesn’t matter… I am here after all,’ Max thought as he stared at the sword stabbed into the ground before him. His body was battered, blood still leaking from the corners of his mouth, and his right arm was numb from the demonic backlash he had just endured, but none of that mattered now.

His gaze remained steady, burning with a fierce light. The sword in front of him wasn’t anything grand like many of the blades he had seen scattered across the Tomb on his way here.

It wasn’t adorned with intricate patterns, it didn’t gleam with divine brilliance. It was old—worn, torn, cracked in places, and its hilt was almost falling apart. Yet the very simplicity of it, the rawness of it, made it feel infinitely more real, more dangerous, than any polished treasure.

‘It’s now or never,’ Max told himself. Taking a deep breath, he reached out, determination flashing in his bloodshot eyes as his fingers slowly closed around the hilt of the ancient sword.

The moment his skin touched the cold, weathered metal, the world around him shattered.

A vision slammed into him with brutal force. He found himself standing on a broken land beneath a stormy sky, and in front of him was a man—cloaked in simple black robes, holding the very same worn sword lazily in one hand.

Above them, a meteor the size of a city hurtled down from the heavens, roaring with the power to annihilate everything. Yet the man showed no fear. Calmly, almost lazily, he thrust the sword upward.

Boom!

With a deafening roar that split the heavens, the meteor was severed cleanly into two halves—and then, as if the very laws of nature had bowed to the man’s will, the two pieces crumbled into powder, drifting away like ash on the wind.