Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100-Chapter 308: A Wailing Ghost

The red-haired youth's face twisted in anger and disbelief.

No one moved.

No one followed.

His bold declaration—his dramatic rebellion—

had been met with silence.

The silence of rejection.

He tried to pretend it didn't bother him.

Tried to convince himself it wasn't about face.

But in reality…

It was always about Amara.

And she didn't even spare him a glance.

She stood a short distance away, composed, aloof—

Her breathing calm. Her expression indifferent.

To her, he didn't even exist.

He clenched his fists.

Jaw tight.

Ego bleeding.

He wanted to curse them all.

Spit out some final, venom-laced line before storming off into the fog alone.

But he never got the chance.

Suddenly—

A sound tore through the mist.

Not a voice.

Not a human.

Not a language.

It was a wail.

A sound of something twisted.

Alive, but not right.

It was high-pitched, broken,

like glass grinding inside flesh,

like something dying and laughing at the same time.

The red-haired youth froze mid-step.

Everyone did.

Weapons were drawn immediately.

Steel. Flame. Shadow. Lightning.

A dozen types of power flared up in an instant.

Max narrowed his eyes.

His Lightning Wheel of Samsara trembled in his palm, the energy inside it suddenly unstable—as if whatever screamed had affected it.

Old Man Grey didn't hesitate.

He reached behind his back and pulled out a crescent-shaped sickle—worn, cracked in places, but glowing with a strange black-blue aura.

His body tensed, spine straight, muscles taut like a drawn bow.

His face was still—but his eyes were fire.

"Without my order—" he said, voice low, sharp, absolute, "Do. Not. Act."

The air around them shifted instantly.

The joking atmosphere, the boredom, the bravado—all vanished.

Even the red-haired youth stood frozen, no longer proud.

Because now, they weren't imagining what the Mourning Depths could hold.

Now, they were hearing it.

And it was coming closer.

Step by step.

Through the fog.

Dragging its broken wail behind it.

Something was approaching—

And it was not human.

"Ahhh!!"

The scream cut through the fog like a jagged blade—not human, not animal—something in between, something wrong.

Then—

A gray shadow burst from the mist.

Fast. Violent. Silent no longer.

It darted toward the group like a vengeful arrow, its form shifting and contorting, legs bent the wrong way, arms dragging behind it, mouth wide open—unhinged like a beast.

Its target?

The red-haired youth.

Of course.

The one who shouted.

The one who complained.

The one who drew attention.

The one who nearly left the group behind.

Now—

He was the one who would bear the first strike.

Old Man Grey's eyes widened.

He opened his mouth—

"Don't be nervous! This is only—"

But the words were cut off.

Too slow.

Too late.

The red-haired youth shouted back—

"Go DIE!"

His body lunged forward.

His sword glowed deep blue—

a blade of compressed Wing Aura extending off its edge like a spectral wing.

And in that moment—

he didn't hold back.

Not even a little.

This wasn't defense.

This wasn't calculated combat.

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This was a full-force vent.

A boiling storm of wounded pride and reckless rage.

BOOM!

The sword light roared out like a comet.

The very space around it trembled—

warped, as if reality itself feared what was coming.

The fog split open.

The gray shadow was pierced, its twisted form lifted off the ground by the sheer force of the strike.

Infernal energy in the surroundings scattered like broken threads.

Pressure exploded outward, shaking the air, blowing everyone's robes back.

The wind howled.

The stone underfoot cracked.

For a brief moment—

the Mourning Depths itself… seemed to shudder.

The red-haired youth stood tall.

Chest heaving.

Eyes wide with adrenaline.

He believed he had won.

Believed he'd proven his strength.

Believed he had erased his shame.

But what he didn't know—

Was that he had just broken the rule.

Old Man Grey had said it.

Warned them all:

"Suppress your strength. Never go above 30%. Do not stir the infernal energy."

But this idiot—this idiot had cut the entire atmosphere apart.

Old Man Grey's expression snapped.

His face flushed red with fury, his voice no longer calm or ancient—but raw, sharp, laced with the tone of someone who had just watched a fool crack open a coffin they'd been told not to touch.

"Do you want to kill us all?!"

He roared, pointing a finger toward the red-haired youth.

"I told you not to use your full strength—not to create waves—not to stir the damn infernal energy—!"

But the idiot didn't even flinch.

No remorse.

No realization.

He barked back like a rabid dog.

"Fuck off!"

Spit flew from his lips.

His voice rose with arrogant fury.

"I don't serve you! Why the hell should I care what you want?"

He turned to the others, flinging his arm toward the silent crowd of geniuses.

"And all of you! Pathetic cowards! Bowing your heads to the Divine Palace like scared dogs! These restrictions, these 'rules'—you let them bind you like chains!"

His chest rose and fell.

Rage.

Bitterness.

Years of it.

And it all poured out like poison now.

But what no one had known—

not until this very moment—

Was that his rage ran deeper than ego.

It was fear.

He wasn't from a powerful family.

Not truly.

His current faction, though it granted him resources, was a place of backstabbing smiles and knife-point friendships.

Every day, he lived with the fear that someone he drank with would poison his tea.

That his own "brother" in arms would slit his throat in the night just to move one step ahead.

That was the reality of many factions in the Valora Continent—especially for those at the bottom.

He didn't trust them.

Never had.

That's why he was here—why he chased Amara so desperately.

Not for romance.

But for freedom.

For safety.

For a future where he wouldn't be hunted by his own side.

But now, no matter how loud he yelled—no one answered.

No one defended him.

No one argued.

No one clapped.

Only silence.

And that silence…

was terrifying.

And now he was feeling the same thing.

Everyone was silent as they looked at him.

And he liked this feeling.

At first, he felt liberated.

Unburdened.

Like he'd finally said everything that needed to be said.

But it was only a moment later he noticed something.

The others stayed quiet.

But not in support.

Not in shock.

There was something else in their eyes—a tension.

A horror.

A look like they were already mourning him.

Then—

A voice, calm but cold.

Amara.

She raised a hand—pointing.

Her skin pale.

"You… your leg…"