The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 134: The Game Begins.

Crimson hair, crimson eyes—Kury stood like a blood-forged flame against the graying sky. Her armor, polished yet battle-worn, bore the sigil of her father’s house: a roaring stag wreathed in flame. Beside it fluttered the banner of Berkimhum, stitched in silk but hardened by centuries of war. Her presence alone seemed to anchor the battlefield, her shadow long and unmoving beneath the dull light of a cloud-strewn sky.

The wind tugged at the edges of her cloak. It snapped like a war drum behind her, restless and constant. She could taste iron in the air—not from blood, not yet—but from the tension, the electric anticipation before all hell would break loose. Her fingers curled and uncurled at her sides, the weight of her blade a familiar pressure at her hip.

Beside her stood Denish.

The War General’s aura burned not like wildfire but like a controlled inferno—dense, searing, calculated. His hands were clasped behind his back, posture unshakable. Kury cast him a glance, and he returned it with unwavering focus. No fear. No hesitation. Only certainty.

It made her smile.

Not out of arrogance, but out of pride.

This army—ten thousand strong—stood behind them. Formations held tight, eyes fixed forward, no tremble in their lines. These were not green recruits trembling under armor too heavy for their frames. These were soldiers whose fears had been stripped from them through marching songs, through Denish’s ironclad speeches, through the sheer force of shared purpose.

And gods, they had marched.

Days of pushing through rain-churned roads, nights spent in canvas tents soaked to the bone, arguments and politics among noble commanders who still clung to pride like it was armor. Every step had been a battle of its own. But they were here. Finally. Standing on the edge of history.

The clouds loomed thick above them, threatening storm, but offering no rain. A pale, diffused sun marked the hour—it was midday. An hour when kings dined and court musicians played. But not today. Not for them.

Today, they would burn.

Kury adjusted the straps of her shoulder plate and stepped forward to the crest of the ridge. Her boots sank slightly into damp soil, but her spine remained straight, a living monument. She could see the distant outline of the horizon, blurred in heat and uncertainty. The Empire was out there. Somewhere. Coming. She could feel it like breath on the back of her neck.

And yet she did not flinch.

She had fought through worse.

She had survived worse.

And she had been chosen.

Henry himself—the Hammer of Berkimhum—had recognized her strength. Not as a warrior only, but as an equal. So much so, he had entrusted her with the most sacred responsibility a warrior could bear: the training of his children.

Not simply a knight. Not simply a general.

But a legacy-bearer.

Her hand moved unconsciously to the hilt of her sword. It was not enchanted, not gilded with runes or kissed by ancient spirits. It was steel, plain and tested—like her.

She breathed deeply.

Denish took a step forward beside her. His voice didn’t need to be loud. It carried like thunder anyway.

"We march in fifteen. Scouts report movement three ridges down."

"Good," Kury said, her voice low, almost reverent. "Let them come. I’m ready."

"Always?" he asked.

She smiled again.

"Always."

Behind them, the banners of Berkimhum unfurled with the breeze, crimson and gold flickering like wildfire.

The makeshift war camp sprawled like a wounded beast over the hills, tents fluttering in the cold wind, armor glinting like scattered teeth in the sun. Kury stepped away from her command post, her crimson cloak trailing behind her, needing a moment away from maps and nervous captains. Her armor groaned slightly with each step—metal plates forged in her father’s house, gleaming with the emblem of Berkimhum’s royal crest.

She passed by the mess tent, just close enough to hear laughter—coarse, lazy, and far too loud for a camp preparing for war.

"...I’m telling you," a voice said, thick with wine and ignorance, "the Empire won’t even show. They’ll see our banners and piss themselves all the way back to that polished capital of theirs."

A snort. Another joined in. "They’ve gone soft, haven’t they? All those parades and highborn rituals. No fire left in them. Not like our kingdom."

"Hah! Exactly. Maybe they’ve already turned back. Cowards, hiding behind their cursed Empress like children behind a mother’s skirt."

More laughter. The kind that scratched her ears raw.

Kury’s steps slowed.

She didn’t need to see them to know who they were—sons of minor nobles, men who had inherited their status but not earned it. Their swords were clean, their fingers unscarred. She doubted any of them had stood on a real battlefield, doubted they’d even seen death up close without vomiting.

She leaned slightly against a wooden pillar, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as they continued.

"Maybe it’s already over. No blood spilled. Just a show of numbers, and they’ll negotiate like rats."

"Bah, if I knew war would be this easy, I would’ve brought my second wife."

That was enough.

Kury exhaled slowly, lips curling into a half-smile—sharp, cold, and utterly without humor.

Fools.

They laughed like children playing with swords, thinking bravery was born from banners and songs. She had fought beasts that moved faster than arrows. She had trained the king’s children with her own hands. She had walked through fields where blood soaked the ground so deep, it changed the smell of the earth itself.

And here they were, drunk on false pride and ignorance.

She turned to leave, but not before muttering under her breath, "Perhaps the Empire does us a favor by attacking now. Weed out the weak roots before they rot the tree."

The wind caught her words and scattered them, but a nearby squire flinched—having overheard.

She smiled faintly. Let the rumor spread.

The kingdom, perhaps, was in need of cleansing. Not with fire. But with the truth of war. War had a way of burning away pretense, of carving men into their true shape. Some would rise. Others would splinter.

And she?

She would endure.

She always did.

As she walked back to her tent, the wind picked up behind her, carrying the first scent of smoke from distant torches.

It was close now.

War didn’t wait for fools to wake up. It simply arrived.

And demanded blood.

They didn’t need it.

The silence before the storm was enough.

.

.

.

After an hour freeweɓnovel~cѳm

Kury’s breath hitched in her throat. One part of her felt calm—been here before, seen men ready to die at her command. But this... this was different. The sky itself seemed to tremble with possibility.

"...When were they estimated to arrive?" she asked, voice even, but the muscle in her jaw pulsed with barely held worry.

"Two hours ago," Denish answered, flat. His voice echoed strangely in the hush, as if even the wind dared not speak. The visor of his helmet sat by his feet, matte and silent.

"What ?!" Her voice snapped—sharp as steel on stone.

"Exactly." He rose and replaced his helmet. "Their army should be visible from here by now. But there’s... nothing."

Her pulse tapped in her temples. He spoke as if this wasn’t the very thing that made her blood freeze: the unknown. "Normal estimations," she said, forcing the words out. "In war, they are guesses—nothing more. But that doesn’t mean it’s not... unsettling."

It was her first battle, yes—her first true war. She felt she should be brimming with righteous fire, already tasting glory. Medals, parades, the acclaim that would lift her House beyond mere nobility, to legend. Her father’s eyes would glee—watch her crush the Empire’s armies beneath her spiked boots.

But that dream wilted now at the edges, like frost under a noon sun.

The clouds overhead darkened, moving too fast—too purposeful. Denish’s gaze tracked her. "Commander, this is serious."

Her instincts flared—an ember fed by panic. She looked upward again, squinting, every nerve thrumming.

"Is that a bird... a wyvern?" he asked, trying to steady both of them.

"Maybe," she said, throat tight. "But it’s too far—the shape’s..." The word dissolved on her tongue, replaced by dread.

She saw it then—hundreds of tiny crimson sigils hovering amid the clouds. Red circles of magic, coalescing in patterns that defied natural law.

"...Don’t tell me—but that’s impossible."

"Commander Denish—we must flee—NOW!"

A hush dropped over them. Even the soldiers seemed to hold their breath.

Then the world broke apart.

BOOOOOMMMM!!!

The ground rumbled like a beast awakened—an eruption of war that devoured the calm.

Visit freewe𝑏(n)ovel.𝘤ℴ𝑚 for the best novel reading exp𝒆rience