Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100

Mark met his gaze calmly, as if the chaos around him was beneath his notice.

"Just a little something," he said, almost gently. "A gift… to remind you who gave you those marks in the first place."

King Magnar's eyes flared with fury. Without hesitation, he blurred forward—his body vanishing in a flash as he crossed the distance in a heartbeat.

But before he could land a single blow—

Bang!

A massive shockwave exploded outward.

King Magnar's body was blasted backward, smashing into the far wall of the hall with a sickening crack. Dust and debris flew as stone cracked from the force of impact.

Gasps erupted.

Everyone stared in shock.

The strongest among them—King Magnar himself—had been thrown like a ragdoll.

And Mark hadn't even moved.

He just stood there, smiling faintly, eyes cold.

"King Magnar…" someone whispered in disbelief.

Palace Master Hugh's face was a storm of panic and confusion. "Son… what are you doing?!"

He stepped forward, hands raised—not in attack, but in plea.

But before he could even speak again—

Crash!

He too was slammed against the wall, pinned as if some invisible force had gripped him and hurled him like a toy. His back struck the stone with a thud, and he stayed there, unable to move, eyes wide with horror.

"Mark! Stop this!" someone shouted.

But it was too late for words.

"Everyone—attack him!" King Magnar roared, his voice filled with rage and desperation, still crushed against the wall. "Now!"

That command was all it took.

Every leader in the hall, despite the searing pain in their tattooed arms, launched into motion. Energy flared. Weapons appeared. Techniques were activated midair. The hall lit up with power.

Blades. Lightning. Fire. Shadows.

They all surged toward Mark.

The man who wasn't Mark anymore.

And through it all… he just stood there.

Smiling.

Waiting.

And then—finally—the barrage of attacks landed.

Blades of lightning. Waves of fire. Crushing force. Shadows sharp enough to tear steel. Dozens of powerful techniques slammed into Mark from every angle.

But the result was terrifying.

Each and every one of them was repelled.

The energy recoiled as if the very air around Mark rejected it. His body didn't so much as flinch.

And in the next instant—

Boom!

Just like King Magnar and Palace Master Hugh, the rest of the leaders were violently thrown back.

Some were slammed into the stone walls with bone-crunching force. Others were smashed into the ground, their impact carving deep craters in the floor. A few were hurled across the hall, tumbling like broken dolls before coming to a brutal stop.

The common thread between them all?

None of them moved.

Not a single twitch.

They lay sprawled or pinned in place, not unconscious—but paralyzed.

It was as if an invisible pressure, thick as iron and cold as death, pressed down on them, locking their bodies in place. Muscles wouldn't respond. Energy refused to circulate.

They weren't just defeated.

They were suppressed.

Just then—

"SWORD OF MONARCH!"

The thunderous voice of King Magnar rang out suddenly, defiant and full of power.

Above Mark's head, a colossal golden sword materialized—shimmering with celestial light, its presence shaking what remained of the ruined hall.

A divine weapon of pure will.

With a deafening hum, it plummeted downward.

Mark simply watched, standing still, that same unsettling smile still on his lips.

The massive sword crashed down—striking him directly on the head.

And then… something impossible happened.

A small crack appeared at the sword's tip.

At first, it was barely visible.

But then—

Crack. Crack. Crack.

The fractures spread like spiderwebs.

Golden light flickered violently as the mighty blade began to shatter from the point of contact, cracking along its length like glass under pressure.

CRAACK!

The entire sword exploded into fragments, disintegrating into golden dust that drifted uselessly through the air.

Silence.

Stunned silence.

Everyone stared in utter disbelief.

King Magnar's strongest technique—an attack that could sever mountains, split the heavens—had been destroyed the moment it touched Mark.

He hadn't even blinked.

That was horrifying enough.

But it wasn't over.

A flash of golden flame erupted from the far side of the hall.

A lotus—burning and majestic—materialized midair before Mark. Thirty-three petals in perfect symmetry.

The World Destruction Flaming Lotus.

Aurelia's signature technique.

The pride of the Phoenix Order. A flame capable of burning through time, space, and soul alike.

The instant the lotus appeared, it exploded in a roar of blinding golden fire.

BOOM!

The entire hall was engulfed.

Walls melted. Statues vaporized. The stone floor turned to molten ash.

The flames surged like a tidal wave, consuming everything in their path.

But before the fire could reach Max and the other young geniuses, a strange distortion appeared—a shimmering dome of space itself wrapping around them, keeping them untouched. A protective spatial barrier, shimmering like glass, held the inferno at bay.

They could only watch through the translucent field as the hall was destroyed.

Everything—everything—turned to ruin.

Except for the altar.

The altar with the red sword embedded in it stood completely untouched. Not even scorched.

And amidst the golden blaze, at the very center of the destruction… stood Mark.

Unharmed.

Not a scratch on him.

His hair didn't shift. His clothes weren't even singed. The flames danced around him like they didn't dare touch him.

Then, another force surged forward.

A ripple of spatial distortion—an attack from Kate.

Space itself twisted violently, warping like water around Mark.

But the moment the distortion reached him… it stopped.

The wobble in space snapped back to stillness, as if it had never happened.

Kate's eyes widened. Her breath caught.

She tried again.

The distortion surged.

And again—it collapsed into nothing the moment it touched Mark.

No ripple. No reaction. Just… nullification.

Shock spread across her face.

She tried a third time—then a fourth—pouring more energy into each attempt.

But the result was the same.

Nothing worked.

Space itself refused to bend around him.

It was as if Mark wasn't just resisting the world.

He was beyond it.

Just then—

"Prison of Black Dragon!"

Klaus's voice rang out like thunder.

In an instant, black flames erupted beneath Mark's feet—dark and furious, swirling like living shadows. The flames coiled upward, twisting violently into the shape of a massive clawed fist. It clenched around Mark's body, holding him in place.

A second later, nine blazing chains of black fire materialized in midair, forming a circle around the hall. Each chain snapped forward with terrifying speed—

Katcha!

They passed through Mark's body, not as blades but as anchors—linking together around him, locking him in place. The ends of the chains floated in the air, glowing with ethereal fire, as though tethered to nothing and everything all at once.

It was Klaus's strongest sealing technique. One that could restrain even peak-tier overlords.

Mark looked down at the chains.

Then up.

Then around.

Unbothered.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flickering with intrigue.

"Oh… These black flames," he murmured, his tone thoughtful. "They're different. Something beyond my control. Interesting."

Klaus narrowed his eyes.

Mark wasn't flinching. Wasn't screaming. Wasn't even smoking.

Why wasn't he burning?

"You're caught in the flames of the Black Dragon," Klaus said, voice sharp. "They burn the soul… even the void itself. So why aren't you burning?"

Mark smiled, calm and cruel. "Why?" he echoed. "Hmm. I wonder… why."