---
title: "Chapter 503: Perfect Control over Infernal Energy"
slug: "ch-503"
novel: "Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100"
number: 503
views: 0
likes: 0
wordCount: 1285
createdAt: "2026-04-15"
---

"Enough of you two," came a sharp, commanding voice that rippled through the floating pink world like a clap of thunder. The Witch of the North had spoken.

Her tone was cold, yet carried a weight that could crush mountains.

Both Lucien and Max paused instantly, the tension between them suspended in the air like a blade frozen mid-swing.

Lucien slowly turned his head and glanced at her, then loosened his grip, letting go of Max’s arm without a word.

Max’s transformation stopped abruptly. The red glow in his eyes faded, the dark wings behind him crumbled into ash-like wisps, and the infernal energy receded into his body.

He stood still for a moment, then cast a sideways glance at Lucien before shifting his gaze to the woman sitting calmly among the drifting lights—her long green hair flowing as if in rhythm with the strange currents of this world.

"I am grateful," Max said, his voice steady but distant. "You helped me when I was lost. You fixed my soul. For that, I owe you my thanks. But I’m fine now. And I don’t need your assistance anymore." There was no anger in his words, just a firm, unshakable finality.

Then, with a simple flick of his hand, space itself began to twist. Cracks of light tore through the air in front of him as he invoked the Concept of Space, tearing open a jagged rift in the pink world.

Without waiting for a response—without even a glance back—Max stepped into the tear and vanished, the rip in space sealing behind him like he was never there.

Lucien sighed deeply, the breath he released carrying a weight that had been pressing on his chest since the confrontation began.

He turned toward the green-haired woman still sitting amidst the ethereal calm of the pink realm. "So?" he asked, his voice low but edged with tension.

The Witch of the North remained composed, her gaze distant as if peering into truths beyond the physical. "I didn’t sense any foreign presence within him," she said calmly. "But... I believe losing his original soul has left behind some lingering aftereffects. Subtle, but real."

Lucien’s expression darkened into a frown. "Aftereffects?" he echoed, his voice rising slightly. "That guy is completely out of control. He’s reckless. Even though he used to be a bit slow on the uptake, he was still a good guy—loyal, honest... Now I’m not even sure I know who he is anymore." The frustration laced in his words betrayed how deeply this change in Max unsettled him.

The witch, however, remained unshaken. "Don’t worry too much," she said gently, her voice soft but confident. "If I’m not wrong, Max isn’t even aware of the changes in himself yet. He thinks he’s the same. But when the truth becomes clear—when he finally sees what he’s become—I believe he will come looking for us. He’ll need us. And when that time comes, we’ll be ready." Her words drifted like a calming breeze through the strange floating world, but the uncertainty in Lucien’s eyes remained.

"And it wasn’t just about that," Lucien muttered, his brows drawn together in a deep frown, eyes still locked on the fading space where Max had vanished. "Whatever you did to him... it changed something. It enhanced Max’s control over his infernal energy. That vile transformation just now... I’ve seen that transformation before—more than once. But back then, it was always triggered through that cursed Infernal Demon Tattoo. The tattoo acted like the source, like a seal slowly corrupting and breaking open with each use. But this time..."

He paused, replaying the scene in his mind—the way Max’s wings had erupted, the surge of power, the eerie calm in his expression. "This time, he didn’t rely on the tattoo. He didn’t even touch it. He pulled that transformation out from within himself, completely on his own. And what’s more... he looked in control. Not consumed. Not desperate. Calm. Focused."

The Witch of the North tilted her head slightly, then smiled as she nodded in understanding. "That’s a good thing then," she said softly. "If he doesn’t rely on the tattoo anymore, that’s even better for him. Who knows what Mark had planned when he embedded that thing into Max’s body? That tattoo always reeked of manipulation."

Lucien didn’t answer right away. His eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful, as the faint pink light of the realm danced across his face.

"I hope you’re right about everything," he finally said, his voice quiet but firm, laced with concern that hadn’t yet lifted. He gave her one last look, then his form shimmered and vanished, leaving the floating world of pink hues and drifting silence behind.

The Witch of the North smiled faintly as Lucien’s figure disappeared from the pink-hued realm, her expression soft yet touched by a shadow of something deeper—something far more calculating.

She leaned back on her chair lightly as she let out a quiet sigh that carried the weight of secrets. "Little Lucien," she murmured, almost fondly. "I’m sorry... but I couldn’t let you interfere with Max’s path."

Her voice was gentle, but beneath its softness lay an undertone of cold intent. "How could I allow that, when he’s my most interesting test subject?" Her eyes shimmered, not with compassion, but with curiosity—sharp and glittering like the edge of a scalpel.

Her fingers brushing through the air as if drawing unseen patterns in the fabric of this strange dimension. "That boy," she whispered, "he’s an anomaly wrapped in chaos, stitched together by fate and stitched again by me. I want to see where this little test of mine will lead him... how far he’ll go, what he’ll become, and whether he’ll break or evolve beyond anything this world has seen."

Her voice grew quieter, almost reverent, as she stared into the void left behind by Max’s departure.

***

The moment Max’s figure vanished from the pink-hued world, space itself rippled violently just outside the location where he and Lucien had stood earlier.

A jagged tear sliced through the fabric of reality, twisting the air around it as if refusing to stay open for long. And from within that unstable rift, Max emerged.

His body shot out like a falling star, but there was no grace in his descent. He looked battered—his clothes were torn in multiple places, barely clinging to his frame, and streaks of blood traced faint lines across his skin.

He was breathing hard, each exhale sharp and dry, but his expression remained oddly composed, as if the struggle had already been processed and tucked away into some quiet corner of his mind.

’I think traveling through space using those tears as teleportation rifts still needs a bit more refinement,’ he thought to himself, the ache in his limbs a harsh reminder of the strain he’d just endured.

Slowly, as the injuries began healing and the pain in his chest began to fade, he glanced downward and saw a vast ocean glistening beneath him, calm and endless.

Without hesitation, he descended, allowing himself to sink into the cool embrace of the sea. Deep below the surface, in the silence of the water, he retrieved a fresh set of clothes from his storage—dark, sleek, and unmarked—and changed swiftly, washing away the grime and blood of the battle.

A moment later, he broke through the surface once again, soaring up into the open sky. He paused only briefly, scanning the horizon, then locked his eyes on a distant direction—the place he had intended to go. Valora Continent.

His dark red wings spread slightly, and with a burst of controlled energy, he shot forward through the air like a dark arrow streaking toward its target.