---
title: "Chapter 488: Passing of Time"
slug: "ch-488"
novel: "Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100"
number: 488
views: 0
likes: 0
wordCount: 1373
createdAt: "2026-04-13"
---

Meanwhile, in a secluded chamber deep within the war-battered land, the leaders of the two continents—King Magnar, Elarion, Kate, Klaus, Marcel and the rest—were huddled together, voices heavy with exhaustion as they discussed the fallout of the war, the shifting alliances, and the threat that still lingered in the shadows.

Just then, something strange happened. Both King Magnar and Elarion paused mid-sentence as their bodies began to shimmer with a warm golden hue. The light grew brighter with each second, causing everyone in the room to stand in alarm

Wordlessly, both rulers reached into their storage artifact and pulled out two golden keys. The keys were glowing furiously, casting golden patterns on the stone walls.

Gasps followed.

"Another key has been found?!" Kate exclaimed, her voice full of disbelief.

Klaus narrowed his eyes in thought, arms crossed. "That means... all five keys have now revealed themselves, haven’t they?" he said slowly.

King Magnar gave a small, grim nod. "I have one," he confirmed. "Elarion has one. Drevon had one before... The Witch of the North holds one. And now—someone new... has found the last one." He looked at Elarion, the weight of realization settling in both their eyes.

"You know what this means," Elarion said, his voice low and serious.

Magnar’s jaw clenched. "The descent of the Citadel... will slow down to at least 2 to 3 years now."

Klaus’ brows furrowed. "That’s a gift, then. With Drevon wounded, maybe even retreating, and the Citadel pushed back... we might finally have the time we need to prepare—to fight back properly."

But none of them said what they all thought: Who had the fifth key...?

***

A month passed quietly, drifting by like a slow breeze through the solemn halls of the Tower of Truth. Within its ancient structure, Alice and Lenavira remained, never straying far from the first floor, waiting with quiet hope for Max to return.

Days blurred into nights, yet there was no sign, no movement, nothing to suggest that the young man they held in such high regard would awaken anytime soon.

Meanwhile, Max remained sealed within the glowing red cocoon, his charred body suspended in silence.

Xolo, the tower spirit, never took his eyes off the sphere, watching from a distance in his shimmering golden form. "One month... and still no change," he muttered one day, his voice barely audible in the vast blue world that surrounded them, before vanishing back into the ether, returning to his duties with a troubled heart.

Then came the rumours.

Three more months slipped by like sand through fingers, and word began to spread—whispers that shook the continent.

Max Morgan, the strongest genius of the Lower Domain, had been killed. Slain in battle by none other than Drevon, the Young Monarch of Valora Continent, during the great war that had scarred both lands.

The news spread like wildfire. Many were stunned, frozen in disbelief. The idea of someone like Max falling—it didn’t sit right with them.

Some laughed nervously, others denied it outright. "Max wouldn’t fall so easily," they said. "Not him."

But the facts were hard to ignore. No one had seen him in three months. Not a single sighting. No word from the Tower. No pulse of his aura.

And as the days stretched into weeks, more and more people began to accept the worst. Slowly, the once hopeful murmurs turned into sorrowful acceptance. The world, it seemed, had begun to mourn him.

But only the elves and the human from the Moon Faction and Valora Continent mourned while the rest of the humans including the demons laughed hearing the rumors.

And just like the flowing of rumors, the tide of belief shifted as time passed, and eventually, half a year slipped by like dust through open fingers. At this point, the world had largely come to terms with what was once unthinkable—Max Morgan, the brightest genius of the Lower Domain, was dead.

The Lost Continent mourned him quietly but fully, his name now carved into history as a fallen hero.

The stories of his final battle traveled across seas, reaching even the Valora Continent, though told with a different tone there. In Valora, Max was spoken of not as an enemy, but as a formidable warrior—one who dared to stand against the Young Monarch and met his end in a clash that would echo through generations.

Yet, in the silent halls of the Tower of Truth, on its isolated tenth floor where time itself seemed slower, two figures stood still in the corner. Lenavira and Alice.

They hadn’t left the floor in months, their eyes often drawn to the ceiling as if hoping to see a sign from the upper chambers but nothing happened. Nothing for half a year.

"Big Sis Lena, it’s been half a year... Is he...?" Alice finally whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her dread. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her small hands clenched by her side. She didn’t finish her sentence, but the ache in her voice said it all.

Lenavira’s heart clenched painfully. She reached out and pulled Alice closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Since the tower has accepted him, he will be fine," she said softly. Words she had repeated many times over the last six months—each time to Alice, and each time to herself.

But with each passing day, even Lenavira’s confidence wavered. She had watched Alice slowly wither in grief, her once radiant spark dulled. Even her progress in comprehending her Concept had stalled.

The girl who once sat cross-legged for hours meditating now spent her time staring up at the ceiling, waiting. And Lenavira, watching all this, couldn’t help but worry.

However, no matter how long they waited, no matter how many days and nights passed beneath the eternal ceiling of the Tower of Truth, Max didn’t come out.

The red cocoon on that hidden floor remained sealed, unmoving, giving no sign of life. And just like that—a full year passed since the day he had fallen. A year of silence. A year of unanswered prayers. A year of hope slowly bleeding into doubt.

Outside the tower, the world didn’t stop. The Lost Continent, once trembling under the chaos of war, had returned to its rhythm. The news of Max’s heroic final battle became a story told in quiet circles, eventually fading into a hazy myth among the new generation of cultivators.

His name, once on the lips of every youth dreaming of strength, was now only spoken by the few who still held him in their hearts. The fire of his legacy dimmed beneath the overwhelming tide of time, as people busied themselves with training, unlocking their auras, pursuing their Concepts.

New talents had emerged, new challenges had taken the stage, and the world moved on—as it always did.

But within the tower, in the hearts of the few who had seen the truth with their own eyes, that name—Max Morgan—still burned like an ember refusing to die.

***

In the depths of the hidden floor, where silence had reigned for an entire year, a faint crack echoed through the still air. The red sphere that had enveloped Max’s charred body—an eerie cocoon of warmth and protection—trembled ever so slightly, as a tiny fissure formed on its surface, like a fragile glass orb beginning to fracture.

Sensing the shift in energy, Xolo arrived instantly, his golden form flickering into existence with an urgency he hadn’t shown in months.

He hovered in front of the glowing cocoon, eyes narrowed, watching intently as the crack slowly began to spread, faint crimson light seeping from the growing fractures like blood from a wound.

"It cracked a little," he muttered, voice low and reverent, as if speaking too loudly might interrupt whatever mysterious force was at work. "It seems... he is coming out."

The glow inside the sphere pulsed once, then again, stronger, and with each pulse, the cracks spread farther, like veins across the surface until, finally—with a soft shattering hum—the entire shell collapsed inward.

In the midst of the dissolving red mist, a figure emerged. Max. His body no longer burned, no longer crumbling—whole, radiating a quiet power, eyes still closed but breath steady. He was back.