Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100-Chapter 367: Problem at Hand

As the caravan began its slow journey down the winding dirt path, Max sat quietly in the cart as it creaked along the dirt path, the sounds of wheels grinding over rocks and beasts snorting in rhythm fading into the background.

His mind, however, was far from still.

There was one problem that kept resurfacing—one that felt more urgent the stronger he became.

Infernal energy.

He could hold it in his body. That had already been proven when he survived the sealing pit and emerged stronger than ever. His body, unlike most humans, possess natural affinity to infernal energy thanks to his Unholy Trinity Physique. But there was something fundamentally flawed in the way he possessed it.

Unlike mana—which had a clear source, like a golden core that circulated energy in this case mana naturally through the body—infernal energy had no such anchor.

The only source of infernal energy in Max's body was the Infernal Demon Tattoo etched into his right palm. It wasn't like his soul palace or his core had generated it. It was external, branded onto him like a curse.

A dangerous blessing.

And that difference mattered more than he initially realized.

Because although his body could handle the infernal energy—could even wield it in combat—it wasn't so easy to control.

When the Twelve-Layer Infernal Demon Tattoo had fully awakened, the energy hadn't stayed limited to his arm. It had begun flowing through his entire body like mana would—circulating through his veins, saturating his bones, seeping into his muscles. Corrupting him entire body.

But it wasn't mana.

Mana was calm. Natural. Intuitive. Like a river flowing gently through the landscape of the soul.

Infernal energy was chaos. Fire. A storm that wanted to devour everything in its path.

More than that, it was pure evil.

And when it filled his body, it didn't come gently. It surged like a tidal wave—distorting his thoughts, warping his emotions. Rage, hatred, bloodlust… They came uninvited, twisting his sense of control.

Most importantly—

Even with his Unholy Trinity Physique, Mad had no control over the infernal energy whatsoever. It was like having arms but not the control over them.

That was the real problem.

He wasn't afraid of the power itself—he welcomed it. But he couldn't accept the lack of control that came with it.

He needed more than just the ability to endure it. He needed to tame it.

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To command it.

Because right now, it was like carrying a dragon on his back. One moment of weakness, and it could burn everything down—including the people he wanted to protect.

Max looked down at his hand.

The tattoo pulsed faintly, dark red lines glowing beneath the skin.

'I need to change this,' he thought. 'This can't just be borrowed power. It has to be mine. It has to obey me.'

His goal wasn't just to harness infernal energy—it was to reshape its nature inside his body. To build a structure, a core, something permanent, where this energy could rest without threatening to consume him.

He didn't just want to survive it.

He wanted to master it.

Because one day, he'd face beings who could control infernal energy like it was second nature.

Mark.

Maybe even beings beyond him.

And when that time came, Max couldn't afford to be someone who was merely enduring infernal power.

He needed to be the one who defined it.

As Max sat deep in thought, still wrestling with the untamed chaos of the infernal energy in his body, his soul suddenly tensed—a subtle pull, like a ripple in still water.

He snapped back to the present.

His eyes narrowed. His spiritual perception sharpened.

Presence.

Many of them.

'Demons…' he realized immediately.

His Three-Dimensional Body activated instinctively, scanning the terrain around them. The caravan was slowly passing through a sloped pass, the terrain curving downward with high, grassy ridges on either side—perfect for an ambush.

And there—scattered across the slope like shadows under the morning sun—demons watched silently. Dozens of them. Crouching in the tall grass, some standing openly with weapons strapped to their backs, others perched like vultures.

Yet not a single one moved to attack.

Max's brows furrowed.

'Why are they just watching?'

He stayed still, pretending to remain unaware, but his mind raced. There was something unnatural about their stillness. Demons weren't known for hesitation. If they saw weakness, they struck. If they smelled fear, they chased. So what were they waiting for?

---

Not far from the caravan, hidden behind a row of boulders along the slope, a cluster of demons spoke in low, guttural tones.

One of them—lean, with a slit pupil and dark reddish skin—squinted toward the caravan below.

"Where did that human kid come from?"

"He's not from here," another replied, crouched beside him. "Could be someone from the Saint Human Alliance."

A third demon, gripping a spear, clicked his tongue. "Then what the hell is he doing in a ranch caravan?"

"I think he fell from the sky," someone muttered. "Remember the shooting star a few nights ago? Landed somewhere near this area."

"Bah," the spear-wielding demon growled. "What does it matter? He's walking with livestock. That makes him livestock too. We should just go down there and kill him."

But another—an older one with small, curling horns and a calmer tone—held up a hand. "Don't forget. This area is part of the No-Kill Zone."

The others scowled.

"And don't be so sure we're alone," the horned one added. "I'd bet good bone-coin the Elves have scouts watching the same thing right now. One wrong move, and we'll have more than just human pests to deal with. The alliance in this region would fracture."

"You think I care?" another spat.

"You should," the horned one said coldly. "We wait. Observe. If this kid becomes a threat, we'll crush him later. But not here. Not now."

The demons fell silent, their gazes locked on Max like predators waiting for permission to pounce.

---

High above, on the opposite hilltop, another group watched. Hidden among the trees, cloaked in armor and old battle-scars, humans observed the same caravan from afar.

Two figures stood out from the rest.

One was a grizzled, broad-shouldered elder with a thick beard and steely eyes. The other—a calm man with long white hair—wore golden armor that gleamed faintly under the sunlight. His presence was still, but commanding.

The old man frowned. "Where did this boy come from? He's strong—too strong to be a ranch-born slave—but only Level 1 of Adept Rank. I doubt he's one of the official geniuses from Valora."

He turned to the white-haired man beside him. "What do you think, Mars?"

Mars didn't answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on Max, thoughtful, analyzing every movement, every aura fluctuation.

"…I don't know," Mars admitted quietly. "But whatever he's done—or will do—it's enough to tip the balance here. His actions might unravel the fragile alliance we've built in this region."

A third voice cut in—sharp, arrogant.

A young man with spiky brown hair stepped forward, arms crossed. "Then we pretend we didn't see it. That kid clearly has a screw loose. We've kept this peace for twenty years. I'm not throwing that away for some random hero complex."