Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100-Chapter 547: A Test of Strength

The gray-robed old man overseeing the trial, who had remained silent until now, took a slow step forward. His gaze swept across them with calm authority.

"You all should go and touch the painting with your hands," he began, his voice firm but even. "Some of you may be attempting this for the second time. A few perhaps for the third. And for others, this may be your first trial. Regardless... remember this—if you fail the task given to you within the painting, you will be kicked out. Whether you are from the Divine Realm, the Mortal Realms, or born of the highest family or the lowest street—there are no exceptions in the Nine Dragons Painting."

One by one, the geniuses gave quiet nods, their expressions sobering. Even the most arrogant among them knew not to underestimate the ancient power hidden within that canvas.

"Alright. Go on," the old man said, stepping aside and granting them passage.

Without delay, the nine walked steadily to the immense mural. Each extended a hand. One by one, they placed their palms against the aged, yet strangely warm, surface. As their fingers made contact, their bodies vanished like mist under sunlight—sucked into the painting’s depths by an unseen force.

Max was the last to move.

He stepped forward silently, his expression unreadable. He raised his hand, the tips of his fingers brushing the swirling image of a dragon’s scale.

A strange pull gripped his entire body, and before his feet could adjust, he, too, vanished—swallowed whole by the canvas, leaving only the still silence of the arena behind.

***

Max found himself alone, standing upon a scorched stone platform suspended in what seemed like an infinite void. The air was dry, oppressive, and tinged with the faint metallic scent of heat-baked rock.

All around him, the world was shrouded in a thick, undulating black fog that clung to the edges of the platform like a sea of shadows. Above, there was no sky—only endless darkness swirling slowly, as though watching in silence.

At the heart of the platform stood a towering obsidian pillar, pitch-black and massive, stretching upward like a monument forged by dragons themselves. Its surface pulsed with intricate, glowing dragon runes—lines of ancient power flickering with a silvery light, dancing across the rock as though alive, as though beckoning the challenger before it.

Max approached the pillar calmly, his steps measured. As he stood in front of it, the heat radiating off the stone seeped through his clothes, but he didn’t mind.

Lifting a hand, he placed his palm on its surface. The texture surprised him—rough in some places, yet smooth in others, almost like a perfect weapon that had been shaped by untold years of battle.

His brows rose slightly. "It’s durable for sure," he muttered under his breath, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp.

Turning to the side, his gaze landed on a stone tablet placed just beside the pillar, aged but intact. He stepped closer and read the inscription carved into its face:

"One must use the strongest attack they can manifest from their inheritance and strike the pillar. If the strength of the attack reaches 60 out of 100, the challenger shall pass. If it does not, they shall be cast out."

Max exhaled softly, nodding to himself. The rules were simple. Brutally straightforward.

But that made sense. The Black Dragon Palace had given each genius only two months to comprehend the inheritance they chose. It was unrealistic to expect perfection from most.

Only the foundational mastery was required, and this test was designed to see if even that had been achieved.

’A clean, direct trial... suited for those who only skimmed the surface,’ Max mused thinking the trial was designed keeping in mind with the trial of the True Inheritance.

"Let’s try this," Max muttered under his breath as his body began to tense and black flames surged to life around his right arm. The flames flickered with heat and will, writhing and snapping like serpents desperate to be unleashed.

He drew in a slow breath, his eyes narrowing as the inheritance of the Flame Tyrant coursed through his veins. The runes from the totem, the truths he’d engraved into his soul through days of comprehension, all responded as one—coalescing into pure, unrelenting force.

The air distorted around his arm, the temperature rising to the point where the stone beneath his feet started to crack slightly from the heat.

Black flames hissed along his skin, swirling with a strange rhythm, and in the next moment, his entire arm transformed. It became a massive fang-like weapon—sharp, primal, and radiating destruction like a predator on the hunt.

"Flame Tyrant First Form: Blazing Fang!" he declared, his voice steady, his fist blazing like a comet wreathed in chaos.

And then he struck.

Bang!

The sound echoed like thunder cracking through the void. But in the moment his transformed fist met the obsidian pillar, something strange happened. It wasn’t resistance. It wasn’t pushback.

No, it was something far more jarring.

It felt as though he had punched an immovable, eternal mountain—a structure so dense, so ancient, that his overwhelming might was simply swallowed whole.

The force of his attack, enough to shatter mountains, vanished into the pillar like water absorbed by dry earth. The flames dimmed. The tremor faded. Nothing stirred.

Max blinked, stunned. "What...?"

Swish!

And then, a number carved itself in glowing golden letters across the front of the obsidian pillar:

100

Max’s expression turned unreadable. "One hundred..." he whispered, watching the glowing number shimmer calmly.

His mind churned. "So the pillar can only register up to one hundred points... I see."

It made sense now. This test was designed for geniuses who had spent merely two months scratching at the surface of the inheritances.

Passing required a power level of sixty. In that context, a score of one hundred was supposed to be the limit—a threshold few were ever expected to approach.

But Max had transcended that boundary.

’My attack should’ve scored well beyond that...’ he thought. His inheritance wasn’t just partially learned—it had been _perfected_. If there had been no limit, perhaps his strike might’ve scored 200, 300, or more.

But the pillar wasn’t made to measure someone like him. Not someone who had fully absorbed the essence of the Flame Tyrant itself.

He slowly retracted his arm, the black flames fading from his skin, though the heat still lingered faintly in the air.

Max stared at the glowing 100 once more before turning around.

’This was just the first floor... Let’s see what the next has in store,’ He mused silently, his eyes narrowing. And just as the thought completed in his mind, the scenery around him began to melt and ripple, like paint dissolving in water.

The scorched earth, the flickering runes, the obsidian pillar—everything blurred into streams of black and red, before reforming in an instant.

He now stood alone before a tall, narrow mirror. At first glance, it seemed like any other reflective surface—elegant in its simplicity, with a silver-black frame wrought with curled patterns reminiscent of dragon scales.

But something was off. This was no ordinary mirror. The surface didn’t reflect him. There was no image of Max, no flicker of movement mimicking his own stance, no shadow stretching back in response to the light.

Instead, within the glass danced a strange, unstable figure—a silhouette warped and flickering, its limbs shifting between solid and blurred, as though refusing to be clearly defined.

The figure was draped in a cloak of darkness, its form crackling with flames, lightning, and shadows—all blackened versions of Max’s own elements.