Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100 - Chapter 450

Chapter 450: Concept of Severing Sword
Before Max could even process the sheer impossibility of what he had witnessed, the scene shattered and another took its place.

He saw the same man again, standing at the edge of a dark ocean. From the abyss, a monstrous sea creature, larger than any beast Max had ever imagined, rose up with a roar that shook the stars.

Without a word, the man lifted his sword and flicked it horizontally. The sea split open in a straight line, cleaving the monster and the entire ocean in two. Water, flesh, and screams were devoured by the void left in the sword’s wake.

The vision shattered again.

Now the man stood alone on a barren battlefield surrounded by armies—beasts, demons, humans, gods—all races and creatures of war, millions strong. Yet he walked forward, dragging his worn sword along the ground.

With each step he took, the armies crumbled into dust, unable to even draw their weapons before their bodies collapsed into nothingness.

Another scene flashed.

The man faced an entire mountain range, cursed and alive, each peak like a slumbering beast brimming with malevolent intent. With a single downward strike, the sword carved through hundreds of miles of mountains, slicing them apart as if they were made of paper, reducing them to mere dust under the might of his will.

Another scene followed.

This time, the man stood in a city in flames, holding a crying child in one arm while facing a dragon wrapped in chains of black fire. Without even looking at the dragon, he slashed casually in its direction—and the dragon’s enormous form was sliced into countless thin pieces, vanishing before it could even scream.

And it didn’t stop there.

Scene after scene, moment after moment, vision after vision crashed into Max’s mind like tidal waves—each more awe-inspiring, more terrifying, more soul-shaking than the last. A thousand battles, a thousand slaughters, a thousand moments where the simple, worn sword changed the fate of entire worlds with a single swing.

Max’s mind roared, his soul trembling under the weight of it all. It felt endless—an eternity of battle, an eternity of domination, an eternity of swordsmanship stripped of all embellishments, leaving behind only pure, absolute destruction.

But even as the scenes threatened to drown him, Max’s fingers tightened around the hilt of the sword.

‘No matter what,’ he thought, gritting his teeth against the tsunami of memories trying to crush his consciousness, ‘I will endure. I will comprehend this sword. I will make it mine.’

At the end of what felt like an endless stream of visions—worlds shattered, oceans split, armies turned to dust—Max found himself standing in a strange silence. The chaotic roar of battle faded away, leaving only the whisper of a soft, cold wind that brushed against his bloodied face.

In front of him, the man with the worn and ancient sword stood still, his back facing Max. For a moment, there was only the lonely sound of the wind and the soft hum of the old sword that seemed to pulse with a heartbeat of its own.

Then, slowly, the man turned. His movements were not hurried, nor grand—simply natural, as if he had always known Max was there, as if he had always been waiting for this moment. His face was hidden in shadow, his features blurred by the weight of time and power, but his presence alone was enough to make Max’s heart pound wildly.

Their eyes met—or at least, Max felt they met—and in that instant, it was like the man’s gaze pierced through every layer of his soul. And then, for the first time, the man spoke, his voice not loud but carrying a weight so immense it seemed to shape the very fabric of reality around them.

“The true essence of the sword,” the man said slowly, each word etching itself into Max’s mind, “is not to kill.” His voice was calm, yet it rumbled through the air like a silent earthquake, striking at something deep inside Max’s heart.

“It is not bloodlust. It is not conquest. It is not dominance.” He lifted the ancient sword, its blade still worn, still cracked, but now it glowed faintly with an undeniable truth. “The sword exists to cut apart all things that bind,” the man continued, his tone deepening, “all things that chain, all things that corrupt the soul. It is to sever everything.”

As the final words fell into the silence, Max felt it—an explosion of understanding tearing through his mind, a truth so sharp and pure it felt like a blade slicing through the fog that had always clouded his path.

In that moment, a seed was planted deep within him—a sword concept unlike any he had ever seen or imagined.

The Concept of Severing Sword.

It was not a sword meant for simple slaughter. It was a sword meant to break all bonds, to cut apart illusions, to sever the chains of fate, sorrow, weakness, and even destiny itself. A sword that could cut through anything—physical, spiritual, even conceptual.

Max’s knees buckled slightly under the sheer weight of the enlightenment pouring into him, but he gritted his teeth and endured, his heart burning as the man’s image slowly began to fade like mist under the morning sun. Yet even as the figure vanished, the feeling remained, embedding itself into Max’s very soul.

And standing there, alone in the fading remnants of countless battles, Max clenched the worn sword tighter in his hand, a fierce light burning in his eyes—because now he knew: This was his sword path.

‘I have finally comprehended the Concept of the Sword…’ Max thought, a light, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips as he stood there, gripping the ancient, worn blade that had become an extension of his very soul. ‘And my concept of the sword is… the Concept of Severing Sword.’

The realization felt heavy and yet freeing, like a chain he hadn’t even known he was wearing had been broken cleanly apart. His path was clear now, carved not by bloodlust or vanity, but by a purer, sharper truth—to sever all that should be cut, without hesitation, without burden.

But before he could fully savor the gravity of his achievement, a deep darkness rushed over his senses, swallowing the battlefield, the graveyard of swords, the fading image of the Sword Saint, everything.

He didn’t even have time to resist.

In the blink of an eye, the world shifted, and Max suddenly found himself standing once again before the familiar glowing blue entrance of the Chamber of Concepts on the tenth floor of the Tower of Truth. His body felt strangely light, almost as if it were still somewhere between two worlds.

Before he could even gather his breath, a frantic voice rang sharply inside his mind—Xolo, the spirit of the Tower, sounding more alarmed than Max had ever heard him. “Max! Where did you go? I suddenly lost your presence inside the tower!”

Xolo’s voice was filled with genuine panic, something that made Max’s eyes narrow slightly in surprise. After all, the Tower’s spirit was ancient, powerful, and like omniscient in the tower—yet here it was, shaken, as if it had truly believed he had vanished or died.