The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 100: take down

The capital, once a cradle of order and history, now pulsed with fear. The dome shimmered faintly above them, golden and translucent, as if heaven itself had dropped a veil between them and the apocalypse.

Within the barrier, beneath centuries-old spires and winding marble streets, nobles rushed in frantic disarray—robes tangled, faces pale, servants dragging them by the arm. The marketplace had been bustling not hours ago, merchants shouting, children laughing, lovers whispering in alleyways. But that was before the alarm bells rang—deep, ominous tolls that split the air like prophecy.

No one knew why.

Not yet.

There was no royal decree, no clarion trumpet of an approaching army—only the pounding ring of alarm, and above it, a new sun had begun to rise. Not gold. Not warm. Red.

Crimson.

Dragons.

The sky fractured under their wings.

One scream became ten. Then hundreds. Then thousands.

The civilians spilled out like a flood—mothers clutching their children to their chest, some barefoot, others bloodied from falling as they ran. Fathers shouted commands no one could hear. Lovers held each other like it was their last kiss. Old priests dropped to their knees mid-prayer, weeping for salvation. Some laughed. Most cried.

Soldiers were everywhere, steel boots hammering across stone in formations they could no longer maintain. The Commander barked orders. "Hold the line! Form the ranks! You are soldiers of Berkimhum!"

But who could hold the line in the face of a hundred crimson dragons?

Panic eats discipline.

The beasts above circled in perfect unison, not wild like ancient myths, but controlled—tactically coordinated like aerial artillery, every sweep of their wings forming patterns. Some older citizens recognized the movement: war formations.

Even the youngest guards, fresh from academy, knew what one crimson dragon could do—reduce a district to scorched skeletons in minutes. And there were hundreds.

It was no longer a battle.

It was extinction.

Only one thing saved the capital from immediate ruin.

The dome.

A divine conjuration of the High Mage, etched in blood and runes, layered with decades of collected magic—a dome that barely held, but held all the same.

Inside it, the city trembled.

Outside it, death raged.

And then... they saw the cracks.

Thin lines, like spiderwebs, spreading along the curvature of the dome.

A mother sobbed as her infant wailed. A merchant fell to his knees, whispering forgotten hymns. A little girl asked her father, "Is the sky breaking?"

He had no answer.

But everyone prayed. Loudly. Silently. Together. To gods they remembered and gods they didn’t believe in. Some prayed to Henry. Others to the founder. A few even prayed to the dragons themselves.

Let it end.

Let us live.

Let the barrier hold.

And then—

The roaring stopped.

The dragons, mid-siege, suddenly ceased their bombardment. Their shadows passed above, but their flames didn’t rain. Their claws didn’t strike. The dome didn’t shatter.

Silence returned.

It wasn’t peace.

It was the breath held between screams.

Then something rose—high, impossibly high—above the horizon of the city. A shadow. Long. Sharp. Pitch-black. Stretching toward the heavens like a monument born of vengeance.

A sword.

No—something beyond sword. Larger than towers. Larger than siege engines. It had form, but no end. It grew, and grew, fed by something ancient.

"...What is that?" someone asked in a whisper.

"Is it safe?" asked another.

"Is it... another attack?" a noble girl whimpered.

Their voices carried in the stunned quiet as thousands of eyes locked upward.

The dome shimmered golden, and outside, the rising sword was darkness incarnate—not evil, but righteous. It did not shimmer. It hummed. A low, vibrating sound that struck deep in the bone, a song that hadn’t been sung since the world first bled.

Even Henry, wrapped in his worn robes, stepped to the balcony. His old eyes widened, and for the first time in years, he smiled.

"Atlas," he murmured. "Your mother... was right....she was right indeed...."

Beyound the dome, Veil’s voice crackled through the air, distorted by scale and strain.

{...Atlas... now... or never...}

Atlas stood on air, his legs binded in air bybthe law of Aurora. bare-chested and blood-drenched, the city beneath his feet, the sword in his hands shaking with weight and truth. His arms burned. His veins felt like molten rope. But he didn’t fall.

"I know," Atlas answered, voice low, calm—but inside, something churned.

Aurora, her breath still ragged from collapsing her Law, turned from where she leaned against the spire. She looked at him with a strange mix of awe and sorrow.

The blade continued to grow. Veil’s shadow-forged body stretched further, consuming what little remained of his cohesion. Sunlight burned his runes. His magic hissed against the sky.

{...I can’t... hold it.... long...}

Then Atlas moved.

The air split. The giant sword—now thick as towers and long as city blocks—swung.

It didn’t slice.

It obliterated.

It carved through dragons like cleaving through memory. Like striking at history itself. Wings snapped. Bones shattered. Roars turned into gurgling silence.

"HAAAAAA!" Atlas screamed, every sinew in his body vibrating with fury and desperation.

{HAAAAAAAA!} Veil screamed with him, no longer a weapon, no longer a voice—just raw, godless force.

The sword came down like a judgment from the heavens.

And the dragons crushed.

Not one by one. Not even in waves. But all at once.

Their bodies didn’t fall—they were *smashed* into the hills, flattened, buried under the weight of a sword too massive for mortal minds.

The hills cracked. The forest vaporized. Fire spiraled into the clouds. Echoes of the strike ricocheted off the inside of the dome like thunder in a bell jar.

The sword dispersed into black mist, and Veil’s voice faltered into silence.

Atlas dropped to his knees, lungs heaving, his bare chest rising and falling like a man who had run through time itself.

The people watched in silence.

Then—cheering.

Screams of awe.

Sobs of relief.

Hands raised to the sky not in surrender, but in reverence.

Because they had seen it.

Not the fall of dragons.

But the rise of a legend.

And from the edge of the shattered wall, Lara watched too—her hand still on her heart, her breath caught in her throat.

’This is him,’ she thought again.

Not her brother.

Not anymore.

Something more.

Lara watched with open eyes, her breath caught in her throat. She remembered what she had once said—how she had declared herself stronger than her brother, how she had believed it with the fire of youth and pride. Now, seeing him in motion—his blade slicing through the sky like a divine scythe—she knew the truth. She had never stood a chance.

Not against this version of Atlas.

Aurora let go.

Her Law dissolved like mist under morning sun. The world exhaled in panic. Dragons crushed down, their paralysis broken, their bodies now lifeless husks tumbling into the city below, sending shockwaves through rooftops and fountains alike.

Aurora’s golden hair lost its glow. Her mana faded. For the first time in years, she looked... human. Clothed again in mortal fragility, she slipped sideways, arms windmilling. Lara’s heart clenched.

She sprang upward, wind magic surging beneath her feet, carrying her through the chaos like a leaf on a tempest. She caught Aurora just before she collided with the stone spire of the castle tower, cradling her like a child who had finally run out of dreams. They landed hard—boots skidding across worn marble, echoes of impact rattling through the courtyard.

Lara pressed Aurora’s shaking shoulders, enforcing stillness even as tremors raced through the older woman’s limbs. Frost crawled across the floor from Aurora’s discarded aura, spider webbing behind them.

And then she heard it again—that voice. Low. Ancient. Cold.

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