The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 131: Erase

baam!

The door slammed shut behind Atlas with a hollow thud.

He leaned back against it, exhaling deeply. The tension in his shoulders finally began to drain, replaced by a slow, creeping exhaustion. The candlelight in the room flickered against the polished stone walls, casting long shadows that danced with his thoughts.

"Fuck!"

His disguise began to peel itself away—first the fake beard disintegrating into dust, then the color in his hair bleeding back to blond as the enchantments faded. His golden eyes shimmered into full clarity, no longer dulled by illusion. Even his posture changed, straightening just a bit as the pressure of performance lifted off his back.

"...did I just—" he murmured, running a hand down his face. "—fuck, I actually went through with it."

A rumble stirred beneath him.

"...Did I wake up during your mating season again?" came a dry voice from below.

Atlas stiffened. "You’ve been awake this whole time?"

Veil materialized from the long shadow stretched beneath the desk, one eye glowing like a dying star. "More like in and out. But yeah. I saw everything. Got front row seats. Thanks for the fucking trauma...."

Atlas groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "What the hell....You could’ve warned me."

"And say what? ’Hey, boss, you’re about to make questionable life choices with your psychotic stepmother’? You were glowing like a kid with a crush. You made your bed..."

Atlas muttered a curse and flopped onto the nearest chair. "..

I hate you."

"No you don’t."

He sighed. "No... I don’t."

Before another word could pass between them, the door burst open—not politely. Not even with mild decorum. It crashed off its hinges.

A gust of wind followed the chaos.

"By the lost gods, what now?" Atlas muttered, already bracing for some new complication.

Loki strode in like a whirlwind draped in stolen linens. His hair was finally pulled back, tied into something resembling control, but the fire flickering beneath his skin betrayed his usual chaos.

"Took your time," Veil muttered, not even bothering to look at him.

"Shut up," Loki shot back. "I was catching up with an old friend. Time is a blur when you’re surrounded by idiots."

Atlas raised a brow. "Old friend?"

Loki smirked. "You would know her. Small as fuck...and speaks in screams."

"...Okay," Atlas said flatly. "Glad you’re back. Next time use the fucking door knob."

Loki flopped onto the bed with a sigh. "Why does your room smell like... shame and regret?"

"...for your information...I showered," Atlas muttered defensively.

"Sure," Loki sniffed theatrically. "Still smells like poor decisions and scented oil."

Veil snorted. "You’re one to talk. Didn’t you once burn down an jungle because you wanted to be small.."

"I know I know....i lack control."

"That jungle had sweet dark elves....don’t know why we didn’t even meet one of them..." Veil shot back.

"I don’t care. Respect is respect."

Atlas dropped his face into his hands. "Why are you both like this?"

Loki leaned back, arms folded under his head. "We’re here for you, buddy. To help you recover. Also, to mock your every step."

"Support," Veil agreed solemnly. "And sarcasm. Our true love languages or shall I say, the only love language ."

A silence passed between them, strange but not uncomfortable. The room felt heavier now—thicker with everything unspoken. And yet, in the center of it, something like camaraderie.

Atlas finally lifted his gaze. "You two done?"

"Not even close," Loki grinned.

Veil nodded. "I have a list."

"Of course you do."

Loki shifted. "So. What’s next, boss? You’ve danced with the devil, played lapdog to a queen, and possibly compromised every bit of your sanity. What’s the grand plan?"

Atlas’s eyes narrowed, golden irises gleaming.

"Now?" he said. "Now we finish what i started. This weapon.... I will shut it down. And we make sure Berkimhum never gets the chance to use it. Nor let anyone get their hands to it."

Atlas stared at the schematics unrolled across the lacquered table, his golden eyes narrowed, glowing faintly in the dim laboratory light. The lines drawn in ink seemed innocent enough—blueprints of gears, mana conduits, and alchemical cores—but what they meant chilled him to the marrow. This wasn’t a weapon. It was a god-killer disguised as progress.

His voice came low, edged with a reverence he did not want to admit. "This... this could destroy the world."

Veil shifted behind him, silent for once, his presence a living shadow. Even he could feel it. Not the threat, but the intent behind the design—destruction not as necessity, but as principle. Efficiency born of cruelty.

Atlas exhaled through his nose, jaw tense. "Or bring peace," he added, almost bitterly. "If we were lucky... and the price wasn’t paid in screams."

He knew now why Isabella had pulled a mad mage from the brink of insanity. Why she had gone so far as to extract forbidden minerals from the Dark Continent. Why she had blackmailed nobles, diverted funding, smuggled artifacts, and risked her crown.

Because the weapon didn’t just kill.

It erased. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

Not cities. Not armies.

But Everything

With the right calibration, it could collapse magic structures from a distance—snuffing out spells, enchantments, even the very flow of ley lines. With enough amplification, it could silence entire bloodlines tied to magical contracts. It could shatter the divine echo that bound gods to humanity’s narrative.

No one would even know how to remember the ones lost.

And worse—if Isabella ever activated it—there would be no trial, no war, no rally. Just silence. Just absence.

Atlas’s fingers clenched around the edge of the table. "It could end the war... before it begins."

But the truth coiled under his words like a serpent: ’in the most horrific way imaginable.’

A way that would bypass battlefield glory or negotiation. No room for treaties. No resistance.

A massacre disguised as mercy.

He saw now why she’d smiled when he first asked her about peace. Why she had spoken of dominance with such softness in her voice, as if it were affection.

Because she didn’t believe in peace. Not really.

She believed in control.

Complete, utter, irreversible control.

And that was what this weapon offered—not stability, but finality.

Veil’s voice slithered in behind him. "You think she was going to use it?"

Atlas didn’t answer right away. His mind raced through every memory of her laughter, her cold warnings, her kisses laced with danger and desperation.

"She would," he said at last, quietly. "If she thinks, if this will shift her towards the top....then yeah."

He turned toward the door, the blueprints still glowing behind him, as if whispering promises in a language only power could understand.

"She won’t hesitate," he muttered, mostly to himself. "And neither can I."

Veil’s eye flickered.

Loki’s smirk faded.

Silence fell again—but this time, it was a different kind of quiet. Not exhaustion. Not banter. Purpose.

Then Loki grinned again. "Alright then...this weapon...it’s dangerous..."

Atlas nodded, the dread in his eyes real.

"....okay, I’m a believer.

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