---
title: "Chapter 1178: No 4th level concept"
slug: "ch-1185"
novel: "Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100"
number: 1185
views: 0
likes: 0
wordCount: 1099
createdAt: "2026-04-15"
---

Max didn’t stop.

Now he sought the third level—the Concept of Ice. Ice was not merely cold and still; it reflected truth. It revealed without distortion. It preserved images, moments, and emotions exactly as they were.

To comprehend this level, Max observed everything around him—the frozen plains, the drifting mist, even his own reflection in the crystalline frost. He watched the world and himself within it, seeing every detail with piercing clarity.

The flame within him represented action, while the ice represented perception. The two contradicted each other, yet together they formed a cycle of creation and observation.

Every few decades within the Dimension of Time, his Unholy Trinity Body would pulse faintly, suppressing the imbalance whenever his flames flared too hot or his frost grew too cold. It was an unspoken guardian, ensuring his stability as he continued his comprehension.

Time became meaningless. The frost around him grew denser, layer after layer, until it resembled a field of pure diamond. Within it, Max sat like a silent figure carved from ice, unmoving, eternal, and utterly calm.

Then, in a moment of perfect harmony, he saw it.

The frost beneath him began to shimmer with reflected light. Countless visions unfolded within its surface—his past, his memories, his battles, his failures, his triumphs. Everything he was had been captured perfectly, preserved in the frozen reflection.

He finally understood.

The third level concept of ice—Reflection of Still Truth—was not about freezing the world, but about perceiving it without distortion. It was about embracing truth without judgment.

As the realization settled, his aura shifted again. A new pulse of energy rippled outward, freezing the very air in intricate patterns of light. The surrounding frost responded to his presence as though recognizing its master.

The third layer was complete.

Max slowly opened his eyes. They glowed faintly with intertwined hues of blue and black—two opposing forces living in harmony.

He exhaled, the breath turning into a gentle mist. "So this is how it feels," he said quietly. "The rhythm of frost and flame finally aligned."

Even though he had spent what felt like thousands of years inside the Dimension of Time, only a day had passed in the real world.

The Unholy Trinity Body had kept his existence stable, restraining every flicker of chaos, allowing him to move between contradiction and comprehension freely.

Now, three levels of the Concept of Ice were his. The path to the fourth awaited, and with it—the key to completing the trial.

But no matter how hard Max tried, no matter how deep he delved into meditation, he couldn’t sense the existence of the fourth level concept of ice.

He had already grasped the first three levels to perfection, his understanding as solid and refined as the frost that surrounded him, but there was simply nothing beyond that. It was as if the path ended abruptly—like a frozen wall that refused to crack, no matter how much strength he poured into it.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of the endless glacial expanse, his body completely still. Layers of frost had gathered around him again, encasing him in a crystalline shell. His breathing was calm, and his consciousness stretched far into the frozen distance.

He searched through the layers of the world itself, reaching out with his senses, his soul, and his energy. He looked for patterns of cold he hadn’t yet discovered, for movements of frost he hadn’t yet understood. But there was nothing.

It was as though the world itself had gone silent.

The frost no longer responded to him. The energy of the ice world was steady, unchanging, and indifferent to his will. He had tried channeling his flames to disturb its stillness, hoping to provoke a reaction that might reveal a new layer of understanding, but it didn’t work.

The flames were snuffed out before they could spread. He tried altering the flow of his aura, reaching into the depths of silence, but even that didn’t yield anything.

His consciousness brushed against every part of this ice world, yet he could not find a trace of a higher truth.

Hours passed. Then days. Then the flow of time lost all meaning again.

He sat in stillness, unmoving, like a statue of ice among the frozen plains. The silence pressed in on him, heavy and suffocating. He had endured isolation before, but this was different. This wasn’t emptiness—it was refusal. The world itself seemed to reject the idea of him going any further.

’This can’t be it,’ he thought, his brow furrowing slightly. ’There’s always another level. Flame has four. Space has four. Sword has four. So why... why can’t I feel it here?’

He inhaled deeply, forcing his body to remain calm. Once more, he gathered his energy, reaching inward toward his soul. Inside him, the flames and frost still swirled in their eternal dance, kept in harmony by the Unholy Trinity Body.

He focused on the frost aspect, the serenity of stillness, the perfection of preservation, the mirror of truth—and yet again, there was no spark, no revelation, no sign of progress.

It was as if the fourth level concept of ice didn’t exist in this world at all.

Max’s expression turned grim. He had tried every possible approach—understanding through stillness, through motion, through contrast with his flames, through reflection upon his soul—but every method ended the same way. The world remained quiet and unchanging.

Finally, he exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air. "Either the fourth level doesn’t exist here," he murmured softly, his voice barely audible, "or this world was never meant for one to comprehend it."

He rose to his feet, brushing off the frost that had settled on his shoulders. His eyes, sharp and determined, scanned the endless horizon once more. The air was so cold that even sound seemed frozen.

Everything was the same as before—the same white plains, the same biting wind, the same faint glimmer of blue light scattered through the sky.

And yet, something in the distance caught his attention.

It was faint, like a shimmer at the edge of perception. A small light flickered on the horizon—a soft, white glow that didn’t belong to the natural frost of this world. It pulsed slowly, rhythmically, like a living thing.

Without hesitation, Max moved toward it. His steps were silent, leaving faint impressions in the snow that froze solid the moment he lifted his feet.

The closer he came, the brighter the light became. It wasn’t harsh like the flames of his Devouring Essence—it was gentle, pure, and almost holy.

Finally, he reached it.