The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 104: Progress

"...You’re getting bold," she said finally, her voice soft but edged. Admiration, warning, and something else—something deeper—threaded through her tone like silk through steel.

Atlas stood, crossing to his desk. He pulled out a rolled parchment—creased and torn at the edges—and spread it over the surface. A map of Berkimhum, annotated in red ink, black charcoal, and bloodstains that had never been fully scrubbed away.

"We lack speed," he said. "The latest reports... they crossed the mountain range already. That’s near impossible. They’re using something."

Claire leaned in, eyes narrowing. "Something faster than drakes?"

"Much faster."

He moved to the cabinet beside the fireplace. Its lock shimmered with residual arcane glyphs. With a click and a soft hiss of releasing pressure, it opened. Inside lay a single, compact motor crystal—the core of a design the soilders found or stolen from one of the empire’s war ruins days ago.

"What is that?" she asked.

"The future," Atlas answered, holding it like a priest holds a relic. "It’s a mana-pulse engine. Small, potent, adaptive. The empire’s developing hover frames, mechanized cavalry... even mana-boosted air skiffs. If we keep relying on drakes and outdated channeling glyphs, we’ll lose this war before it begins."

He placed the crystal down on the table, and for a moment, the only sound was the low hum it gave off—like a whisper of something breathing.

"You want me to fund research into this," Claire said, already understanding.

"I want you to fund everything," Atlas replied. "The schematics. The builders. The first prototypes."

Claire didn’t answer right away. She tapped her lip with one finger, then stood. Walked around the table until she was directly beside him.

"You do realize," she said, voice low, "that you’re asking me to pour my fortune into weapons that will make you even more of a threat than you already are?"

He didn’t flinch. "Yes."

Claire exhaled and adjusted her posture, her dress sliding further to reveal more of her skin—though neither of them acknowledged it.

"So... should I take that as a yes?" he asked, gesturing toward the motor. There was vulnerability in the way he phrased it, as if beneath all his hardened bravado, part of him still sought her approval—not just as a tactician or financier, but as family.

Claire didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes flicked to the motor again, and then back to him. Her thoughts were a storm, swirling with the past and future clashing violently. She could say yes and throw her family fortune into the gamble. She could say no and watch everything burn.

And then, of course, there was the truth she didn’t want to admit: Atlas had touched something inside her. A nerve. A soft, dangerous thing she had kept buried under years of ambition, nobility, and ruthless calculation.

"...I’ll agree," she said finally, shifting her weight in the chair. "But only on my own conditions."

Atlas smiled, tired but genuine. "I figured."

"You know me," she added, folding her arms. "I don’t do charity. And I don’t gamble on dreams unless I get something real in return."

His expression grew serious. "You’ll have whatever you need. Just like old times."

Claire tilted her head slightly, letting the nostalgia wash over her for a moment. "Old times," she echoed. "We were smarter than the others. You and I. We made plays before they even finished reading the board."

Atlas reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a stack of papers—his old notes. Maps, character profiles, contingency plans, half-buried prophecies. His version of the world—the story as he had once understood it—now gone wrong.

He spread them out on the table like a hand of cards.

"These," he said, tapping three names. "These people are game-changers. Scientists, inventors, eccentrics. We need them. We recruit them, or we fall behind."

Claire’s gaze scanned the names. She recognized two of them. The third made her eyes widen.

"You can’t be serious," she hissed. "This man—he’s not just eccentric. He’s a psychopath. A confirmed serial killer with over sixty documented deaths. He was exiled for a fucking reason."

"Yeah yeah....I’m not denying that," Atlas said quietly. "But he’s also a genius. He was building tactical vehicles before anyone even understood combustion theory which you can’t even comprehend, And the Empire already tried to hire him. We can’t afford to let him fall into their hands."

Claire leaned forward, her voice low and dangerous. "You want to bring that man into the kingdom? Into this city?"

"I want to give us a fighting chance," Atlas snapped. Then, softer, "I know the risks. I know who he is. But I also know what we’re up against."

Claire sat back, her jaw tight.

A heavy silence stretched between them.

The candle on the desk flickered, casting erratic shadows against the map of Berkimhum. The land looked like a patient waiting for surgery. Roads like veins. Rivers like lifelines. And the border—already bleeding.

"You’re staking everything on ...monsters," she said at last.

"Haaa.....I’m becoming one myself," Atlas replied.

The words landed like a blade between them.

And Claire saw it—truly saw it—in the hollowness behind his eyes, in the way his shoulders hunched as if carrying something far heavier than he should have been.

He’s....Growing...or breaking, she thought. And no one sees it.

She uncrossed her legs slowly, the silk dress whispering across her skin. Her heels clicked as she stood and walked to the window, her eyes tracing the horizon. In the distance, the smoke from the dragon strike still lingered like a bruise on the sky.

"You were supposed to be the dreamer," she murmured. "The idealist. The one who believed there was always another way."

Atlas stood too, joining her. "That version of me died in the dark continent," he said. "And the world didn’t even notice."

Claire turned to him. "...I did."

The words hung in the air. Soft. True. And too late.

Atlas looked away. "I’m tired," he admitted. "Tired of waiting. Tired of reacting. I want to move, Claire. I want to act before the next catastrophe finds us."

She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the heat from her body. Her perfume—lavender and jasmine—wrapped around him like a memory.

Her voice was quiet, almost tender. "Then let’s act. But do it smart. You’re not alone in this. Use the minds we still have. Build your machines. Forge your alliances. But don’t lose the core of who you are."

"I’m trying," he said.

"Try harder."

A pause. Then she smiled faintly.

"....I’ll write the first check tomorrow. Get your people moving. You have my house behind you."

Atlas’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected her to agree—not really.

"....Thank you," he said, the words raw.

She touched his shoulder. Her hand almost trying to feel his broad and muscular shoulders.

"...You’ll owe me," she whispered.

"I already do," he replied.

******

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