The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 133: Bury Deep

Atlas walked through the palace corridors like a man who had forgotten how to feel.

His boots didn’t echo. Not because they were silent—but because the world had stopped listening.

Claire followed close behind. Her presence wasn’t loud, but it was sharp—like the edge of a knife pressed against old scars. Her violet eyes never left his back.

She knew this walk.

She knew the way his shoulders drooped, just a fraction. The way his steps lacked their usual certainty. She knew the silence he wore wasn’t the kind that came from exhaustion—it was the kind that came from carrying something no one else was allowed to see.

"Atlas..." she said again, low and cold, like a distant memory clawing its way forward. "There is something you’re not telling me."

He didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. Just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking, his stare fixed ahead like the hallway had teeth and he planned to walk right into its mouth.

"...Let it go, Claire," he said, voice hoarse. "We achieved our goal. We have the mage. The project ’Wheel’ can move forward."

Claire’s fingers curled at her sides. She hated that voice—flat, controlled, distant. It wasn’t the voice of someone who was fine. It was the voice of someone who had bartered something vital and didn’t want to admit the price. freёwebnoѵel.com

"You’re lying," she snapped.

Atlas stopped.

Not all at once—his momentum simply bled away, like a storm losing wind. Claire caught up beside him, heels clicking like gunfire. She grabbed his arm, spinning him slightly. His golden eyes met hers—and for a moment, just a moment, she saw it.

Not guilt.

Not fear.

But conflict.

"I know Isabella," she hissed. "She doesn’t hand over assets unless she’s already taken more than she gave. So tell me, Atlas. What did you do? What did you give?"

Atlas didn’t move.

His jaw tightened.

His breath came slow, but the tension in his frame betrayed him.

Claire’s voice dropped lower, and when she spoke, it wasn’t just anger. It was pain. "Or worse... what did she take?"

What in gods name and seven hells was he going to reply? Should he say He’d pounded his stepmother, the untouchable queen, into that desk, made her climax more than ten times in a frenzied ten minutes, each of her desperate screams.

Her emerald eyes, once sharp with regal disdain, had glazed over in submission, her proud voice reduced to broken pleas of "I’m yours." It was a victory, a dark, primal triumph that surged through his veins, setting his nerves alight with a twisted sense of pride.

But now, as the haze of lust cleared, a cold weight settled in his chest. How in the fucking hell, was he going to face Claire? His Claire—, trusting, with her seductive smiles and unwavering faith in him. How could he look into her eyes and confess that he’d ravaged his own stepmother, the woman who’d schemed to ruin him, in a fit of vengeance and insatiable desire? The image of Isabella’s trembling body, her thick thighs quivering, her valley dripping as he claimed her again and again, flashed through his mind, and he clenched his fists, torn between the thrill of it and the guilt gnawing at his soul.

The memory of Isabella’s moans, raw and unhinged, echoed in his ears, each one a trophy he’d never meant to collect. He’d made her cum so hard, so many times, her pride shattered under the relentless force of his cock, her royal facade crumbling as she begged for more. It was something to take pride in, a secret conquest that burned hot in his chest, a power he’d never felt before. But it was a private victory, one to be locked away in the darkest corners of his mind, not flaunted—not to Claire, of all people.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, his mind racing. Maybe he could keep it buried, let this secret die in the shadows of the office. But Claire had a way of seeing through him, of sensing the weight he carried. She’d ask why he was distant, why his eyes avoided hers, and he’d have to lie—or worse, tell her the truth and watch her break. The image of her face, crumpling with betrayal, was a dagger to his chest. He’d rather face a thousand of Isabella’s cunning plots than hurt Claire like that.

"...It’s better you don’t know," he muttered finally.

The words hit like stone against glass. Claire’s hands dropped, as if she’d touched fire. Not because she was hurt—but because she realized she was too late.

He’d made the deal.

He’d paid the cost.

And he wasn’t going to let her shoulder any of it.

"Sacrifices are made in silence," she said. "And they remain in silence."

He nodded once. Not like a man agreeing. Like a man burying something deep.

"...Do you want to meet him or not?" Atlas said, his tone flipping into something almost casual. "I warn you... he’s a real piece of work."

Claire stared at him. Then scoffed, turning hard on her heel.

"I’ll find out what you did," she said without looking back. "One way or another."

She walked away.

And for a long second, Atlas stood still.

Then, as if waking up from a long sleep, he moved—swift, sure, decisive.

He caught her by the waist.

Claire yelped—not in fear, but surprise—as wind surged past them, torches blurring, the corridor vanishing into a blur of stone and magic. She clung to him out of instinct, her heartbeat rattling her chest.

"Atlas—what the hell are you doing?" she gasped.

No answer.

Only movement.

And when they landed, the air shuddered around them like breath caught in a dying throat.

The structure ahead was half-buried, half-forgotten—its bones stitched with cracked stone and blood-colored moss. An old research hall hidden deep beneath the capital, sealed with wards that predated the kingdom itself.

Claire stepped forward, brushing off dust from her cloak.

"This is it?" she asked.

Atlas nodded. "A tomb that doesn’t know it’s a tomb yet."

She didn’t like how he said that. She didn’t like the look in his eyes either.

They entered.

The stench of old ink, burnt oil, and dried blood choked the air. Books crumbled underfoot, their pages stained with formulas that should never have been written. Magic pulsed here—not like light, but like fever.

And at the center of the room, sitting in a chair surrounded by devices that looked more like torture than magic, sat a man with dead eyes.

Beerus.

His skin was pale. His lips cracked. His fingers twitched as if they remembered casting spells the rest of him had forgotten.

Claire wrinkled her nose. "You’ve got to be kidding me. This is the one?"

Atlas didn’t flinch. "Yes. This is the one."

Beerus stirred.

His gaze landed on Atlas, and he smiled—or tried to. It came out more like a grimace.

"Prince Atlas," he rasped. "You brought your shadow with you."

Claire stepped forward. "She has a name."

Beerus blinked slowly. "She smells like ambition and cheap wine."

Claire raised a brow. "And you smell like mold and murder. We all have our flaws."

Atlas pinched the bridge of his nose. "Great. You two are going to get along perfectly."

"Why bring her?" Beerus asked.

"To keep you alive," Claire replied. "And to make sure your genius doesn’t turn into another national disaster."

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