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| title | slug | novel | number | views | likes | wordCount | createdAt |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Chapter 571: Three Moves | ch-571 | Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100 | 571 | 0 | 0 | 1279 | 2026-04-15 |
After Max entered the chamber to the right, a strange pulling sensation gripped his consciousness. It was subtle at first—like the distant tug of a current beneath still water—but it grew stronger with each breath.
Max didn’t resist. He remembered Lord Harthorne’s instructions and let the sensation take over. Calmly, he sat cross-legged on the mat placed inside the chamber, closed his eyes, and allowed the pull to guide him.
Swish!
When he opened his eyes again, Max was stunned. He was no longer in the chamber. Instead, he found himself standing in the middle of the grand hall he had just walked through—a perfect replica of the one outside, yet different in ways he couldn’t explain.
The air was slightly denser, the lighting a little brighter, and everything felt heightened, more alive.
’When did I come here?’ Max blinked, glancing at his hands, then at the space around him. He was certain he never moved, yet here he was. It was disorienting, but not frightening.
Just then, a flicker of light appeared several paces away, and Garry materialized into view. He wore a similar look of confusion, scanning the hall as though trying to piece together how he got there. Their eyes met for a brief second, both silently confirming they were equally surprised.
High above, Lord Harthorne’s voice echoed across the hall. "Let me tell you about this arena," he began, his tone calm and composed. "This is a Virtual Battle Arena—one of the most advanced systems we have. It projects your consciousness directly into a mirror of the real world. That means you can go all out—no restraints, no limits. Even if you die here, your body will remain untouched in the real world."
Max’s brow twitched slightly. So that explained the dislocation he felt. He wasn’t physically here. It was his mind, his soul, battling in a fully immersive space.
Lord Harthorne’s voice rang again. "As for the rules of the duel—there are none. You fight however you like. No restrictions. Victory is decided when one side yields or is no longer able to fight."
At those words, the hall fell into an eerie silence. The energy between Max and Garry began to shift, the atmosphere rippling with the anticipation of an all-out battle.
Max stood calmly in the center of the arena, his expression unshaken as Garry powered up with a burning ferocity. A slow smile crept across Max’s lips as he let his senses stretch out, feeling the energy in this space.
’I can feel it... All my abilities are available here—no restrictions, no limitations. A perfect arena.’ His eyes narrowed slightly as he focused on Garry, who now pulsed with ominous energy. ’This will be a good chance to test how far I’ve come. Before, I could kill peak Expert Rank cultivators. But now... after fully mastering the three top inheritances... I don’t even know where I stand.’
Garry raised three fingers toward Max, confidence radiating from his every movement. "Three moves," he declared. "In three moves, I’ll end this."
Max gave a small nod, still wearing that calm, unreadable smile. "Alright," he said coolly. "I’ll give you three moves. Go ahead."
That response instantly annoyed Garry. His eyes darkened. ’What’s with that calm face?!’ His aura erupted as both his hands were suddenly engulfed in intense black flames that curled and tightened into blazing gauntlets. "You’ll regret giving me the chance!" he roared and charged.
In a blur, Garry launched a barrage of punches, each one birthing a massive shadowy fist of black flame that surged toward Max. One. Two. Three. Ten. Twenty.
The fists layered and chased after one another with terrifying speed and destructive force, each one real, each one sharp enough to pulverize stone and crack barriers. The ground beneath Garry’s feet shattered as his power reached its peak.
’This is definitely not the Flame Tyrant inheritance,’ Max thought with a calm yet focused expression as he weaved effortlessly through the storm of fiery black fists.
When Garry’s arms had ignited and molded into gauntlets of roaring black flames, Max had instinctively assumed it was the familiar and explosive Flame Tyrant inheritance. But the moment the attacks came, that assumption fell apart.
The Flame Tyrant inheritance was raw, wild, overwhelming—its power lay in its sheer destructive might, in the savage use of one’s own body as the ultimate weapon. It didn’t deal in tricks, in illusory assaults or tactical diversions.
Yet what Garry had unleashed wasn’t a straightforward attack. It was refined, calculated, a storm of conjured flame fists that multiplied with each strike, a technique that relied more on confusion and pressure than brute strength. Something was off.
But off or not, to Max, it didn’t matter.
His Three Dimensional Body flared to life silently, giving him a view of the entire battlefield from every possible angle. In that moment, time felt slowed, every movement of the shadowy fists traced and outlined with perfect clarity.
Each arc, each compression of black flame, each vibration in the air told Max exactly where they would land. To anyone watching, it might have looked like he vanished, but in truth, Max was simply moving too fluidly—dodging not by reaction but through anticipation.
He drifted between the flaming projections with barely a shift in breath, sidestepping one, ducking under another, pivoting with perfect balance to let two more sweep past his shoulder and waist. Not a single flame grazed him.
And Garry saw it all—his eyes wide with disbelief as his ultimate barrage failed to touch his opponent. He stumbled back, retreating instinctively, the confidence draining from his face. The searing black gauntlets on his arms still pulsed with power, but the rhythm of his breath betrayed his confusion.
"What the hell..." he muttered under his breath, sweat trickling down his temple. He had fought many in the past. No one had danced through that attack like Max just did—as if he had walked through smoke instead of fire.
"That was the first move." Max said smiling.
"Alright, I have underestimated you but not anymore." Garry’s body erupted in a blinding surge of flames, the black inferno swirling violently around him before condensing into a suit of armor.
From head to toe, he was encased in pitch-black plates that shimmered like molten obsidian. Jagged pauldrons flared at his shoulders, and flame-like etchings ran along the surface of the armor, pulsing with an ominous glow.
His aura rose like a tidal wave, crashing against the walls of the arena—an oppressive, choking pressure that would have reduced weaker opponents to trembling statues. The energy around him was chaotic, volatile, and devastatingly powerful, unmistakably drawn from a supreme-class inheritance.
And yet Max remained utterly calm.
He stood still, watching Garry’s transformation with a quiet, analytical gaze. ’That power... it’s definitely from a supreme-class inheritance,’ he thought.
The weight of the energy, the violent nature of the flame, and the way it clung to Garry’s frame all pointed toward something immensely strong. But despite the grandeur, Max noticed something else—something most would have missed beneath the surface spectacle.
It was falling apart.
The form, though fearsome, was unstable. Wisps of energy leaked from cracks in the armor, spiraling upward into the air like smoke from a broken furnace. The gauntlets on Garry’s hands trembled ever so slightly, and the plating along his legs flickered between states, struggling to stay intact.
The black flames surrounding him twitched and lashed at random angles, showing a lack of control that betrayed Garry’s true state. He was barely holding it together.
It wasn’t mastery—it was brute force and desperation. He had barely achieved a foundational mastery on the inheritance.