Dimensional Keeper: All My Skills Are at Level 100-Chapter 561: What would you do?

It was indeed peaceful but not without a person living in this place.

At the heart of this calm expanse stood a humble wooden hut, its roof slightly slanted, its surface aged and weathered by time, but well-kept and inviting. It looked like the sort of place someone might build if they wanted to leave the chaos of the world behind.

No guards, no seals, no overwhelming aura radiating from it—just a quiet home in the middle of an endless field, like someone had come here to find solitude or perhaps to retire from the burden of greatness.

Max stood still for a long moment, eyes narrowed with curiosity. After all he had seen in the Nine Dragons Painting, he hadn’t expected the eighth floor to be... this. It wasn’t a battlefield, a towering trial, or a test of blood and flame. It was a place of stillness.

And yet, Max knew better than to trust appearances. Anything that looked this peaceful—especially in a trial meant to crush geniuses—had to be hiding something extraordinary.

He walked toward the hut with slow, steady steps, each footfall oddly loud in the silence of the grassy plains. As he drew closer, Max took in the simplicity of the structure.

It was a small hut built of old, weathered wood with a few wild vines curling around its sides, as if nature itself had partially claimed it over time. A tiny stone chimney protruded from the slanted roof, thin trails of smoke lazily drifting into the blue sky, proof that someone—or something—had been there recently.

The door was plain, made from thick slabs of oak, and slightly cracked along the edges with age.

Max raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles could touch the surface, the door creaked open slowly on its own, revealing the warm glow of firelight from within, as if silently inviting him to step inside.

Cautious but composed, Max entered.

The air inside the hut was warm and comforting, carrying the faint scent of burning wood and dried herbs. It was a single-room dwelling, compact and uncluttered. A round wooden table stood in the center with a pair of chairs tucked neatly beneath it.

In one corner, a small bed was made with thick quilts folded perfectly atop it. Shelves lined one wall, filled with scrolls, jars of unknown content, and a few worn books. The chimney, made from stacked river stones, dominated the opposite side, where a small fire flickered gently, casting soft orange hues that danced across the wooden walls.

Above it, a black iron kettle hung from a hook, steaming slightly as if it had been prepared just moments before. Everything inside felt lived-in, yet untouched—like the home of someone who had gone away but expected to return.

Max remained silent, letting the strange peace of the hut settle into his bones, knowing deep down that this place was more than it appeared.

Just then a voice entered Max’s ears from behind him.

"You shouldn’t enter someone else’s house uninvited, young lad." The voice was deep, heavy, and steady—like the low rumble of thunder just before a storm.

Max instantly turned around, fully alert, every muscle in his body tightening on instinct. His gaze met that of a middle-aged man stepping through the door with logs of firewood stacked over one shoulder and an axe resting against the curve of his other arm.

The man had a thick beard and short, dark red hair that glinted slightly in the firelight, and his presence alone filled the cozy hut with a quiet intensity.

Without a word, the red-haired man walked past Max, set the logs carefully beside the chimney, and leaned the axe against the wall.

After brushing the wood chips off his palms, he finally looked back at Max, his eyes calm but sharp. "Sit," he said simply, gesturing to the chair nearest the fire. Then he settled onto the small bed with practiced ease, as though this was a routine that hadn’t changed in centuries.

Max obeyed and took the seat quietly, watching him closely. After a few seconds, he asked the obvious, though the answer was already certain in his mind. "Are you one of the Three Supreme Masters of the Black Dragon Palace?" freēwēbηovel.c૦m

The man gave a small nod, his expression unchanged. "I am," he said, voice steady as ever. "It’s been a long while since someone stumbled their way to the eighth floor of the Nine Dragons Painting. Not many make it this far, you know." He studied Max in silence for a moment longer, then asked, "What’s your name, kid?"

"Max Morgan," Max said, his voice calm and respectful.

"Max... a good name," the man nodded, eyes twinkling with a flicker of interest. Then he leaned back slightly, resting his broad hands on his knees and finally introduced himself, "I am Ragnar Wornd. You can just call me Ragnar."

"Uhm... Master Ragnar, what is the trial of the eighth floor?" Max asked, the curiosity in his voice genuine, untainted.

"Ah, the trial," Ragnar muttered with a small sigh, as if recalling something he had left behind ages ago. "I remember it now."

But the moment Ragnar turned to face him fully, something in the air shifted. His eyes sharpened, no longer relaxed, but focused—like steel being drawn.

"Tell me," he asked, voice low and calm, yet laced with gravity. "What would you do if you had to kill ten innocent people to save someone like your mother? Would you still do it? Kill them to save her?"

Max’s heart stopped for a second. His breath hitched. His eyes widened ever so slightly before a chill ran through him like a blade drawn along his spine. His entire body stiffened.

"What kind of question is that?!" he snapped, voice rising as anger flared within him.

"It’s just a question I’m curious about," Ragnar replied evenly, as if Max’s outburst didn’t faze him. His voice held no judgment—only quiet expectation. "What would you do, truly, in that situation?"

Max stared at the man, his mind racing. Was this really just a question? Or was this the trial? Was this hut, this warmth, this man—was all of it a veil for something far darker? And then there was the mention of his mother. That name alone stirred something primal in his heart.

After a long breath, Max’s face turned cold, sharp like a blade unsheathed in frost. His voice was steady, but there was pain behind the steel. "I would kill the ten innocent people... if I had to. If it meant saving my mother, I would do it without hesitation."

Ragnar didn’t flinch. He simply narrowed his eyes, as if peering into Max’s soul. "Killing innocents?" he asked slowly. "Won’t they have families? Friends? Won’t they have mothers of their own waiting for them to come home? Fathers who raised them? Lovers who believed they’d return? You’d end all of that?"

Max’s jaw clenched. The words sliced into him like invisible knives. He had thought the answer was simple, but Ragnar’s calm voice twisted the blade inside him. Guilt and resolve warred within his chest—but still, his gaze didn’t waver.

He had his own resolve to carry out.