The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 132: Jealous?

The next day.

A thick, suffocating silence blanketed the war room. Not the calm before the storm—no, that had passed. This was the hush of inevitability, the sound the world made when it knew its own ending had already begun.

Outside, soldiers trained with weapons that had been polished too clean—like mirrors daring to reflect the blood they would soon drink. Inside, the flickering torches cast shadows that moved like ghosts of men who hadn’t died yet but already knew they would.

"There’s movement," one of the generals said, voice taut, brow glistening with the sweat of unspoken fears. "Recon reports smoke along the ridge. Scouting birds haven’t returned."

Another leaned over the map, fingers pressed to a red-marked border. "They’re close. Hours away. Tomorrow at midnight—our armies reach the crossing."

He slammed his fist down.

But no one flinched.

Not anymore.

The council murmured as it always did—strategies, probabilities, empty reassurances passed around like cheap wine. Nobody mentioned what they were all thinking:

This wasn’t a battle.

This was a bloodletting.

Atlas stood.

Straight-backed. Silent.

Claire followed a beat later, her heels cracking against the stone like gunfire. She didn’t speak at first, not even as they left the council behind, exiting into the corridor lined with war banners and the Empire’s fading glories.

Then—

"I want good news only."

Her voice was a razor’s whisper. Barely audible. But it cut clean through the tension in the air.

Atlas’s smirk was slow and deliberate. The kind that didn’t warm—it warned.

"There is good news," he said. "And then there’s better news."

She shot him a look, half-curious, half-wary. "Which one do you want to start with?"

He leaned slightly closer, enough to close the distance between secrecy and trust. His breath was cool, even.

"I got him."

She froze. Just a flicker—but enough.

"You did it?" Claire asked. Her voice was level, but her pupils flared.

Atlas nodded. "The mad mage. The psycho who writes spells in blood and sleeps under his own blueprints. He’s ours now."

Relief hit her like a blade she wasn’t ready for. She didn’t exhale—she collapsed into breath, like someone coming up from deep underwater.

But something in Atlas’s tone felt... off.

Not triumph.

Resignation.

She studied him, really studied him. The lines around his mouth tighter. The edge in his stance a little too sharp.

"You’re not telling me everything," she said.

His jaw twitched. That tiny betrayal his body always gave before his mouth did.

"...Because," he said.

But before he could voice his concerns. Claire ran off. Ran off to see her face. Her pathetic eyes. Which seemed to glow with pride for no reason. For no worth. But today it would be worth it. Worth it for her. To see her fall. To see her total downfall.

That bitch must be sitting in misery now, Claire thought as she moved down the grand corridor, steps swift, heart still pumping from the war council’s weight. Her heels clicked like countdowns on polished marble.

She scanned the hall, eyes slicing through faces.

And then—she found her.

There she was. Isabella.

Standing beside Lara.

Claire’s stomach turned.

Of course. Always going to her power card when she loses. Lara, the empire’s crystalline saint. The one even dragons bowed to when her patience thinned. Typical Isabella. When all else failed, latch onto strength and pretend it was strategy.

But as Isabella turned toward her—something stopped Claire mid-thought.

She expected smugness. A mask. The usual venom barely restrained behind a polished smile.

But what she saw instead was... wrong.

Not scheming.

Not plotting.

Not even armed.

Her face looked—

Different.

The first thing Claire noticed was her skin. There was a flush to it, not the drunken kind, not the powdered kind—but alive. Her cheeks held a heat, a lightness that softened the sharpness of her jaw. Her posture was loose. Not from weariness—but peace.

And most disconcerting of all—her aura was stable.

Still potent. Still thick with political weight. But... grounded.

Balanced.

And then her eyes.

Claire had never feared Isabella’s eyes. Not once. She had loathed them, despised their cold calculus, hated the way they scanned people like chess pieces waiting to be sacrificed—but never feared them.

Until now.

Because they weren’t cold anymore.

They were warm.

Joyous.

She looked like someone who’d found the final piece of a puzzle and was still drunk off the satisfaction.

It threw Claire so far off guard, she didn’t even soften her words.

"...Why the fuck do you look happy?" she blurted out.

Lara glanced between them, ever composed, but even she tilted her head slightly, sensing the tension twist the air.

Isabella blinked slowly, as if the question had touched a place too distant for immediate response. Then she smiled.

Not her snake-smile.

Not the predator’s grin.

A smile so genuine it almost made Claire flinch.

"...What? You jealous again?" Isabella said.

There was no malice in her tone. No mockery.

Just... amusement.

Soft.

Claire’s breath hitched. She didn’t understand this. She didn’t like not understanding this.

She crossed her arms. "Seriously. What happened to you? Did you—what, experience enlightenment or something? You look like you just saw God."

Isabella’s gaze lingered on her for a beat longer than comfort allowed. And then—still smiling—she said:

"...Well, if you must name it... an encounter. More than enlightenment."

Claire stiffened.

"What kind of encounter?" she asked, voice low.

But Isabella was already turning away. Her cloak swept the marble like a closing curtain. She walked with no hurry, no threat. Just grace.

No final jab.

No parting insult.

Just the silence of a woman who didn’t need to explain herself anymore.

Claire stood frozen.

The question clawed at her chest, louder with each heartbeat.

Encounter...?

Her eyes narrowed.

Is she talking about Aiden?

No. Atlas. Atlas in disguise. But why... why is she happy about him?

.

.

.

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The Book of the Damed

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Chapter 13: The Path of the Unseen Womb

On the venomous root of love and the sacrament of lust.

I. The Mortal Delusion of Love

Mortals speak of love as if it were a balm. They call it "gentle," "pure," "selfless." Fools. Love, as the weakling knows it, is a corpse. A hollow idol carved from fear. They mask their terror of hunger with words like "devotion," "sacrifice," and "union." But love without teeth is a carcass. True love does not caress—it gnaws. It is not a balm. It is a fever.

II. The Sacred Disease of Lust

Lust is the first truth. Before names, before vows, there is the raw, screaming hunger to devour another whole. To want their flesh, their secrets, their soul—not to possess, but to consume. The Unbound know this: lust is not sin. It is the divine spark. The moment you crave another’s essence, you taste the infinite. To deny this hunger is to starve the Abyss itself.

III. The Ritual of Mutual Devouring

Love is a lie told by the timid. The true disciple of the Abyss knows: only lust is honest. It does not bargain. It does not beg. It takes. It shreds. It burns. When two souls collide in the storm of lust, they become predators and prey. They tear each other open to see what gods and demons bleed from the wound. This is not union. It is symbiosis through annihilation.

Page 69

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