The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 147 - 148: Instinct

Denish could not hold it any longer. His breath was ragged, blood drying at the edges of his mouth, but his rage burned hotter than any wound. He stared across the clearing at the monster wearing the armor of a knight—this "Prime" whose every action betrayed the very codes he claimed to serve.

Kury’s body hung limply from the bastard’s hand, her blood painting the leaves like broken petals, her chest rising faintly—barely. She wasn’t dead. Not yet.

Not while he still breathed.

He gritted his teeth. His wrists trembled beneath the grip of the knights holding him down. This wasn’t war. This wasn’t battle.

This was theatre. Cruel, twisted theatre.

And he had seen enough.

"Heyyy!!! Dumb shit!" Denish shouted, his voice like gravel scraped against stone.

The baron beside him jerked in panic, eyes wild. "Yo—you fucker! Shut the fuck up! What the fuck are you doing?" he hissed through clenched teeth, panic rolling off him in waves. "You’re going to get us all killed!"

But Denish’s eyes never left the Prime. "Are all Primes like that now? Calling this honor? This slaughter? That’s your legacy?"

The baron leaned in closer, voice barely audible, a whisper lined with dread. "Please. Please shut the fuck up. You just saw what he did. He’s a psycho. He’s already lost it. You’re poking a hurricane, Denish. Don’t."

But it was too late.

The Prime turned.

Crimson eyes locked onto him like a predator sniffing out fresh blood. At first, there was nothing but silence—thick, suffocating silence. Then came the smile. That same fucking smile. Wide, gleaming, stretched too far across his face like it didn’t belong to something human anymore.

"Ohhh..." the Prime said softly, mockingly. "Where are my manners?"

He stepped forward. Calm. Almost graceful. Like a wolf pacing toward a dying deer.

"I didn’t even greet you properly," he continued, voice syrup-smooth and dripping venom. "Sir Denish, was it? The famed knight of Berkimhum? The people’s general?" He tilted his head. "You don’t look so legendary, tied up and trembling like that."

Denish didn’t flinch. "I tremble only for the ones I can’t protect."

The Prime’s grin twitched.

And then, without ceremony, a ’wet sound’ snapped the air.

Something dropped onto Denish’s lap.

The baron’s head.

His body slumped sideways with a slow, almost lazy tilt, like a puppet with its strings cut. Blood soaked into Denish’s armor, warm and immediate.

The Prime leaned close—too close. "If you speak again," he whispered, "your turn comes next. And trust me..." He paused. Sniffed the air. "I prefer an audience."

Denish didn’t answer. He couldn’t. A gloved hand had already covered his mouth, choking the defiance in his throat. He struggled, muffled, but the Prime’s knights were strong—and worse, indifferent.

The Prime turned back to Kury.

"Now... where was I?" he said, his voice trailing off in a singsong.

He crouched beside her like a man observing fine sculpture, one hand hovering over her. Then he froze.

A flicker.

A pulse.

Something shifted in the air.

The smile slipped.

His fingers recoiled slightly, as if from an invisible flame.

"....My instincts...." he muttered.

There it was again. A feeling—alien, crawling up his spine like a warning. Like something. "....it’s screaming at me...."

.

.

.

Near the Border

Smoke curled into the gray skies like the arms of mourning gods. Trees burned. Ash fell like snow. And beneath it all—the jungle groaned, a wounded beast left smoldering.

Atlas stood at the cliff’s edge, the wind clawing at his cloak, the scent of fire and blood clinging to every breath. His eyes flicked to his hand, the small silver staff vibrating gently. It glowed faintly, a pulse of blue through the silver in his palm. Not violent. Not urgent. But unmistakable.

"...SOS signal," he muttered. "Mana-thread encoded. One of ours, barely alive."

He turned, slowly, to face Claire.

She hadn’t moved.

Her arms hung limp at her sides, her coat torn at the shoulder. Hair whipping across her face, but she didn’t flinch. Her gaze was fixed—anchored to the forest below, to the nightmare still playing behind her eyes. To the wreckage of reality.

Sixty. Maybe seventy. Floating death machines—airborne monsters of metal and spelltech—now reduced to broken bones of steel and shrapnel. Some still twitched, gears spasming like dying nerves. The rest had crashed in flame.

Claire hadn’t spoken for minutes. Not after the explosion. Not after the airstrike. Not after watching Atlas tear through them like a walking calamity.

"...Claire," he said softly, "care to come with me?"

Her eyes didn’t leave the jungle.

"...You," she finally whispered.

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

She didn’t blink. Her voice cracked like a mirror. "Are you really human?"

Atlas exhaled, long and tired. "Haaa... I get that a lot."

He gave her a lopsided smile. Wry. Almost comforting.

"But yeah," he said. "Yes, I am."

She turned then.

Not fully.

Just enough to look him in the eye.

Her lips barely moved.

"No," she said. "No... you’re not."

Silence.

Atlas didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t need to.

The truth hung there between them, flickering like the dying flames below.

Claire finally tore her eyes away from the battlefield, her gaze narrowing on him. "What are you?"

The staff in his hand pulsed again—stronger. The signal was growing weaker.

"We’ll talk later," he said, turning toward the slope. "Someone’s still alive out there. Barely."

Claire hesitated, then followed. Her boots crunched the soot-stained gravel, steps quickening to match his.

"How did you do it?" she asked. "That...that thing you did in the air?"

Atlas didn’t look back. "Didn’t think. Just acted. The body moved on its own."

"That’s not an answer."

He paused, glanced over his shoulder. "No. It’s not."

They descended together, the ash falling heavier now. Visibility dropped with every step, and the trees—charred and bent—stood like grave markers across the ridge.

Claire stopped as they neared the signal’s origin. "This is where they were hit, right?"

Atlas nodded. "Yeah."

He tapped the staff into the soil.

Mana glowed faintly beneath their feet—blue veins across scorched earth. A trail.

Claire crouched, fingers brushing the embers of a ruined tree trunk. "You didn’t cast anything when you fought them," she said. "No incantations. No circles. Just raw force."

"....I improvised," Atlas replied.

She looked up at him, eyebrows tight. "No one improvises with floating siege units."

Atlas didn’t speak.

Because deep down—even he didn’t fully know what he’d done.

Only that it worked.

Only that it scared him.

"...Got it," he said at last, his voice suddenly firm. "They’re close."

Claire stood, hand instinctively reaching for her dagger. "Kury?"

".....yeah. I hope she safe." Atlas muttered.

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