The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 150 - 151: Again and Again

"Denish," Atlas barked, his voice a low, commanding growl that sliced clean through the heavy silence blanketing the chamber like a funeral shroud. "Claire’s coming soon. Tell her to give Kury every drop of the healing potion—she needs it all."

His words came fast, clipped and brutal, every syllable sharpened by urgency. The floor beneath him was slick with blood, the stench of iron and burning stone thick in the air. Each of his steps landed like a war drum, echoing off the jagged trees of the ruined forest. The branches guttered, shadows flinching as his presence passed.

He didn’t spare a glance at Denish. His gaze was locked, unwavering, on the Prime before him.

Number Nine.

The imperial sigil gleamed faintly beneath the grime, etched into the man’s chest plate like a badge of twisted pride. A Prime of the Seventeen. A decorated predator. His rank screamed arrogance—his presence reeked of it. And now, Atlas could smell something else beneath it all: fear.

He didn’t need to ask what this bastard had done. Kury’s blood on the stones had told him everything.

There would be no mercy.

Crunch. Crunch.

The Prime staggered forward, boot heels scraping broken gravel, blood leaking from his cracked lips. His breathing was ragged, irregular, but he still wore that grin—feral, wide, shaking at the edges. He wiped his chin with the back of a gauntleted hand, smearing dark red across his knuckles, then licked the blood absentmindedly like a beast savoring the taste of a hunt gone wrong.

"My death, huh?" he rasped, spitting out another wad of crimson. "Cool line."

His shoulders twitched with a dry, humorless laugh. "But cooler than that? That ’fucking punch’—’ohhh.’"

He chuckled again, throat rattling. The sound was jagged, almost crazed, echoing too long in the stone-choked air. Around him, lines of artificial blue veins lit up along his arms, flickering with volatile energy—mana injectors, unstable and buzzing. Zzzt-zzzt. Sparks jumped off his forearms like a storm winding up behind steel skin.

"It’s been a while since I felt something," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

Atlas stood still.

His crimson aura pulsed around him, growing thicker, denser, until the very air trembled—whooom—like the heartbeat of something divine and monstrous. His hair lifted slightly with the force building around him, red strands glowing like burning threads. His eyes, molten with fury, stayed fixed on the Prime. No blinking. No mercy. Just judgment.

The Prime didn’t stop. He was spiraling now, pacing in tight, erratic circles, breathing faster, frothing with adrenaline and the thrill of his own stupidity.

"Black hair... golden eyes..." he muttered. "I see...I hit the fucking jackpot! Who knew a little mage-bait would drag out the god damned commander, the lioness of berkimhum kury Bitch herself, and now... the ’Bloody Prince.’"

He flung his arms out, grinning like a man ready to be struck by lightning.

"Sorry—Mad prince, right? Or do you prefer ’Heretic’ these days? Or do they just call you monster now?"

He barked out another deranged laugh, veins along his neck bulging with magic and madness.

"I was told you were equal to your sister in strength. Tell me—" his eyes gleamed, fever-bright, "—does your sist—"

He never finished.

There was a snap in the air, the sound of something breaking.

Then—WHOOSH.

Atlas vanished. A sonic boom exploded outward, shattering the stillness like glass under a hammer. The walls trembled. Torches extinguished. The wind shrieked through the stone like a banshee in mourning.

The Prime barely had time to flinch.

A blur of red light, a comet made of raw hate, slammed into him.

CRACK!

Atlas’s fist collided with the Prime’s face—no finesse, no hesitation, just divine, unstoppable force. The sound was deafening, a thunderclap inside the bones. The Prime’s head snapped sideways, mouth open in mid-sentence, eyes bulging in a frozen second of pure, distilled terror.

Blood burst from his mouth in a grotesque spray, teeth and gore flying like shrapnel.

His jaw ’caved in.’

His body lifted off the ground, boots scraping empty air, arms flailing like a ragdoll caught in a hurricane. The impact tossed him like a corpse through the air—backward, fast—before slamming into a crumbling stone pillar with a KRASH that split the column clean down the middle. Shards of rock exploded outward. Dust billowed, choking, thick.

Then silence.

Then—

Splat!

His body landed hard, bouncing once before sliding in a bloody sprawl across the ground. One leg bent the wrong way. Armor cracked. Blue veins flickered and died.

"..You talk too much," Atlas growled.

His voice wasn’t just sound—it was weight, a low, guttural snarl that vibrated through the clearing like thunder chained to fury. Pebbles scattered, grass flattened beneath the pulse of his aura, and the air itself seemed to ’shrink’ around his rage.

Then he moved.

His fist came down like a meteor, a blistering ’WHOOSH’ that cut through the stillness with death’s precision. The Prime’s eyes widened—reflex and fear tangled into one twitch of survival. He raised his arms in a cross, blue mana crackling up his forearms in jagged arcs of light—’Zzzt! Pop! Zzzt!’—barely forming a defense in time.

The impact landed with a cataclysmic BOOM!

It sounded like stone shattering in a canyon.

The Prime’s arms broke instantly—CRACK!—SNAP!—both forearms folding the wrong way, bones punching through skin like spears. Blood exploded in arcs across the clearing—splat-splat—painting the dirt in a rain of gore. His feet skidded backward through the dirt, carving trenches, legs barely holding.

"YOU—!" he choked, breath ragged, voice catching in his throat like a blade. Sweat poured down his brow, mixing with blood on his face—’drip, drip’—as he staggered to remain standing.

The ground beneath him groaned—’CRUNCH!—fracturing outward in spiderweb lines, the sheer force of Atlas’s blow splintering the earth itself. The trees quivered. Birds scattered in a panicked burst above the clearing.

Still, the Prime trembled on his broken legs, defiant to the edge of madness.

"This... isn’t enough!" he roared, spitting blood and teeth in the same breath—splurch!

Mana surged around him in unstable convulsions, zzzt-POP-zzzzzzzt, his veins flashing a sickly neon blue. His body shook under the overload, skin bubbling where circuits ruptured beneath flesh.

Atlas’s lips twisted into something cold and cruel—a smirk, but one without mirth. There was no pleasure in it, only purpose.

"I know."

Then he vanished again—’blur.’

A full-body pivot—’WHOOSH!’—his red cloak whipping like fire in the wind as his heel sliced through the air, a clean, brutal arc. The kick landed on the Prime’s chest with a THUD! like a battering ram against stone.

The Prime’s ribs snapped—snap-snap-snap!—audibly crushed, the sound like dry twigs breaking underwater.

He flew.

A blur of blood and broken metal arced into the sky—whooooosh!—his body crashing through branches above, shattering limbs—crack-crack-crack!—before breaching into open air. He soared like a dying comet, red mist trailing from his mouth—splatter!—as his body twisted in a grotesque spin.

But Atlas was already gone from the ground.

Already above him.

The Mad Prince moved like wrath incarnate, a crimson blur reappearing mid-air with his legs tucked—then ’unleashing’ another kick to the Prime’s side.

CRASH!

The Prime’s body convulsed—ribs and spine shifting with a sickening CRUNCH—as the second kick torqued him mid-flight, flipping his body again. His vision whirled—sky, trees, blood, light—his mind cracking under the inertia. He tried to scream, but only gurgled, thick blood choking his throat—splurch! hack-hack!—as lungs struggled to breathe past broken ribs.

He plummeted, but his descent was halted.

Atlas caught him by the throat mid-fall—SLAM!—his hand locking tight, fingers digging into skin and bone like steel clamps. The Prime’s legs dangled, twitching, useless, as he choked and writhed, the world narrowing into black at the edges of his vision.

His eyes bulged. Purple bloomed in his cheeks. Blood vessels burst across his sclera.

The air around them ’hummed’ trembling with the weight of Atlas’s aura—whooom-whooom—a steady, furious pulse, like a war drum echoing through the trees.

Atlas stood still in the center of it all, holding the Prime like a slaughtered boar, his Truth Eyes glowing—one orange, one green, each burning with layered intent. His cloak flared behind him in the wind. Not a scratch on him. Not a breath wasted.

"Every bruise I saw on her," he growled.

His voice rumbled low, subterranean, rising from some depth far beneath anger—something older, more personal.

"You’re gonna feel it."

He tightened his grip—crack-crack—windpipe collapsing, blood spilling from the Prime’s nose and ears.

"And you’re gonna feel it hard, motherfucker."

The Prime made no sound now. Only the wet ’drip-drip-drip’ of blood onto the dirt. His limbs twitched. Mana flickered in dying spasms across his body—like a lightbulb about to burn out.

Atlas leaned in, his forehead nearly touching the Prime’s, eyes locked, calm as execution.

"Let me show you what kind of monster I am."

Then he slammed the Prime down—BOOM!—cratering the ground beneath them.

And again.

And again.

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