---
title: "Chapter 307: Replacing Slaughter with Infernal Energy"
slug: "ch-307"
novel: "Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100"
number: 307
views: 0
likes: 0
wordCount: 1103
createdAt: "2026-04-13"
---

Max watched the group in silence.

He saw the restlessness building.

The red-haired genius, in particular, was growing edgy.

The kind of edginess that didn't come from fear—but from wanting to be seen.

Then—

The silence finally snapped.

Six days of uneventful walking, of mist and stone and nothing else—

And the red-haired genius couldn't take it anymore.

His voice rose, loud and impatient.

"I say that we can go faster! There's nothing here but fog and rocks!"

He threw up his arms, exasperated, stepping forward in frustration.

"We're crawling at a snail's pace—hundreds of miles per day? That's nothing! If I could fly, we'd be done in hours!"

His words were sharp, childish, and they echoed off the stone around them like the rant of a restless child.

"We've walked this far and haven't even seen a single damn thing! What kind of evil are you even afraid of?!"

Some of the other geniuses shifted uneasily.

A few looked away.

But none said anything.

Not yet.

The air changed.

Without a word, Old Man Grey stopped walking.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Then—his head turned.

His body remained still, but his face snapped toward the red-haired youth with unnatural precision—

Like a beast who'd just been provoked.

His gaze?

Ice cold. Piercing. Ancient.

The red-haired genius froze.

His mouth stayed open, mid-breath, but no more words came.

Old Man Grey's voice cut through the fog.

"The dangers of the Mourning Depths are not as simple as you think they are."

He didn't shout.

He didn't need to.

His voice held the kind of weight that made bones ache.

"You should already be glad you're still breathing."

The words hit harder than a slap.

"So shut your damn trap."

A heavy pause.

"Once we arrive within 1500 miles, my role is done. At that point, do whatever you like. Fly, crawl, scream. Hell, jump into the Mourning Depths itself for all I care."

But the red-haired genius—he didn't back down.

Not completely.

His pride flared like a torch in a storm.

His eyes narrowed, voice raising once more—this time with anger.

"How interesting!"

He stepped forward, crossing his arms, not even trying to mask the venom in his tone.

"Why do we even need you to guide us, huh?"

His gaze locked onto Old Man Grey like a challenge.

"Why do you so-called 'supervisors' come with us at all?"

"To monitor us? To make sure we don't find anything valuable without giving you your share?"

Now the others were listening.

Some silently nodded.

Others looked uncomfortable.

But no one interrupted.

The red-haired youth kept going, his arrogance boiling over.

"Or maybe you're afraid we'll kill each other or is there something else you aren't telling us?"

His words dripped with sarcasm, with disrespect.

"With you leading the way, who's to say you aren't pocketing the treasures before we even see them?"

He pointed at the empty road ahead.

"We haven't seen a single thing! If something actually does show up, I bet you'd be the first to run and leave us behind!"

And then—

The final insult.

"We came here for lucky chances, not to babysit some tired old man and act as cannon fodder for his convenience!"

Old Man Grey's expression turned black as ash.

His gaze locked onto the red-haired youth—stone-cold. Unforgiving. Done.

Then, his voice—flat and thunderous—

"If you're not willing to follow me… then f*ck off."

No pretense.

No explanation.

Just raw dismissal.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The red-haired youth stiffened for a moment.

Then, he snorted loudly, trying to save face.

"Hmph! Who's afraid of you, old man?"

He turned, raising his voice.

"Let's go! Come on, everyone! We don't need him!"

His shout echoed across the dead terrain.

Strong. Bold. Demanding.

But—

No one moved.

Not a single footstep.

Not a single nod.

Not even a glance of support.

The fog pressed in around them, silent and suffocating.

The other geniuses… just stood where they were.

Some lowered their gazes.

Some looked away.

Max folded his arms, quietly amused.

'What a clown.'

Because everyone knew the truth.

Old Man Grey wasn't just a guide.

He was a lifeline.

Leaving him behind now, here—this far into the Mourning Depths—was the same as signing a death warrant.

Yes, it meant giving up on a few scattered lucky chances… but they hadn't come here for scraps.

Their real goal was the 1,500-mile radius zone.

That was where the real opportunities lay.

That was where Bone Frames, Infernal Demon Tattoos, and real fortune existed.

Out here in the outer 8,500 miles?

There was nothing.

So even if Old Man Grey kept every single treasure they passed—no one cared.

They were here to survive.

To reach the inner zone.

The red-haired youth?

He didn't understand the difference between pride and stupidity.

While others grew restless—

While tempers flared and egos cracked beneath the weight of silence and boredom—

Max remained indifferent.

He didn't spare the red-haired fool another glance.

Didn't comment.

Didn't react.

Because for Max, this journey wasn't just a march through the fog.

It was training.

Over the past six days, he had been refining a technique in silence.

Each night.

Each resting hour.

While others slept or whispered or schemed—

Max sat cross-legged and drew circles of lightning with his will.

Not just lightning for the sake of destruction.

But lightning given form. Meaning. Purpose.

The Lightning Wheel of Samsara.

A technique of his own making, born from fragments of something far darker.

Something ancient.

The Evil Wheel of Samsara.

What he practiced now was only a poor replica.

A weak shadow of the original technique—

One that was rooted not in lightning, but in slaughter itself.

The true Evil Wheel of Samsara required more than power.

It demanded an understanding of killing.

A soul that had tasted blood, embraced the cycle of destruction, and danced at the edge of life and death.

A Slaughter Concept.

And Max… wasn't there yet.

Not fully.

His current Lightning Wheel was nothing more than a child's drawing next to the true thing.

But he was getting closer.

And now, deep inside the Mourning Depths—

Max found himself surrounded by dense infernal energy, an atmosphere saturated with death, violence, and twisted will.

It was nearly identical to the aura required to awaken the original technique.

It wasn't the same…

But it was close.

His lightning was already reacting strangely.

Arcs flared faster.

The wheel spun smoother.

It carried a faint pulse of something beyond electricity.

Something darker.

And Max?

He didn't resist it.

Didn't reject it.

He leaned into it—willing to test the limits.