The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 116: Past

The line of soldiers filed through the gates, their weary feet brushing the dust behind them. They marched with hollow purpose, as if their bodies carried more than armor—shields weighed down by the gravity of what lay ahead. Far above, atop a gnarled branch, He perched in silence, amber-yellow eyes reflecting flickers of torchlight. The scent of sweat and stale ale rose from the line, mingling with the evening’s chill.

’Humans....’ His voice was a grave whisper only he could hear. ’So predictable in their despair....’

Time felt still until he saw the one: a soldier trailing thirty paces behind, footsteps dragging, world-weariness etched into every line of his face. No comrade offered a hand. Perfect.

He faded downward like a wisp of smoke, capturing the man in a silent grip.

The woods had fallen into silence.

Even the crickets had stopped singing.

The soldier at the tail end of the march didn’t hear the descent—only felt it. One moment, he was trudging through mud, boots heavy with days of exhaustion and orders he didn’t understand. The next, something vast and ancient was behind him. Breathing.

A presence. Not human.

His lungs locked. His throat refused to form sound. Not even a whimper escaped.

And then—

A hand wrapped around his shoulder, firm but casual, like a man picking up a cloak. "Haaa... your clothes are mine now," a voice said from behind him—soft, amused, and inhumanly calm.

The soldier’s eyes widened. His jaw trembled as if trying to scream, but his vocal cords refused to obey. His entire body felt like it had fallen into ice.

The aura—it crushed him.

Not weight in a physical sense, but something older, heavier, like the pressure of the ocean pressing into every pore of his body. His limbs trembled. His legs gave out. He collapsed to his knees with a wet slap in the mud, tears welling in his eyes from pure, unfiltered terror.

The figure stepped into view, completely nude.

His skin was marked with old sigils that pulsed like slow-burning coals. His hair blazed orange-red, flickering like a torchlit inferno even though no flame touched it. And his eyes—his fucking eyes—

They weren’t eyes. They were stars too close to the earth. Suns behind a veil of skin. Looking into them was like looking into judgment itself.

The soldier whimpered.

And then, like a broken dam, piss streamed down his leg.

Loki tilted his head. freewēbnoveℓ.com

"Really?" he muttered, peering down at the man’s soaked trousers with visible distaste. "Hey hey... What the fuck, I was gonna wear that..."

He clicked his tongue, lips curling in irritation.

"Cunt!!"

The insult echoed through the trees like a curse cast by some half-bored god.

He turned back toward the man, who had collapsed entirely now, body limp with shock, eyes blank and rolled slightly back. Still alive. Barely.

Loki scratched the back of his neck. "Haaa... fuck me, fine. Let’s improvise."

He yanked the long inner shirt free from the trembling soldier’s armor and threw it over his own shoulders like a robe, tugging it down past his hips. It clung damply to his body, smelling of fear and sweat. "Tch. What a fashion statement..."

Then he took the breastplate—mud-caked, dented—and slid it on with a grunt. "You humans wear such ugly things now," he muttered. "At least give me a cape next time."

The wind stirred behind him, rustling the trees.

Loki paused. His eyes narrowed.

For a brief moment, something sharp and cold passed through his mind—an old memory of blood and fire, of another soldier wetting himself before the chaos began.

His smirk returned.

He stood, arms out as if admiring his new outfit.

"Ohh... I am so ready for civilization," he drawled.

Then he vanished into the fog, leaving only a trail of heat behind.

And the soldier, shaking, curled into the fetal position and wept.

"Fashion at its pinnacle..."he scoffed at himself. But the disguise—poor though it was—was enough.

Beyond the gate, the ’capital’s dome’ loomed—a shimmering field of mana that cut the sky like the edge of a crystal blade. Loki strode forward, boots crunching the gravel—a foreign note in perfect symmetry.

’Impenetrable?’ He stretched out a hand. A barrier slammed into him: a wave of energy so forceful it pitched him back into his thwarted clothes, tangled like discarded dreams. He groaned. ’Good gods, humans really have surpassed themselves.’

He rose on one knee, mouth dusted with gravel, and a familiar voice drifted through from behind:

"Haha... We grow fast," mused feminine voice. stepping forward with quiet grace. She emerged from the damp day, silver hair tamed somehow by sunlight, eyes the color of scrawled midnight.

Loki narrowed his eyes. ’Aurora?’

He rose. "Why am i seeing the great Slayer...here in a kingdom on a brick of war." Dust fell from his borrowed sleeve.

Loki broke the silence. "I can still remember the first time humans tried to use magic?"

Aurora didn’t look at him. "Which one? The time we burned half a continent, or the time they summoned a thunderstorm that killed their own crops?"

Loki laughed. Low. Dry. "The first first. Before language. Before gods had names."

She tilted her head. "...When they carved laws into cave walls using ash and blood?"

He nodded, his golden eyes narrowing with nostalgia. "You lot didn’t even know what you were doing. Just instinct. Like a scream echoing through the Void—some primal part of them trying to remember what they’d already forgotten."

Aurora let out a breath, slow and thoughtful. "It’s strange, isn’t it? We were never meant to have magic. Not really. Not the way you lot did."

Loki turned to face her fully now, eyes sharp. "And yet, YOU LOT stole it."

"No," she corrected. "we adapted to it. There’s a difference."

He smirked. "Semantics."

She gave him a glance, eyes glittering. "Words shape spells. Semantics are everything."

That earned a chuckle. "....Still the Slayer I remember."

"I was a child."

"You were terrifying."

Aurora paused, lips twitching. "You taught me to make fire out of nothing. You said it was the only thing that loved us back."

Loki leaned against the rail beside her. "It was. At the time."

The silence returned—but it was heavier now. Denser. The kind of quiet that builds between two people who have survived too much together, and also apart.

Then Aurora asked, almost absently, "Do you remember the Pact of Seven races?"

Loki blinked slowly. "The one where we vowed never to interfere with each other again?"

She nodded.

He scoffed. "We broke that before the ink dried."

"Before the blood dried," she corrected.

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he stared out across the city, where flickers of light danced like insects below.

"...Magic was supposed to protect your race," Loki said at last. "But it just made your wars prettier."

Aurora’s voice softened. "And more efficient."

"You blame us?"

She shook her head. "yes. I blame US"

That silenced him.

A moment later, she continued, almost whispering, "The spells before Merlin started with love. It gave us power before we taught humanity patience."

Loki let the words settle. He felt them like a bruise in his chest.

"...And now?" he asked.

Aurora met his gaze. "Now they think the two are the same."

He exhaled, bitter and breathless. "Atlas doesn’t."

"No," she agreed. "That’s what scares me."

A gust of wind swept past them. The mana in the air sparked faintly, reacting to their presence.

Finally, Loki looked at her—not as a friend, not as a godling, but as a man who remembered the girl who once carved starlight into stones and called it art.

"Do you ever wish we’d left earlier?" he asked. "Before it all turned to prophecy and politics?"

Aurora didn’t hesitate.

"...No. I just wish we hadn’t come back."

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