The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 148 - 149: Atlas

The air in the war-torn chamber was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and fear, the stone floor slick with crimson smears and shattered remnants of armor. Kury, the once-mighty S-rank adventurer, daughter of the marquise, lay broken on the ground, her body a canvas of carnage.

Her pants were nothing but tattered rags, ripped away by the ash-haired prime’s cruel hands, exposing the jagged white of her shattered kneecap jutting through torn flesh. Her thighs, once strong and unyielding, were a mangled mess of bruises and gashes, her feet twisted at unnatural angles, bones splintered and protruding through shredded skin.

Blood pooled beneath her, seeping into the cracks of the cold stone, her breaths shallow and ragged, each one a testament to her fading defiance.

The prime loomed over her, his pale crimson eyes glinting with sadistic glee, his ash-gray hair matted with sweat and blood—hers, his, it didn’t matter. "I once heard it, correct me if I’m wrong," he sneered, his voice a low, venomous drawl as he gripped the remnants of her pants, tearing them further, exposing more of her broken, trembling form.

A shard of bone gleamed in the dim torchlight, a grotesque reminder of her defeat. "Strength..." he hissed, savoring the word, "strength is violence. Utter, unjustifiable violence. No justice, no soft-hearted kindness, no forgiveness—just raw, fucking violence."

He crouched closer, his fingers clawing at her torn underwear, ripping the fabric with a sickening tear, the sound echoing like a death knell. Kury’s body twitched, a weak whimper escaping her bloodied lips, her once-proud spirit crushed under the weight of his brutality.

"I heard that saying, Kury," he continued, his voice dripping with mockery, "and it changed me. Gave me something to lean into, you hear me?" He yanked the last of her undergarments away, tossing them aside like a trophy, her exposed flesh quivering in the cold air, streaked with blood and grime.

"Ever since, I told myself I’m just upholding my strength, showing the empire my true power. Dealing out violence like no other. And you know what?" His lips curled into a feral grin, his eyes alight with twisted ecstasy. "I fucking loved it. I fell in love with it—your words, Kury, quoted by the great warrior herself, the daughter of the Red marquise."

Commander Denish, chained to the wall, thrashed against his restraints, his wrists raw and bleeding, his eyes streaming with tears of rage and helplessness. His screams were muffled by the gag in his mouth, but his gaze burned with fury, locked on Kury’s broken form and the prime’s depravity.

Blood trickled from his temple, mixing with his tears, his body trembling with the need to act, to save her, but the iron chains held him fast, a cruel witness to the horror unfolding.

The prime dropped his pants, his cock springing free, hard and throbbing, a grotesque symbol of his dominance. He laughed, a guttural, predatory sound, stroking himself as he stared down at Kury’s shattered body.

"I’m getting hard just thinking about it," he growled, his voice thick with lust and malice. He grabbed her mangled legs, dragging her closer, ignoring her weak cry as the movement ground her broken bones together. Blood oozed from her wounds, pooling beneath her as he forced her thighs apart, the torn flesh parting to reveal her vulnerable core, slick with blood and fear. "This is war," he snarled.

Denish, chained and battered, knelt in a pool of blood and dust. His body trembled—not from fear, but fury, white-hot and barely containable. His wrists burned raw where the iron had chewed through skin and sinew, but adrenaline surged like wildfire in his veins.

The cloth gag choking his mouth tasted of filth and rust. He bit down hard, gritting his teeth until the fabric tore, the ripped edges falling limp against his chin. His breath came in harsh, ragged pulls as he snarled, the sound feral and guttural.

He could barely see through the haze of blood and tears, but his eyes locked onto her.

Kury.

Lying there.

Motionless.

The commander who once stood taller than flames and prouder than the banners of Berkimhum—was now crumpled, her limbs twisted unnaturally, her armor fractured and peeled open like a broken shell. Blood stained her silver chestplate, smearing across the house crest she’d once borne with honor. Her face was turned away, but Denish didn’t need to see it to know—something had been stolen from her. Something sacred.

And standing above her—

The Prime.

Ash-haired, cold-eyed, radiating the still, arrogant calm of a man who enjoyed causing suffering more than winning wars.

"You bastard!" Denish roared, his voice hoarse from pain but full of wrath. The chains holding him cracked and stretched as he surged forward, dragging his weight against their bindings. "Stay away from Lady Kury! You think you’re a warrior? You’re nothing but filth!"

His legs buckled beneath him, one knee torn and useless, but he didn’t stop.

He wouldn’t.

Not until he could bury a blade in that monster’s heart.

And then—an opening.

A careless glance.

A knight turned his head at the wrong moment, and Denish struck like a wounded beast. He rammed forward with all his remaining strength, slamming his shoulder into the soldier’s chest. The knight staggered—just enough. Denish reached, seized the hilt of a fallen sword, and yanked.

Steel hissed from its sheath, and in one desperate arc, he slashed it across the knight’s throat. Warm blood sprayed, painting Denish’s face and chest, baptizing him in crimson defiance.

He stood shakily, every inch of his body screaming in protest, but he didn’t falter. He raised the sword—his hands shaking, yes—but his eyes never wavered.

And then the Prime turned to him.

Not in alarm.

Not even in anger.

But with that same thin smile that had haunted Denish since this nightmare began.

Amused.

Unimpressed.

Like he was watching an insect crawl toward its own funeral.

"Brave," the Prime drawled. "But ultimately pointless."

Three knights moved before Denish could blink. Their gauntleted hands gripped his arms, wrenching them back with bone-snapping force. The sword clattered from his fingers. A fourth knight stepped forward, raising his blade—execution-style.

"You should’ve stayed down," he sneered. "Now you’ll be nothing but pieces."

But before the sword could fall, a voice—cold and commanding—cut through the room like lightning.

"Stop."

Everyone froze.

The Prime stepped forward, boots echoing on the stone.

"I need a messenger," he said. "A survivor to tell Berkimhum what defiance towards the empire costs. Start with the arms. Don’t let him die."

Denish’s heart raced, every beat echoing like a death drum. He clenched his teeth, prepared to endure whatever horror came next. He would not scream. He would not break.

But then—something changed.

The air shifted.

A sudden silence fell.

And then—crash.

Three bodies hit the ground in perfect sync.

The knights who had been holding him were no longer breathing. Their chests were ripped open, hearts missing. Armor crumpled like paper.

Denish gasped.

His head turned, slowly, praying for what his mind refused to believe.

And there—standing among the dead like judgment made flesh—was him.

Golden eyes.

burnt Cloak fluttering.

The weight of power and wrath wrapped in human form.

"Your Highness..." Denish croaked, tears spilling from his bloodstained face. "Atlas..."

Atlas didn’t smile. His jaw was tight. His hands—bare and clean—dripped blood only because the air around him obeyed his will.

"You did well, Commander," Atlas said quietly, placing a steadying hand on Denish’s shoulder. "You held out long enough."

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