Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100 Chapter 1373 A Sword with a Will

"Alright, I will do it," Max declared, drawing in a steady breath while his face remained composed and intent.

The spectators around him felt their curiosity mounting about the rank of weapon he would finally claim. Carl and Laura paid especially close attention to his every move. Far from typical outer disciples, they ranked among the elite at their stage, and that very position let them appreciate just how remarkable this chance truly was.

Neither of them had ever received the right to pick any three treasures freely from the Treasure Hall right at entry. All their gear came from long years of service, quests, and rivalries, whereas Max got this boon the instant he entered the Thirty Third Hall.

'The higher I climb, the stronger the force pushing down will get,' Max reflected as he shifted his posture gradually, flexing his knees a bit. 'And after I launch into the sky, there's no chance for another try. That initial bound will seal my fate.'

With his mind made up, Max sprang into action.

He ignited every one of the twelve hundred Draconic Essences inside him simultaneously. A profound, thundering energy raced along his bloodstream, and right away, dark dragon scales burst forth over his flesh, layering smoothly as his Dragon Scales Transformation activated. The atmosphere nearby quivered subtly, sending out a clear wave that made a few close disciples instinctively retreat a pace.

But Max pressed on without pause.

'Vein of Origin, unleash completely,' he commanded inwardly while setting free the total might of his initial Divine Vein.

Boom.

A fierce blast erupted from under his feet, splintering the floor a touch as his form rocketed skyward like a fired projectile. The weight in the weapon area spiked sharply, yet Max shattered it with raw power, his frame slicing through the thick atmosphere as if it posed only a barrier to smash.

In a flash, he cleared the first row of weapons.

Then the second.

The third.

Once he surged beyond the fourth and fifth rows, the faces of the observers had shifted entirely.

"He's moving way too quickly," Carl whispered, a spark of astonishment crossing his normally steady features.

Laura gave a gradual nod next to him, her gaze locked on Max's soaring shape. She had never witnessed anyone conquer the initial five rows so effortlessly. For typical disciples, even hitting the third row demanded huge exertion and readiness, but Max had soared beyond half the weapon levels like they were mere illusions.

Suddenly, Max's silhouette dashed past the sixth row and stabbed right through the seventh, his climb betraying no hint of slowing. In moments, he neared the area over it, where the force grew noticeably denser and the nearby weapons quaked lightly from the impact of his rush.

In that instant, Elder Soren's look altered at last. The constant frown he sported dissolved, giving way to real gravity. "Going at this rate," he uttered deliberately, his stare fixed on Max's ascending form, "he could very well hit the ninth row."

Those remarks rippled a clear jolt through Carl and Laura.

No cultivator across the whole annals of the Black Dragon Palace had attained the ninth row in the Treasure Hall. Neither outer disciples, nor inner ones, nor even core members. For that reason, the blade hovering at the peak had stayed unclaimed for ages, serving more as an emblem than a real choice.

And yet, a fresh recruit who hadn't even entered the Rebirth Realm was displaying potential to defy that enduring barrier.

The mere idea set their pulses racing.

Max's shape finally pierced the seventh row, but as it did, the weight crashed down on him like a tumbling peak. His climb's velocity plunged abruptly, his frame straining against the abrupt surge in opposition.

The atmosphere seemed to harden all around him, aiming to smash him downward, but the drive he had gathered proved sufficient still. Clenching his jaw with unyielding concentration, Max shoved onward into the eighth row.

The second he breached it, the weight hit a whole new intensity.

It went beyond mere heaviness. It choked. His entire form sensed the squeeze, his rise decelerating until it almost halted. For a split second, it appeared Max might hang there, caught between progress and defeat.

"Just one more surge, that's all it takes," Max growled between gritted teeth.

Dark flames blazed fiercer at his back, forming wings more solid than before. With a mighty beat, he propelled himself higher again, ripping free from the unseen grip that aimed to pin him down. Bit by bit, he progressed, until finally, his body entered the ninth row.

The golden sword lay just a stretch away now.

Its glow up close proved blinding, a majestic and grave shine that carried an age-old, ruling essence. The force here dominated utterly, exceeding any burden Max had faced prior, but he showed no delay. He reached out his arm, digits extending toward the grip.

Right as his tips neared closing on it, the sword stirred faintly.

Max's palm seized nothing.

His gaze expanded in shock. "Does it possess its own awareness?" The truth hit him right away.

Before the weight could shove him away, Max beat his wings once more, edging his form nearer. He stretched again, resolve blazing in his eyes. But the sword responded yet again, floating off with clear purpose, as if probing him, judging if he truly deserved to wield it.

Down below, a total hush gripped the Treasure Hall. Not a word escaped. Not even heavy breaths sounded.

Every stare clung to the solitary shape defying a blade that had spurned all prior wielders.

"You reject me?" Max's brow furrowed initially, but as the idea sank in, a swift insight flooded him and his look eased gradually. He ceased straining upward and instead let loose the complete force of his fifth level Severing Sword concept.

Right then, a keen and intangible will swept across the Treasure Hall like a hushed gale, making the very air shudder as if sliced and mended anew. Even the arms in the base rows quivered softly, responding to that supreme will which craved not just ruin, but division on the deepest plane.

"How much longer will you linger in this Treasure Hall, gathering dust?" Max inquired firmly, his words rising effortlessly. "Hidden amid endless arms, revered but idle, awaiting some unfit soul to claim you. Don't you yearn to slice whatever you crave, to sever destiny and cause, to cleave the core rules that chain this realm?"

He edged nearer in the sky, his stare steadfast, his resolve keen enough to stab through existence. "Join me, and I'll let you slice all in your path. I'll bear you through boundless clashes and hone you in blood, grit, and rebellion. As one, we'll forge a trail so keen that even the Heavens will pause before blocking us."

The golden sword quaked fiercely. Its shine wavered like a first breath after endless ages. The essence of Max's fifth level Severing Sword concept flowed over it like a subtle current, not aggressive, but compelling, harmonizing flawlessly with the blade's inherent spirit.

The sword stopped pulling back. Rather, it lingered there, shaking as though wrestling with a choice that would shape its being.

A subtle grin touched Max's mouth as he voiced his closing plea, his manner soft but unyielding. "Come. We'll do more than fell foes. We'll break chains, burst rules, and etch a route where your mere name will send shivers through all adversaries the instant it's uttered."

That sealed the deal.

The sword shook harder, its golden gleam bursting once before it streaked ahead like a ray of morning, bridging the gap in a heartbeat. Max neither evaded nor tensed. He merely held out his palm.

His digits wrapped the hilt.

As he seized the sword, the smothering weight that had burdened him faded away entirely, like it had never been. The ninth row's tyrannical force scattered like fog in the sun. The dark flames encircling his frame quieted, his wings folding smoothly as his form started to drop.

Gripping the golden sword tight, Max descended gradually to the earth, departing a Treasure Hall steeped in awed quiet and the clear feeling that a long-slumbering force had at last selected its bearer.