The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 94: Enhanced?

Henry now focused on the intruder—one of the Empire’s Primes, a woman who had just glimpsed the truth he’d hidden for decades. She knew now: the frail, dying king was a lie. The man before her was something else entirely—a force carved from iron will and divine wrath.

"...Let me guess..." Henry said, his voice quiet but heavy, like a mountain shifting beneath the earth. "...somebody within your Empire, maybe somebody young, is trying to play hero, or something..."

The air between them crackled with unspoken weight. Irene didn’t answer immediately. Her body was rigid, muscles locked in instinctual fear. This wasn’t supposed to be possible. The stories painted Henry as a brilliant tactician, yes—but also a dying monarch, wheezing through speeches and masked in gold. But this hulking, towering figure before her? He was no legend. He was something else entirely.

Something that made her blood feel like ice and her lungs forget how to breathe.

She could not believe it. Her—of all people—frozen still just from a look. Who was this man?

He stepped forward, "...Oh, my apologies," he voiced, lowering his royal aura.

The pressure vanished like a snapped chain. Irene gasped, her breath coming in ragged gulps, her limbs trembling violently. Her knees nearly buckled under the sudden absence of force. She clutched at her chest, fingers digging into her white robes stained with dust and sweat.

"...So this was a ploy..." she muttered, her voice low, hoarse. "You were never sick. You were waiting."

Her gaze flickered past him, to the two women standing behind him—Lara, the genius messiah, and Aurora, the high mage. Two of the most dangerous figures in Berkimhum, each capable of reshaping battlefields with a word. And now, adding to that mayhem, stood the hammer of Berkimhum himself—the king, Henry.

"...Do you think this is enough?" she continued, desperation creeping into her tone. "Enough to defeat the Empire? In the end, it’s a numbers game. I know you lot are powerful, have unmatched history—but I am just one of many. And you lot, a few, with a twitching nobility betraying you every chance they get..."

Henry’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. He had long suspected a spy among the nobility, but hearing it confirmed by an enemy Prime—a being genetically engineered for loyalty and strength—meant the betrayal ran deeper than he feared.

He wanted to shut the bitch up and kill her right then and there, but she still had use. Primes were not known for breaking. They would die a thousand times before betraying their masters. Yet, Irene was here—alone, vulnerable, and speaking freely. That meant either she was a fool, or she was playing a game beyond her own understanding.

But Henry was curious. Rumors said Primes weren’t just loyal—they were enhanced. Flesh twisted by magic, bone reinforced with unknown alloys, minds sharpened until thought became action.

He came forward, taking her hand as he ripped it out from her shoulder like a piece of meat, still connected from tendons and torn muscles.

A wet crunch echoed through the chamber. Blood sprayed in a fine mist, painting the marble floor in crimson droplets.

"Aaaaaaa!!!"

Irene screamed. A raw, guttural sound that clawed its way out of her throat, echoing off the stone walls like a banshee wailing into the void. Her shoulder bone gleamed in the dim light, exposed and slick with gore.

Lara flinched, turning her head away, lips pressed into a tight line. She was battle-hardened, yes—she had seen death, spilled blood, fought monsters—but this? This was cruelty. This was something she hadn’t been prepared for.

Aurora placed a hand over her eyes, shielding Lara from the sight, though her own expression remained unreadable.

Henry tilted his head, observing the wound. "Hm...you screamed a bit less than expected. Meaning your pain tolerance is heightened...or your pain sensors are dulled." He gripped her, fingers curling around her wrist like iron bands. "Let me test again."

With a brutal twist, he tore the limb free.

Another scream. Another spray of blood. Tears streamed down Irene’s face, her cold, calculating eyes now wide with fear and vulnerability. Yet she stayed silent after the initial cry, her jaw clenched, teeth grinding together in defiance.

"...Ohh...tolerance is higher...with your tears—it’s not through battles and experience, but through engineering..." Henry murmured, almost fascinated. "Interesting."

There was a time when he believed in honor, in legacy, in the sanctity of kingship. But that belief died years ago, the day he realized the world would not bow to virtue—it bowed to strength.

This was not torture. It was dissection. A necessary evil to understand the enemy before it struck.

Still... a flicker of doubt crept in. "Am I becoming what I fight?"

Then he crushed it.

No. He was not the monster. He was the scalpel.

She had always known Henry was ruthless, but this? This was something else. Watching her father torture a prisoner was like watching a god turn into a monster. And yet... part of her understood why he did it. The Empire was coming. And if they didn’t know their enemy, they would lose.

But still...

She remembered when she was little, and she asked Henry why he always seemed so angry. He told her, "Kings don’t get to be kind, Lara. We get to be necessary."

Now, she understood what he meant.

And she hated it.

The scent of iron filled the air—thick, metallic, nauseating. Blood pooled around Irene’s feet, spreading across the polished marble like ink spilled on parchment. The temperature in the room dropped sharply when Henry unleashed his aura. Frost crept along the edges of the throne, and even Lara’s breath fogged in the sudden chill.

Every movement Henry made was heavy—his boots thudded like war drums against the stone, and even the softest gesture carried weight, like mountains shifting.

After tearing Irene’s first arm free, Henry paused. Just a heartbeat. Long enough for the scream to echo, long enough for Lara to inhale sharply. Then he moved again.

Before grabbing the second arm, he tilted his head slightly, studying the wound like a scholar analyzing a specimen.

When Aurora stepped forward, she hesitated—not out of hesitation, but calculation. She watched Henry’s expression, waiting for permission.

As Irene bled out, Henry took a step back, letting the silence settle. No words. No commands. Just the weight of what had been done.

The shattered chandelier above them—once grand, now broken—mirrored the state of Berkimhum itself. Once mighty, now fractured.

Irene’s missing arms were symbolic of the Empire’s arrogance—stripped bare, revealed for what it truly was.

Aurora," he called, not looking away from the writhing woman. "As you are already here...take her and dig her insides out. I want to see what the Empire is truly capable of. This one here is strong, but not through battle-hardened strength. There’s something else. I want answers, within tomorrow."

Aurora gave a slow nod, stepping forward with practiced detachment. She reached out, placing a hand on Irene’s forehead. A shimmer of mana pulsed between them, and the Prime slumped unconscious.

How much of this girl was left untouched by the Empire? Was she ever human? Or just a weapon dressed in flesh?

Henry had once believed that power came from will, from suffering, from sacrifice. But the Empire was creating weapons now—souls bound to obedience, bodies built for war. If they could make more of these things, Berkimhum wouldn’t stand a chance unless they adapted.

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