Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100-Chapter 305: A Fool’s Dream

The air was wrong.

Max stood still, his eyes narrowing as the mist clung to his skin.

It wasn't ordinary fog.

It was alive, thick with intent, carrying the weight of something ancient and corrupted.

10,000 miles from the Mourning Depths' center, and already the environment was suffocating.

Here, infernal energy didn't just float—

It dripped.

Tiny, bead-like droplets shimmered faintly in the haze, drifting through the air like floating ink in water.

They were everywhere.

In front of his face.

Under his boots.

Pressing against his skin like cold breath from a sleeping beast.

And beneath that—

A deep, almost inaudible hum.

A constant, low thrum vibrating through the earth, as if the Mourning Depths itself were alive.

Max could feel it.

His own energy, his own mana and soul force, being pulled, like invisible strings were tugging at his very soul.

It wasn't violent.

It was subtle. Gentle. Almost like seduction.

But there was a darkness underneath.

Max inhaled slowly.

His expression remained composed, but in his heart—he was cautious.

'This infernal energy… it's not just floating here. It's condensed. Like purest form of energy.'

He extended a hand slightly, brushing the air.

The droplets of energy responded—

they moved toward him.

Drawn to the black flames sleeping within his body.

His eyes darkened.

'If I could absorb this with my black flames... maybe...'

He stopped himself.

Shook his head.

No.

He knew better.

As alluring as it was—

Infernal energy was not meant for humans.

It corrupted.

It ate away at your life, your sanity, your very sense of self.

Even if he could force it into himself—what would it do to him?

Would it enhance him?

Or destroy him from the inside out?

Still, the thought lingered.

He wasn't dismissing the idea.

Just… delaying it.

'Not now. Not yet.'

Just as he withdrew his hand—

A voice.

Sharp.

High-pitched.

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Unbearably smug.

"Hehe, Max, what do you think? The atmosphere here is great!"

Max's jaw tightened.

He didn't even need to turn.

He already knew.

That voice was like sandpaper on his patience.

Every syllable delivered with forced cheer,

each word meant to sound friendly—but it carried the sting of mocking venom.

Max slowly turned his head.

There he was.

The Monarch lapdog.

The same idiot who'd been grinning at him during the squad selection.

The one who'd looked at him like a predator sizing up prey—

But with the arrogance of someone who'd never seen a real battlefield.

The guy was still smiling.

Eyes gleaming with misplaced confidence.

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just a bit.

"Max, I guess when we're 1,500 miles in, you'll keep going deeper, right? How about we go together? We can take care of each other, haha!"

That fake laugh.

That attempt at camaraderie.

It was disgusting.

But what annoyed Max more wasn't the tone—

It was the subtle wave of perception hidden beneath the words.

The man was trying to probe him.

Attaching soul force to his speech—

Fishing for information.

Testing his mental state. His mood. His reaction

Max slowly turned his full body to face him.

No smile.

No fake civility.

His voice came out low.

Sharp. Precise.

Like a knife pressed into ice.

"Sorry. I'm not interested."

The Monarch follower blinked—taken aback by the blunt rejection.

But Max wasn't done.

His eyes flashed once—dark and dangerous.

"Also…"

"It would do you good to stop trying to probe me by attaching your soul force to your words."

The tone wasn't loud.

It wasn't threatening.

But the warning was undeniable.

The space between them fell into silence.

Even the mist around them seemed to pause for a heartbeat.

The Monarch lackey's body stiffened.

He hadn't expected Max to catch him.

His probing technique was subtle—the kind of trick even seasoned warriors would dismiss as irritation or noise.

But Max had caught it immediately.

Called him out, directly, in front of everyone.

And not just that—he hadn't reacted emotionally at all.

He simply shut it down, without flinching.

'This kid is too damn sharp…'

The grin on the Monarch follower's face faded.

Slight tremble in his jaw. He quickly lowered his gaze.

He wouldn't forget this.

But he wouldn't challenge Max again…

Not here. Not yet.

The group didn't stop moving.

Old Man Grey strode ahead, his steps steady despite the heavy atmosphere and the dragging mist.

His eyes were closed, his long white brows fluttering slightly as the infernal wind brushed past him.

Then—he spoke.

"From here on out, we are 8,500 miles away from the 1,500-mile safe zone of the Mourning Depths."

His voice carried age and gravity, pulling the attention of every member in the squad.

"At our current pace, our journey on foot will take anywhere between ten days to a full month."

"During this time, you must follow my orders without question."

He turned slightly, opening his eyes. They were old… but sharp.

"If we encounter an infernal being—You absolutely cannot act on your own. You absolutely cannot!"

His voice dropped an octave on those final words.

A layer of deadly seriousness hung in the air.

"Otherwise…"

"You might doom us all."

Of course, not everyone took his words seriously.

Especially not the red-haired youth near the rear of the group.

His features were sharp, his nose slightly long, his eyes full of arrogance and self-importance.

He scoffed, then asked with mock interest—

"Infernal being? What infernal being, hm?"

His tone was light, even playful.

He had no intention of hiding the cocky smirk on his face.

He wasn't trying to mock the old man—but he wasn't taking him seriously, either.

This was the Mourning Depths—sure.

It was dangerous. Everyone knew that.

But he had come here prepared.

Trained. Armed. Talented.

He wasn't just strong.

He had a plan.

His eyes weren't on the mist.

They weren't on the gray skies or the blackened trees.

They were on Amara.

That graceful, aloof figure walking just a few steps ahead.

'Even if I don't save her, I just need one good moment…'

He could picture it already—

An ambush, a fight.

Everyone hesitates.

But he moves.

Steps forward. Fights like a hero.

Even if he takes a hit—that's part of the image.

In that moment, he could already imagine—

Amara looks back. Her expression softens.

"Who is he…?"

That moment, that glance—that was all he needed.