---
title: "Chapter 347: A Conspiracy"
slug: "ch-347"
novel: "Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100"
number: 347
views: 0
likes: 0
wordCount: 1201
createdAt: "2026-04-13"
---

That infuriating calmness sent a chill crawling up Klaus's spine.

He didn't waste another breath.

A second eruption of black flames surged from his body, darker and hotter than before. They condensed in the air—twisting and folding into the shape of a sword. A blade of pure annihilation, burning with black dragon fire.

With a flick of Klaus's wrist, it flew forward.

WHOOSH!

The sword cut through the air like lightning, and in the blink of an eye, it pierced directly through Mark's forehead.

His head snapped back from the impact.

Silence descended over the hall.

Time seemed to freeze.

Everyone stared, unmoving, holding their breath.

Was it over?

Had Klaus succeeded?

For one fleeting second, it almost seemed like Mark had finally taken damage. That he could be hurt.

But then—

Mark's head slowly tilted forward again.

That same infuriating, calm smile still curled across his lips.

He reached up and, without flinching, grabbed the black flaming sword embedded in his forehead.

"These flames," he said softly, "can hurt me. They can touch me. Affect me."

His eyes gleamed with something far too ancient to be human.

"I never expected to find such a thing… in the Lower Domain."

And then, slowly, effortlessly, he pulled the sword out of his head.

A sickening sound followed, but no blood spilled.

Instead, the hole in his forehead simply vanished—healed in an instant.

No scar. No trace.

It was as if the sword had never pierced him at all.

A chill swept through the hall.

The leaders, pinned and paralyzed, trembled in horror. Many had seen gods. Monsters. Divine beasts.

But this?

This was something else.

Even the Young Monarch, hailed as the future hope of the Lower Domain, might be nothing but an ant before this man.

And amidst it all, Max stood silently at the edge of the destruction, his heart pounding.

He had watched everything.

Klaus. Aurelia. King Magnar. Kate. Hugh.

One by one, the greatest warriors in the Lower Domain had thrown everything they had at Mark.

None of it worked.

Not a single scratch. Not a moment of weakness.

It was… unbelievable.

Just then, a voice rang in his mind. Calm. Serious.

"Max… I think you should run."

It was Blob.

Max's heart clenched.

"This man is beyond reason. Beyond comprehension. I'm almost certain—no, I know—he isn't from this world. He must be from the Middle Domain. And from the looks of it… his strength may have already reached the Mythic Rank—maybe even Divine Rank. You can't fight him, Max. Not now."

Max said nothing.

His fists trembled.

"But for some reason," Blob continued, "he wants you to draw that sword. The one sealed in the altar. Whatever's trapped beneath it… he wants it freed. That's his goal."

"So listen to me—best case scenario, you run. Now."

Run?

Max muttered the word under his breath.

He looked across the ruined hall.

And then—he saw her.

Alice.

She stood frozen, her eyes locked on Mark. Unmoving. Terrified.

His Three-Dimensional Body focused on her instantly. Every instinct screamed at him.

But how could he run?

How could he leave her here?

He couldn't.

"You must be one of the remnants of the Black Dragon Palace," Mark said, still smiling. There was a casual cruelty in his tone, like he was commenting on the weather. "You people really are like weeds… no matter how many times you're crushed, you just keep coming back."

As he spoke, the black flaming fist that had once held him tightly began to peel away—slowly, piece by piece, disintegrating from his body. The fire hissed and flickered, but it could no longer maintain its hold.

A moment later, the nine chains binding him began to decay. Not snap. Not melt. They simply... rotted. As if time itself had turned against them. One by one, the shackles crumbled into black dust, then vanished into thin air like they had never existed.

Mark stepped forward, completely unscathed, his smile widening ever so slightly.

"I have to admit," he said, his voice echoing through the ruined hall, "you all put on quite a show. Fancy work. Bold effort."

His eyes swept across the scattered, paralyzed leaders.

"But in the end… you're just ants."

And with those words, a new wave of agony swept through the hall.

Every single leader groaned—some cried out—as their right arms lit up in blazing red.

The infernal demon tattoos etched into their skin began to burn.

Not physically.

But deep, from within the soul.

The etching sensation shot up to an unbearable level, their limbs trembling, veins bulging from their foreheads as they tried—and failed—to contain the pain.

Then, something horrifying began to happen.

Red mist.

It leaked from their arms—more precisely, from the tattoos—like blood turning to smoke.

A single, writhing red snake of infernal mist rose from each person, curling and twisting into the air. The snakes slithered through the hall, undisturbed by wind or motion, drawn toward the center of the chamber.

One after another, the mists converged—dozens of them, weaving together until they formed a massive, roiling sphere of red infernal energy that hovered above the altar.

A terrifying, unnatural glow pulsed from it.

"My... my infernal demon tattoo," one of the leaders muttered in a daze, staring at his now bare arm.

"It's gone..." another whispered, disbelief in his voice.

"Mine too. It disappeared…"

One after another, they all realized the same thing—the tattoos that had become part of their identity, their strength… were vanishing. Drained clean. Hollowed out.

Mark turned to face them, his smile no longer just amused—it was triumphant.

"I was the one who spread the rumors," he said casually, "that the twelve-layered infernal demon tattoo could help one comprehend a domain. And yes… that part is true."

He began to pace slowly, almost like a teacher explaining to his students.

"I waited. For decades… centuries, millennia. Hoping someone might achieve it naturally. But no one did. Not a single being, not in this whole pathetic Lower Domain. So I started experimenting."

His voice dropped slightly, colder now.

"I forcefully etched twelve layers onto humans… elves… demons… even beasts. And what do you think happened?"

He stopped, looking at their pale, frozen faces.

"They exploded," he said with a small shrug. "Violently. Beautifully. Their bodies were torn apart before the twelfth layer could even settle in."

He let the silence hang for a moment.

"And that's when I realized—this world didn't have a body capable of containing the full power of twelve layers of infernal energy."

He turned his head—slowly—toward Max.

Until their eyes met.

Mark's voice dropped to a near-whisper.

"At least… not until recently."

Max felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

His heart dropped.

His body took a step back before he could even think about it.

"No…"

The truth dawned like a storm breaking the sky.

It was him.

His Unholy Trinity Physique—the only known body capable of withstanding immense amounts of infernal energy.

He was the only one who could ever bear the twelve-layered infernal demon tattoo.

Mark had been waiting for him.

Everything—the rumors, the visions, the dragon, the journey to the Mourning Depths—had been orchestrated.

Max's blood ran cold.