Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100 - Chapter 472

Chapter 472: Devour
BOOM!

The ground split open in a thunderous eruption as the Dark Sun finally met the surface. A massive explosion swallowed the landscape, vaporizing the soil, tearing through trees, sending shockwaves in every direction.

Black flames raced across the battlefield in black waves. The force knocked even high-level experts from the sky as pillars of smoke and fire spiraled upward, painting the heavens with darkness. A crater the size of a fortress was carved into the earth, glowing with heat and echoing with silence.

But then… something moved.

Max narrowed his eyes.

Beneath the charred sky and swirling smoke, the ashes shifted. Out from the scorched remains of the undead army, something began to rise—pieces of bone dragging themselves together, torn flesh reattaching, melted limbs clawing through the soot. The dead, though utterly crushed, were not completely gone.

The black flames still clung to their remains like parasites, burning them slowly, but the essence of necromancy was not so easily defeated. One by one, the destroyed undead began to reform. Not perfectly. Not cleanly. Their movements were jerky, grotesque, incomplete—but they moved.

Even the wyvern’s cracked skull began to knit together, its empty sockets twitching as charred wings re-formed in ragged strips.

“They’re reforming…” Klaus whispered from the distance, a grim edge to his voice.

“Hahaha!” A sudden, unhinged burst of laughter echoed through the scorched battlefield, loud and sharp, as if tearing through the thick curtain of ash and smoke.

It came from William.

His figure hovered high, his eyes wild, his grin stretched too wide to be sane, and his voice brimming with dark satisfaction. “You think you can kill the undead? Destroy them? Yes, maybe,” he cackled, gesturing with a sweep of his arm toward the army below—now twitching, crawling, reforming in the black flames. “But killing an undead? Impossible. You can crush them, burn them, tear them apart—but as long as I command them, they will rise again. Again. And again.”

His laughter dipped into a low growl, sharp and threatening. “And you know what title I hold?” he asked, his voice darkening.

“Mark of the Undead.” His words hit like a curse. “This title… it grants me dominion not only over death but rebirth. Any undead under my control—any one of them that is destroyed—returns stronger. Faster. More violent. More resistant. What you did just now?”

He gestured toward the crater Max had carved into the battlefield, the remains of his army clawing their way out. “You didn’t weaken them. You made them evolve.”

As the first of the reforming undead stood upright—bones now laced with dark runes, muscles twitching with unnatural life, their eyes glowing a more violent hue—William’s grin widened. “Each time you burn them down, they’ll come back more powerful than before. Each time you think you’ve won, you’ll only be digging your own grave deeper.”

He turned his gaze back to Max, that same twisted grin on his face, but now it was laced with a predator’s hunger. “You’re done for, Max Morgan,” he said, his voice filled with certainty. “This battlefield will be your tomb. And my undead… your executioners.”

Max smiled faintly—calm, subtle, and yet utterly chilling. He watched the undead claw their way back together, reforming their broken bodies as though the devastation of the Dark Sun had meant nothing.

Their bones clicked back into place, their twisted limbs stitched together with new malice. To anyone else, it might have seemed hopeless.

But Max’s eyes weren’t fixed on their grotesque revival. No, his gaze was locked onto something far more important—the black flames. Because while William celebrated his apparent victory, he had failed to notice the true nightmare quietly taking root across the battlefield.

Every single undead—every creature rising from the ashes—was still burning.

The black flames, faint and sinister, still clung to their rotting flesh, their bones, their hollow eyes. They crawled along their skin like parasites, whispering, licking at the air.

Even the ground beneath them, the scorched battlefield where the Dark Sun had landed, was laced with veins of flame that hadn’t gone out. They had latched on. And Max knew exactly what that meant.

‘I’ll be forced to level up after this… but…’ Max’s smile sharpened as he whispered in his mind, “Devour.”

The response was immediate—and horrifying.

The black flames reacted. They trembled for an instant like living things, and then began to move. They surged, leapt, and linked—one undead to another, then another, then another again. From corpse to corpse, creature to creature, a web of black fire wove itself across the battlefield, until the entire undead army was blanketed in pulsing flame.

The sky above them dimmed, not because of the smoke, but because the flames were growing—feeding on each other, converging, evolving into a sentient, seething ocean of death.

From above, it looked like a void of fire had swallowed the undead army whole.

William laughed again, loud and derisive. “Haha! I told you before—you can’t kill something that is already dead! What, trying to burn my undead a second time? That’s desperation, Max. You’re flailing. It’s over.” He sneered as he raised his hand. “Enough games. Now I’ll show you the true might of my creations. Move!” he barked, commanding the undead to launch skyward toward Max.

But… nothing happened.

The army didn’t budge.

Still engulfed in flame, they stood like statues. No growls. No movement. Just black fire dancing over their reanimated shells.

“What are you doing?! Move!” William shouted again, his voice rising. Still nothing.

And then—snap.

His eyes widened in horror.

One of the threads—the invisible bond between him and one of his undead soldiers—suddenly severed. It vanished from his awareness, like a candle being snuffed out. His breath caught. Before he could process what it meant, another thread snapped. Then another. Then three more.

And then, in the burning chaos below, he saw it.

A sight so terrifying, so absolutely against the laws of his necromantic control, that it nearly stopped his heart. The undead were not just frozen. They were being consumed. Not by fire. But by something far worse.

The black flames were not burning them—they were devouring them.

One by one, his undead began to collapse inwards, folding into themselves as if their existence was being unraveled. Their bones cracked in silence, their twisted bodies shriveled like paper, their very essence being pulled away and devoured by the flames.