Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100-Chapter 353: Fury of the Abyss Dragon

'Kill!'

The word wasn't a thought anymore.

It was a command.

A need.

A law etched into Max's bones.

His body shook—not from fear, but from sheer rage.

The kind of rage that blurred vision. That shattered reason. That screamed for violence and blood.

And then—

The sword beside him moved.

The red sword.

It trembled faintly against the stone floor, as if waking from slumber. The ground beneath it cracked, unable to contain the raw energy pulsing through the weapon.

Then it rose.

Slowly.

Gracefully.

Until it hovered before Max—pointed directly at him, humming with bloodlust. Like a predator sensing its equal.

It wanted him.

And Max?

He didn't hesitate.

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Not for a single breath.

His hand lashed out, gripping the hilt tightly.

The moment his fingers closed around it, the sword came alive.

WAAANNG!

A violent, blood-red beam of light erupted from its edge, splitting the air with a screeching howl. Max didn't wait.

He swung.

Hard.

The red beam flew straight for Mark like a blade of fury, cutting through space itself.

But Mark didn't move.

Didn't flinch.

The beam struck him—

And fizzled.

Gone.

No damage.

No effect.

Max's face twisted with pure rage.

Mark just smiled calmly, shaking his head like a teacher addressing a frustrated student.

"Ah. I forgot to mention something about that sword, didn't I?"

He gestured lazily toward the weapon in Max's hands.

"That blade you're holding is called the Abyss Dragon Sword…"

Max didn't listen.

He lunged forward with a roar.

His face contorted—rage leaking from every pore. His body blurred as he charged, dragging the sword through the air behind him, a trail of black and red energy spiraling in his wake.

CRACK!

He slashed again.

With everything he had.

And again—nothing.

The sword connected with Mark's body, but it was like striking an illusion. No wound. No reaction.

Mark didn't even blink.

"As I was saying," Mark continued, calm and collected, "that sword is older than our world. Ancient. Forgotten by time. Tainted by centuries of violence."

His tone was conversational, as if he weren't being attacked mid-sentence.

"It's fed on blood since the dawn of creation. So much so that the blade itself turned red. Once upon a time, it belonged to me. But even I lost control of it."

He glanced at the blade again, eyes gleaming faintly.

"It started devouring my infernal energy… and then it started asking for more. Wanting more. That sword isn't just a weapon—it's a beast. A mind. A will."

He looked back at Max, amused.

"No one's ever been able to fully tame it. Not me. Not the bastard who sealed me."

His voice dropped, almost fondly.

"All it's ever wanted… is blood. And more blood. And more."

Max stood there, panting hard, his chest rising and falling in fury.

The sword in his hands pulsed with heat, as if excited by his anger. It wanted to kill. It thrived on this rage.

Mark's gaze sharpened, and his smile widened into something colder.

"Now, Max," he said softly. "I know I killed Alice. Tragic, really. But let's be honest—you were asking for it."

Max's eyes flared.

"Refusing a god?" Mark shrugged, as if it were common sense. "Well. That kind of defiance comes with consequences."

The words hit Max like fuel to a fire.

His blood boiled.

His fingers clenched around the sword's hilt so tightly that blood began to drip from his palm.

His breath came out ragged, animalistic.

His aura grew darker.

Deeper.

Unstable.

And in his eyes—no fear. No hesitation.

Only one thing remained.

Murder.

And then—

Another transformation.

It happened in a heartbeat.

Black infernal energy surged out of Max like a violent flood. It wrapped around his left arm, spiraling like writhing serpents before sinking into his skin. The infernal demon tattoo, already monstrous on his right arm, now began to spread across his left—from the palm, crawling up the forearm, over the elbow, and up to the shoulder.

But it didn't stop.

The markings kept slithering, igniting the left side of his face in burning crimson lines. The veins beneath his skin darkened, and his left eye glowed a menacing red, as if possessed by a different entity entirely.

The transformation was complete.

His body radiated a terrifying aura—chaotic, unstable, barely contained. It didn't feel human anymore.

It felt like something that belonged in the depths of hell.

Max's lips curled.

His expression was twisted in pure, raw hatred.

"DIE!!" he roared.

With a growl of fury, he swung the sword once more.

A massive arc of dark red light exploded from the blade, screaming through the air and striking Mark dead-on.

And again—

Nothing.

The energy fizzled against Mark's skin like water on stone.

But Mark only smiled wider.

"Wonderful…" he said, eyes gleaming with fascination, not fear. "My infernal demon tattoo is reacting to yours—your rage, your hatred… and the sheer volume of infernal energy coursing through your body. It's evolving."

He nodded thoughtfully, as if observing a rare experiment unfold before his eyes.

"Yes, yes… This is it. You've passed beyond the limits of the twelve-layered infernal demon tattoo."

Another beam of red light came hurtling toward him—another violent, desperate slash from Max.

THOOM!

The energy struck—but again, didn't even leave a scratch.

Mark chuckled, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes.

"I'll call it…" He paused, smirking. "The Complete Infernal Demon Tattoo. A form unique to you, Max. It's… beautiful."

But Max wasn't listening.

He couldn't hear him.

Not anymore.

His mind was gone—swallowed whole by fury.

By pain.

By loss.

He couldn't see anything but red. Couldn't feel anything but the fire in his chest demanding vengeance.

His grip tightened.

His arms moved on instinct.

"DIE!!" he screamed again, voice cracking with rage.

He slashed.

And slashed.

And slashed again.

Over and over—nonstop.

"DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!!!"

Each strike was more desperate than the last, each swing more violent, more frenzied. The blade screamed through the air in red arcs, painting streaks of destruction across the hall. The ground split. Walls cracked. The force of the attacks shattered stone and shook the very foundation beneath them.

But Mark?

Mark just stood there.

Unmoving.

Untouched.

Grinning.

All of Max's attacks—every slash, every beam, every eruption of rage—landed directly on Mark.

And yet…

They turned to nothing.

The moment they touched his body, they disintegrated into particles of red light, fading like mist under the morning sun.

Not a scratch.

Not a crack.

Not even a wrinkle on his robe.

Mark didn't block.

He didn't dodge.

He simply stood there.

As if Max's furious strikes were no more than gentle breezes brushing against a mountain.

The Abyss Dragon Sword, alive with hatred and soaked in infernal energy, screamed with every swing. Its crimson aura tore through the air, hungry for blood, desperate to kill.

But no matter how hard Max swung it—no matter how much power surged through his body—it made no difference.

Mark remained untouched.

Unharmed.

Untouchable.

The floor beneath him cracked. The walls behind him shattered. The very air split from the sheer force of Max's rage.

But he—the one at the center of it all—remained completely still. Completely whole.

Almost… bored.