Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100

Just then, the sky split open once more, and four figures descended from the thick veil of clouds. It was Drevon—four copies of him, moving with eerie synchrony—and behind them followed the battered figures of King Magnar, Elarion, and Marcel.

The difference between them was stark. Drevon looked completely composed, his expression relaxed, clothes unwrinkled, not a scratch on his flawless skin.

The same could not be said of the three leaders of the Lost Continent. Marcel clutched his side where blood slowly leaked through his robes, Elarion’s shoulder was clearly dislocated, and King Magnar, though still standing firm, had burns streaking across his chest and arm. They looked like they’d survived a disaster.

Drevon looked like he had just taken a casual walk through it.

Even the brutal clash between Aurelia, Kate, Ralph, Garrison, and the Commandments came to a stop.

Judging by the condition of both sides, it was clear the battle had reached a stalemate—except that the Commandments were down one man, an advantage now equalized by the exhaustion of their enemies.

Above the shattered battlefield, with blood in the soil and tension in the air, Max’s voice suddenly rang out. He floated high, his wing outstretched, his body still glowing faintly from the residual pulse of infernal energy.

”You know...” he said, his tone oddly casual, ”I just realized something.” His eyes swept over the field, then locked onto Drevon. ”I could end this entire war in a minute. I could annihilate your army. Turn them into dust.”

Gasps echoed across the battlefield. Dozens of eyes turned to him. His words weren’t just confident—they were insane. Reckless. Arrogant.

But then Max kept speaking, his gaze sharp as a blade. ”And you...” he pointed directly at Drevon, his voice like ice, ”I can make it so that you run from this place. Desperate. Panicked. Anxious. Clinging to your pathetic life.”

For a moment, silence reigned.

The leaders of the Lost Continent—even those who had witnessed Max’s monstrous feats—held their breath. His words were too bold, too outrageous to be believed.

This was Drevon. The Young Monarch. The man who had just forced three of the continent’s most powerful leaders to retreat in defeat. The one who stood atop a sea of corpses and declared himself sovereign.

How could a boy barely in the sixth level of the Adept Rank possibly make him run?

And yet...

Drevon grinned. For the first time, a real smile stretched across his face—not mocking, not forced, but genuine interest, even amusement. ”I’d like to see you try,” he said, his voice smooth, almost inviting. ”Show me what you’ve got.”

Max didn’t flinch. He simply stared at him, calm and silent.

”You don’t care about your army turning to nothing but bones?” he asked evenly, as if it were a casual question, not a threat.

Drevon shrugged lightly. ”I don’t believe in your strength,” he said plainly. ”You’re strong. I’ll give you that. But this... this is beyond you.”

”I see,” Max replied with a quiet nod. He slowly closed his eyes.

”Give me a chance!” A voice suddenly rang out, clear and sharp, slicing through the heavy silence before Max could act. In an instant, a figure flashed through the air and appeared in front of Drevon, standing proudly with his head high and his back straight.

The young man had slightly long black hair that fell just past his shoulders, tousled from flight, and his bright eyes were sharp with burning determination.

He wasn’t just another warrior—there was something different about his presence, something too precise, too polished. He radiated the dangerous calm of someone who had been raised in the shadows for this very moment.

”Give me a chance to annihilate Max Morgan,” he said, his voice unwavering. ”I will fight him here and now. After I’m done with him, you can do whatever you want. But leave him to me first.”

Drevon turned to him with a flicker of interest, a faint smile tugging at his lips. ”You want to prove your worth... is that it?” he asked in an easy, almost amused tone.

”Yes, Master,” the young man replied firmly, his tone shifting from bold to reverent. ”I want to prove my worth. But this is more than that.”

He took a breath, clenching his fists tightly. ”I, as your student, want to show the world what I am capable of. You have sheltered me, trained me, shaped me in the shadows for years—and now, I want to show you that all of it meant something.”

He stepped forward, his voice growing stronger with each word. ”You’ve kept me hidden all my life, and I understand why. But this is it. This is the moment I rise. I want to defeat Max Morgan and reveal to the world that he is nothing more than an ant beneath my foot. I want to prove that your teachings, your guidance, your faith in me—none of it was wasted. And more importantly, I want to make sure you don’t lower yourself to act against someone so far beneath you. Let me be the sword that removes this stain.”

Drevon’s faint smile lingered as he stared at his student. He didn’t speak immediately. He simply watched, his crimson eyes locked onto the fire in the boy’s gaze. Then finally, slowly, he gave the smallest of nods.

”I’m waiting,” Drevon said, his voice laced with quiet expectation. And with that simple sentence, the battlefield shifted once more.

All eyes now turned—not to the Monarch, not to Max—but to the hidden student stepping into the light for the first time. The prodigy raised by Drevon himself.

King Magnar landed beside Aurelia and Kate, his expression grim and his armor scorched from his earlier battle. Moments later, Elarion and Marcel descended as well, joining him without a word. Around them, the remaining Expert Rank elves gathered quickly, reforming a defensive ring in the sky, their expressions wary as they turned their gazes toward the stand-off between Max and the newly revealed youth beside Drevon.