Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100 - Chapter 491

Chapter 491: Despair for demons
“It’s good that you’re fine.” Alice wiped away the last of her tears, her lips finally curling into a soft smile—one she hadn’t worn in over a year. That one year had been too long, too painful, too uncertain. But now, as she looked at Max standing there before her, warm and real, the burden slowly slipped off her chest.

“Don’t worry,” Max said gently, still holding her in his arms. “I won’t die that easily.” His voice was calm, but the embrace said more than words ever could. It wasn’t just comfort—it was a promise.

They remained like that, unmoving, in each other’s arms, the world fading out as if the vast blue expanse of the tower held only the two of them. But the quiet was broken by a light, polite cough.

“Ahem.” Lenavira cleared her throat softly, a reminder that they weren’t alone.

“Ah—” Alice jumped slightly, cheeks turning bright red as she quickly stepped away from Max, her head bowed in embarrassment.

Max couldn’t help but laugh, his chest rumbling lightly as he turned toward Lenavira. “I must thank you,” he said, sincerity lacing his tone. “For saving me. That was a close call.”

“Humph. Of course.” Lenavira responded with a light toss of her hair, though her usual regal haughtiness was softened. Her voice held a rare warmth. “But you were in terrible shape… I honestly thought…” She trailed off, the shadow in her eyes finishing the sentence she couldn’t say aloud.

“I thought so too,” Max admitted, offering a reassuring smile, “but I’m here. I made it. So don’t worry.”

Lenavira gave a small nod, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She glanced at Alice—now smiling again—and her heart eased. For the past year, she had watched her fade like a ghost, shattered by loss. And now, finally, a light had returned to her face.

“Alright,” Max said, stretching his arms with a confident grin, “let’s head to the tenth floor. I have a few things to take care of.”

***

In the tenth floor of the Tower of Truth, everything came to a sudden halt. No one spoke. No one moved. Not a single sound echoed through the grand hall as Max Morgan appeared out of nowhere, flanked by Alice and Princess Lenavira.

His steps were steady, calm, and filled with quiet strength—but his presence felt like thunder in a still sky.

Eyes widened. Mouths parted. Weapons lowered. The elves, the humans, even the demons… all stared in complete disbelief.

For a whole year, they had accepted the truth that Max was dead. Stories of his battle with Drevon had turned into whispered legends. The demons had boasted about it, humans had mourned it, and even the elves had eventually stopped hoping.

His name became a memory—a tragic end to a once-glorious prodigy. And now, that very figure stood before them, alive. Breathing. Radiating power.

The human geniuses looked stunned, as if struggling to reconcile what they were seeing with what they’d been told.

And among the elves, whispers broke out—soft, astonished, trembling whispers.

“Is that really him…?”

“But he… he died.”

“No… that’s Max Morgan. He’s alive.”

A few even dropped to one knee in silent awe. The tension in the air was heavy.

But among all those who stood frozen in disbelief, it was the demons who reacted the most… viscerally. Their faces paled—some subtly, others with visible trembles.

One demon warrior, tall and cloaked in bone armor, instinctively stepped back, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his weapon, only to stop mid-motion, realizing the sheer foolishness of that instinct.

Another demon, with ash-grey skin and crimson tattoos across his face, muttered under his breath, “Impossible… he was dead.”

A younger demon near the back of the crowd outright stumbled, falling to one knee as he felt Max’s gaze sweep past him, as if that single look had pressed against his soul.

The more elite ones—the one at the Seeker Ranks—tried to keep composed, but the flicker of fear in their eyes betrayed them.

They had spread the tale themselves, that Max Morgan had died fighting Drevon, their great ally. They had laughed at it, boasted about it, and used it as a tool to crush the morale of others.

And now… the man they claimed was reduced to ash stood before them very much alive, and worse, far stronger than before. Not one of them dared speak now.

Even the humans were shocked. Sun Faction were happy that Max died because his potential was too much and he wasn’t under their command.

And a human not under their command was their enemy.

But at this moment they all stood frozen in disbelief.

No one knew what this meant yet, but one thing was certain—Max’s return would shake the foundations of Lost Continent.

“I see… So, rumours of my death have already been spread,” Max muttered calmly, his voice echoing in the silent chamber as his eyes swept across the crowd, lingering coldly on the demons gathered near the back.

He turned fully to face them, his expression no longer calm, but hard—unforgiving. “You know,” he began, voice sharpening like a blade, “when I killed Craig, I was granted an Authority. But unlike ordinary Authorities that fade or shift with time… mine is permanent.”

A hush fell over the entire floor, not a single breath sounding.

Max continued, each word like thunder rolling across a quiet sky. “This Authority allows me to expel anyone I wish from this tower. And not just that—once expelled, they cannot re-enter. Not ever. Unless I personally permit it.”

The moment Max’s words fell upon the chamber like a divine decree, the atmosphere shifted. The demons didn’t scream or protest—no, they stood still, their eyes wide, their faces pale, and their hearts pounding not with the fear of death but something far worse.

Despair. The kind that crushes futures.

They didn’t fear Max taking their lives… they feared him taking their access. The Tower of Truth wasn’t just a sanctuary of learning or a place for trial—it was the very backbone of balance between the three dominant races: humans, elves, and demons.

It was where their youths grew, where comprehension of concepts flourished, where forgotten legacies awakened, and where even the weak could reach the heavens if they had the resolve. It was the soul of progress.

And now, Max—recognized by the tower—stood before them, declaring that he could sever their ties to this very foundation. Permanently. The implication hit harder than any sword.

Without access to the tower, the demons’ next generation would grow weaker with every passing year. They would fall behind the elves, behind the humans. And with no resources, no inheritance grounds to train in, and no comprehension chambers to elevate their geniuses, their race would slip into decline—quiet, suffocating decline.

And when the balance shattered, and the scales tipped, it wouldn’t be long before the elves and humans—stronger, faster, more evolved—would erase the demon race entirely, claiming their lands and history as footnotes of the past.

The demons didn’t tremble because Max threatened them. They trembled because, for the first time, they realized… he could end them without lifting a finger.