---
title: "Chapter 447: Tomb of the Sword Saint"
slug: "ch-447"
novel: "Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100"
number: 447
views: 0
likes: 0
wordCount: 1036
createdAt: "2026-04-13"
---

Chapter 447: Tomb of the Sword Saint

“This path of the sword…” Max muttered under his breath, his voice filled with awe and disbelief as he slowly turned his head, taking in the endless sea of blades stretching out around him. “This is… the burial of swords.”

It was the only way he could describe it. The landscape was a graveyard, a solemn resting place where countless swords stood stabbed into the bloodstained earth, each one weathered by time yet still exuding a powerful, undying presence. But that wasn’t all.

As Max focused deeper, he realized something even more shocking—something that made his heart pound faster. Each sword wasn’t just lying there as a dead relic of battle. Each one was alive, in a way, emanating a distinct aura, a will, a profound truth.

And it wasn’t mere sword aura either—no, it was more refined, more powerful. It was the trace of concepts. Sword concepts.

Max’s mind reeled at the realization. Every single sword here—thousands, maybe millions—was resonating with a different sword concept. Some blades thrummed with sharpness so intense it could split mountains; others radiated silent, patient killing intent, like assassins waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

There were swords that spoke of destruction, of death, of defense, of swift, graceful movements, and even swords that carried emotions—rage, sorrow, vengeance, peace.

‘Each of these swords contains a concept,’ Max thought, stunned. ‘Each one completely different, but all of them tied to the sword.’ He had expected the path of the sword to mirror his earlier experiences with the Concept of Space—a gradual understanding of an element’s mysteries, layer by layer.

But now he realized he had been dead wrong. This wasn’t simple. This wasn’t a single path. The Concept of Sword was a boundless ocean, a vast and endless domain of countless paths, each unique and sovereign.

It wasn’t just one truth to comprehend—it was infinite truths, infinite possibilities. And to master it, he would have to find his own sword, his own truth buried within this sea of infinite wills. It wasn’t just a test of strength—it was a test of identity.

“Kid, you’re in luck!” an excited voice suddenly rang out in Max’s head, making his body tense instinctively before realizing it was just Blob, his ever-reliable companion. “This place isn’t some ordinary realm. It’s legendary. It’s called… the Tomb of the Sword Saint!”

Max’s eyes widened, and he unconsciously repeated the words under his breath. “Tomb of the Sword Saint…” There was a strange weight to the name, a pull, as if even speaking it aloud stirred something ancient within the world around him.

Blob’s voice was practically buzzing with excitement. “I haven’t personally been here before, but I’m sure of it now! This is the real thing—the Tomb of the Sword Saint. It’s one of the great legends whispered among the ancient races and forgotten experts. No one knows who the Sword Saint truly was—where he came from, what clan he belonged to, or even what power backed him. All that remains are the stories left behind, stories so old even the heavens seem to have forgotten.”

Max listened closely, his gaze sweeping once more across the sea of swords embedded into the battlefield. The sight took on a whole new meaning now.

Blob continued, his tone growing solemn. “Legend has it… the Sword Saint was unrivaled under the heavens. His swordsmanship transcended concepts, techniques, even the natural laws themselves. Every opponent he defeated, he didn’t just kill—he honored them.”

He added. “He took their swords, no matter how strong or weak, and buried them with his own hands on a vast, ancient battlefield. Victory after victory, duel after duel, the land was slowly covered. Thousands… tens of thousands… maybe hundreds of thousands of swords. Each blade carried the memory of a life, a battle, a struggle. In time, the entire battlefield turned into a graveyard—no, a sacred ground—overflowing with the sword wills of fallen warriors. It became known as the Tomb of the Sword Saint.”

Max stood there in awe, the weight of the history surrounding him settling deep into his bones. This wasn’t just a place to comprehend the sword. It was a living testament to the pinnacle of swordsmanship—a final resting place where the wills of countless warriors lingered eternally, imprinting their last struggles, regrets, and dreams into the blades they left behind.

And now, he had stumbled upon it.

“This is a place where even supreme geniuses could lose themselves,” Blob added in a quieter voice. “The concepts hidden here aren’t taught. They’re felt. Understood. If you listen closely, Max… if you open your heart to the swords… you might just walk a path even the heavens have long abandoned.”

Max’s hand curled into a fist as he stared at the endless expanse of swords before him. ‘The Tomb of the Sword Saint…’ he thought, a fire igniting in his chest. ‘If there’s anywhere in the world to forge my sword path… it’s here.’

However he didn’t rush forward like an excited fool. Instead, he stood still at the edge of the endless field of swords, his eyes half-closed as he gathered his thoughts.

He knew better than to be careless in a place like this—a place born from the culmination of countless battles, bloodshed, and invincible wills. ‘What type of sword do I want?’ he muttered under his breath, pondering deeply.

His heart wasn’t moved by glory, nor by the sheer beauty of the swordsmanship he felt pressing down on him from every direction. No, he sought something different. His fists clenched slowly as he whispered to himself, “I want a sword that can kill anything. A sword that can cut through anything. A sword that slaughters all my enemies without mercy.” His voice was low, but the determination behind it was absolute, burning hotter than the surrounding air.

With that resolve burning inside him, Max took his first step into the heart of the Tomb of the Sword Saint. As he walked, each step seemed to sink deeper into the heavy atmosphere, where ancient wills clung to the very air like mist.𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!