Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100-Chapter 548: Deceptive Trials

Max looked at the distorted figure in the mirror and felt a subtle, creeping sensation climb up his spine—an unease that burrowed into the pit of his stomach.

The figure twisted, its silhouette twitching with flickers of chaotic flames, unstable waves of energy rippling off its form in sharp pulses. It wasn’t monstrous, but it was certainly... wrong. Familiar yet distant. Like looking at a version of himself that had forgotten what it meant to be him.

"Now that’s disturbing," Max muttered under his breath, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he shifted his gaze to the side where a stone tablet stood, half-shrouded in mist. The words engraved on its dark surface glowed faintly with a soft white light, pulsing as if responding to his presence.

He stepped forward and read the message aloud, voice steady.

"The reflection is your true reflection of the inheritance you showed in the last floor. Control your inheritance in such a way that the reflection would begin to resemble the challenger. You can initiate this test by touching the mirror. And if even 30% of the reflection resembles the challenger, they shall pass. Or else... be kicked out from the second floor."

Max fell silent for a moment, absorbing the meaning behind those words. Understanding gradually settled in like a puzzle piece snapping into place.

’So this is a test of control... not strength or destruction—but precision,’ he mused internally, his expression turning contemplative. ’If I merely blaze with power, the reflection remains wild. But if I command my inheritance, if I master its essence, the flame itself will obey and mold me into shape.’

A small grin tugged at the corner of his lips, half-amused. "I like this," he whispered. "It’s like sculpting fire into form."

Without another word, he extended his hand forward and pressed his palm against the cold, unmoving surface of the mirror. The glass rippled like water under his touch. The reflection flinched. And then—light flared behind the surface.

With unwavering focus, Max channeled the Flame Tyrant inheritance into the mirror—slow, steady, deliberate. The black flames surged at first, wild and unstable, crackling like a storm trapped beneath glass.

Inside the mirror, the reflection buckled and warped. Shadows twisted violently, the form writhing as if tormented by its own existence, limbs flickering, head melting into chaos before reforming into another incoherent mess. It was like watching light and shadow fight over shape—one moment too bright, the next swallowed in darkness.

But Max remained calm, his expression composed. He adjusted the flow—trimmed excess energy, reinforced the core, and refined the flame’s direction. Bit by bit, the madness receded. The reflection began to settle. No longer a dancing storm of distortions, the mirrored figure now held a form—barely humanoid, shoulders hunched and undefined, but a body nonetheless.

Still, it wasn’t him.

Max didn’t waver. He inhaled slowly, cycling his breath with his energy as he refined the output of his inheritance, narrowing it down to threads of fire rather than floods. Minutes ticked by, unnoticed. Half an hour passed, and the reflection began to change again. This time, the head formed—his hair, his eyes, his jawline. Clear as day. A grin tugged at Max’s lips.

’That’s it... focus, not force,’ he thought, tuning his flow like a master sculptor chiseling fire.

The arms followed, then the torso, then the faintest outline of his black coat. Each detail clicked into place like a puzzle, guided by his controlled flames. More hours bled into the void-like room, but Max didn’t falter—not once.

His control never wavered, his thoughts never drifted. He had long since entered a state of seamless harmony with his inheritance. When the final flickers aligned and the mirror reflected him perfectly—flame crown, eyes, posture, all of it—he simply let out a slow breath, nodding in satisfaction.

’This test is deceptive,’ he mused. ’It demands not just control, but endurance. Patience. Composure.’

If someone without true confidence in their inheritance stood where he was—someone whose understanding was shallow or whose control was shaky—they would have likely faltered within the first few minutes. The mirror gave no feedback, no hint, no encouragement. Only silence and distortion. That alone could gnaw at one’s focus.

Most geniuses would expect instant results, and when the reflection didn’t change right away, they would begin to panic, to question their comprehension, to overcompensate, pouring more energy than necessary and making the distortion worse. Their confidence would waver, their breathing would quicken, and their flow of power would collapse into chaos.

In that moment, they wouldn’t just lose control over the inheritance—they’d lose control over themselves. The test, in its essence, was far more psychological than it appeared.

"It’s all about control," Max muttered to himself again, this time with the quiet confidence of someone who truly understood what it meant.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped forward as the mirror melted away like dew under sunlight, the space around him shifting once more.

Max then found himself standing before a vast, unending stone path. Its surface was dark and ancient, worn down by the passage of countless footsteps through time. Faint lines etched into the stone glimmered with a subtle light, like threads of forgotten flame lingering just beneath the surface.

The path stretched far into the distance, disappearing into a horizon of grey mist where the ground and sky seemed to blur into one. No end was visible—just an endless expanse of stillness and unknown.

His eyes fell upon a tall board standing quietly at the entrance of the path. In bold, weathered script, it read: "Path of Inheritance."

Beneath it stood the familiar stone tablet, its lettering precise and eternal:

"To ascend to the fourth floor and pass the trial of Nine Dragons Painting, one must walk through the path in front of them to a certain threshold."

Max read it calmly, nodding as he took in the instruction. It sounded deceptively straightforward—just walk a certain distance, cross an unseen threshold, and he’d pass.

But after what happened on the second floor, Max wasn’t naïve. He had learned not to judge the trial by its surface simplicity. He could already feel it—beneath the stillness of the air, behind the quiet of the path—there was something waiting, something woven into the very ground beneath his feet.

The "path" was a test, but of what? Willpower? Endurance? Soul strength? He didn’t know. But what he did know was this: the Nine Dragons Painting had not been designed for the ordinary. These weren’t trials meant to weed out the weak; they were forged to temper the worthy.

Taking a breath, Max stepped forward. The moment his foot touched the path, a faint tremor rippled through the ground, and then something strange began to press down upon him.

It wasn’t a physical weight, nor was it an attack of the mind. It was something more abstract, yet equally real—a pressure that seeped into his very core and stirred the energy within him.

His mana and life essence began to ripple and churn, reacting wildly to the strange force surrounding the path, but his body remained unaffected. No pain. No wounds. No resistance from his limbs. Just a strange invisible hand that gripped his power and twisted it, forcing it to vibrate with instability.

This caused him unable to draw the power of his mana making him almost useless.