lastwebnovel-app/content/novels/dimensional-keeper-all-my-skills-are-at-level-100/ch-350.md

---
title: "Chapter 350: Evil Sword"
slug: "ch-350"
novel: "Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100"
number: 350
views: 0
likes: 0
wordCount: 1041
createdAt: "2026-04-13"
---

Mark sighed deeply, as if burdened by a weight no one else could carry.

"It's my fault," he admitted, lowering his gaze. "From the moment my soul was sealed, it started releasing infernal energy. Unconsciously. Constantly. It's never stopped—not for a single moment."

He clutched his head suddenly, grimacing. "It's still happening. Right now, as we speak, my soul is leaking infernal energy into the world."

Mark looked back at the altar.

"And over the centuries… that energy built up. It formed that forcefield. It's the densest concentration of infernal energy in the entire Mourning Depths."

He looked around at the silent crowd, voice grim.

"Anyone who tries to step inside that field—poof. Gone. Just like that."

Then his eyes settled on Max.

"That's when I had an idea," Mark said slowly, a flicker of pride returning to his tone. "The Infernal Demon Tattoo. I created the concept. Designed it from scratch. Layer after layer. Painstakingly. All with one goal—to eventually reach the twelve-layered state. Because only that… only a body enhanced with twelve layers of infernal demon energy could survive stepping through that forcefield."

He looked at the others—those who had once followed him, trusted him, feared him. Then he shook his head with mock pity.

"I know what you're thinking. It was a ridiculous amount of effort. Centuries of preparation. Endless failure. Waiting forever for the right candidate to finally be born."

He smirked.

"But don't feel sorry for me, alright?"

His voice turned almost casual.

"Because my soul is about to be free."

And then, with a slow snap of his fingers, he added:

"And once that happens… everyone gets to go home. Just like that."

He smiled.

But there was something behind that smile—something cold, something ancient, something hungry.

And Max knew, deep down, that if that soul was ever freed…

No one was going anywhere.

"You all still don't believe me?" Mark's voice cracked the silence. His shoulders slumped, the weight of divine arrogance crumbling into mock disappointment. "I'm a god, for fuck's sake. What do I even want with mortals? With ants?"

But the hall remained silent.

No one responded.

Not a single soul moved.

The fear in their eyes said it all.

No one trusted him. Not anymore.

Mark shook his head slowly, as if pitying their ignorance, then turned his gaze back to Max.

"Go ahead," he said. "Pull out the sword. Everything's ready."

Max took a deep breath.

His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

And then, just as doubt flickered across his face, a familiar voice echoed softly in his mind.

"Go ahead and do it."

It was Blob. Calm, steady.

"Whatever happens, we'll face it together."

Max closed his eyes.

For a moment—just one—he stood still, his breathing slow, heavy.

Then he opened them.

His expression was steel.

"Alright," he said quietly, then turned to Mark. "I'll do it."

His voice sharpened like a blade.

"But if you so much as touch Alice… god or not, I'll find a way to kill you."

Mark grinned, amused.

"Oh, I'm trembling," he said mockingly, pressing a hand to his chest in faux fear. "Now go ahead before I get bored and do exactly what you warned me not to."

Max shot him a glare but said nothing.

He turned back toward the altar.

And began walking.

The hall fell silent.

Every breath caught. Every eye locked on him.

Max… was really going to pull out the sword.

Step by step, he moved toward the altar, his figure passing through the flickering remnants of golden flames, cracked stone, and scorched floor.

And then—he stopped.

Right in front of it.

The sword stood embedded in the altar, glowing faintly in the middle of the swirling mist. Its blade was blood-red, as if forged from congealed infernal essence itself. Thick fog of energy circled it like a storm trapped in glass.

Max lifted his right hand slowly.

He reached toward the forcefield.

And—

His hand passed through it.

No resistance. No pain.

Just… smooth passage.

Mark's eyes narrowed from behind.

He was watching. Waiting. Expecting something—anything.

But nothing happened.

Seconds ticked by.

Max's hand remained inside the barrier—untouched.

Unharmed.

Mark blinked in disbelief, then broke into a wide grin.

"Well, look at that," he said, chuckling. "Max, whatever kind of physique you've got, it's perfectly compatible with infernal energy. No matter how concentrated."

He shook his head, laughing softly in surprise. "Your affinity is even higher than mine. That's… honestly messed up."

He added with a smirk, "It means you don't even need the twelve-layer infernal demon tattoo to walk into that forcefield. You'd be fine either way."

Max's face darkened at the realization. He said nothing, jaw tight, but his fingers curled slightly.

He took a step forward—and passed fully into the field.

Nothing.

Not even a scratch.

On the contrary… the energy that swirled around him felt welcoming. Warm. Soothing. Like a blanket of fire that embraced, rather than burned.

'Damn it…' Max cursed internally, feeling the power humming through the air. 'I could probably level up just by breathing this in.'

Behind him, Mark let out a wild, unrestrained laugh.

"HAHAHAHA! Go on, Max! Go ahead and pull it out! This is it!"

Max ignored him.

He moved up the altar's stairs, each step echoing like a war drum.

He reached the top.

Stood face-to-face with the sword.

But the moment he drew close—something changed.

Voices.

Whispers.

They slithered into his ears, quiet at first. Then louder. More violent.

"I will kill you…"

"Die!"

"Murder! Slaughter!"

A pressure settled over his mind. Cold. Heavy. Violent.

An overwhelming urge suddenly gripped him.

To kill.

To burn.

To destroy everything and everyone in sight.

Max stumbled, clutching his head.

His vision blurred.

His thoughts twisted.

The whispers turned into screams.

"Kill!"

"Kill!"

"KILL!"

KILL!

The force of the rage slammed into him like a tidal wave.

His chest heaved. Muscles tensed. His hand trembled at his side, fingers twitching with the desire to end something.

It felt… good.

The hunger to destroy clawed at the edges of his sanity.

The world around him faded.

And for one terrifying moment—Max felt himself slipping.

Consumed by killing intent.

Swallowed by darkness.

And then—