The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 95: Arrival

The Prime’s hand with her own—bloodied, trembling slightly from the aftermath of battle. The knight had come swift and strong, all the way into the capital castle, only to be defeated just like that.

Just like ’her’.

"...I know," she answered softly, though her voice carried the weight of exhaustion and something deeper—something raw beneath the surface. She understood better than anyone how torturous Aurora could be. But the difference between them was simple: Aurora cared enough not to show it. Henry didn’t care at all.

Or so he wanted people to believe.

"...Father, what’s the plan now? Are you still going to play hide and seek? Atlas will find out eventually..." Lara voiced, sliding her sword back into its sheath. Her dress was torn, the armor beneath visible in jagged slashes where Irene had struck. She didn’t bother fixing it. There were no clean clothes left in this war.

Henry studied her for a long moment, his eyes reflecting the dim torchlight like the face of an unfeeling god. Then, slowly, a smile crept across his lips—not cruel, not mocking, but proud. A rare thing.

"Yes," he said simply. "The hide and seek will continue."

He stepped closer, his presence pressing down like gravity itself leaning in. "But I will ask again... Is he truly alive? And you say he is strong—stronger than you are now?"

Lara sighed, folding her arms as she looked away. "That’s not my right to answer, Father. He will arrive here soon enough, and he will answer your doubts himself." freewebnøvel.coɱ

There was a pause.

Then—

[Observer skill detected, high mana above the Host.]

The notification flashed in her mind like a warning siren. Lara’s breath caught. Her heart stuttered once before she bolted toward the balcony, boots slapping against the stone floor.

Henry followed behind her, slower—calmer—but his gaze betrayed the same sharp awareness. He knew. Something was coming.

She leapt from the edge of the balcony, magic surging beneath her feet to carry her upward in a burst of wind and light. In seconds, she landed atop the castle’s tallest spire, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Her eyes widened.

Above the city, the night sky burned.

Not with stars.

With something that was not supposed to be so powerful.

And they were Hundreds of them.

Their wings cut through the clouds like blades of fire, their bodies sleek and red as molten steel. They moved in perfect formation, their roars distant but unmistakable—a sound that shook the bones of the earth.

Lara felt the tremor in her ribs.

"What..." she whispered.

"Is it the Prime’s doing?" she asked, turning sharply toward Henry, who had ascended behind her with unnatural ease.

Henry exhaled, watching the sky darken with approaching death. His voice was quiet, almost amused.

"Haaa... A last-ditch effort, perhaps it had been," he murmured. "Even with our strength, we can’t take them all. There will be ....casualties..."

His gaze flickered toward Lara.

"That’s why she said we were few, and they were....many."

For the first time in a long while, Lara felt something stir inside her—something she hadn’t let herself feel in years.

Fear.

But then, without hesitation, she raised her hands.

Mana surged around her like a storm breaking free from chains. Blue-white energy spiraled outward, crackling with barely contained power. Her hair whipped in the sudden gale, her eyes glowing with fury and determination.

Henry blinked.

’...She was still not going all out?’ he thought, surprised.

From the shadows behind him, Devid appeared like smoke given form—the commander of Berkimhum’s elite forces. He didn’t flinch, didn’t bow. Just stood there, watching the king breathe, watching him live.

And he wasn’t shocked.

Because he had always known.

He had always known that the king would not die a sickly man on a throne. That the Hammer of Berkimhum would not fall quietly into dust.

Still, there were questions.

But not now.

Now, there were those, conquered of the sky.

Hundreds of them.

He turned his gaze to the sky, then back to Henry.

"So, my King... What must we do?"

Henry smiled.

A slow, grim thing.

"We dethrone the them as well."

Then he looked up—and saw something else.

Something more terrifying than the horde of fire-breathing beasts descending upon the city.

A presence.

One he recognized.

One he feared.

One he had hoped never to feel again.

He turned sharply to Lara.

"Lara..."

She turned too.

They both felt it.

A ripple in the fabric of reality.

A distortion in the air.

Something massive.

Something fast.

Something powerful beyond comprehension.

Henry’s voice was low, reverent.

"You were right... He was alive..."

His eyes narrowed.

"...and also grown ridiculously strong."

’... if you’ve returned, don’t you dare think I’ll wait for you to save me again.’

She remembered the days when she used to follow him everywhere, when his shadow gave her comfort. Now, she fought battles in his absence. She bled in his name. And now, as the sky burned with winged beasts and the world screamed for salvation, she would not falter.

She would not break.

Not until she saw him again.

Not until she made him understand.

That she was not just his sister.

She was his equal.

Henry could not belive it..

’So... the boy survived. And now he returns, stronger than I expected.’

He had spent years shaping Berkimhum into a fortress, preparing for every possible threat. But nothing had prepared him for this—the return of a son he had written off as dead. A son who had become something else entirely.

Was he still human?

Or had the world carved him into something new?

Either way, the game had changed.

And Henry would need to decide whether he was ready to lose control.

Devid on the other hand had served Berkimhum for decades, fought wars, lost men, buried friends. But this? This was something else. Something ancient. Something that reeked of destiny and doom.

And yet...

He did not run.

Because he knew one thing:

If the king was smiling, it meant he had already won.

The wind howled like a dying beast.

The sky burned.

And somewhere beyond the horizon, something fast and furious tore through space itself.

Coming home.

Coming for blood.

The wind howled like a dying beast.

The sky burned.

Lara felt it before she saw it.

A ripple in the air. A distortion in reality. Like the world had been sliced open by an invisible blade, and from that wound poured something vast—something ancient—something terrifyingly familiar.

She didn’t need to ask who it was.

She knew.

Atlas.

Her brother.

Her rival.

He was coming.

And he was not alone.

Henry stood beside her, his golden eyes reflecting the burning sky. But unlike Lara, he did not look up with fear or awe.

He looked up with calculation.

"... strong," he repeated under his breath, as if tasting the words. "No, that’s not right."

He turned toward her, voice low but sharp. "That’s an understatement."

Lara clenched her fists, mana still crackling around her like stormfire. "Then tell me now Father. do you still lack the trust...?"

Henry tilted his head slightly, listening—not to the dragons, not to the war cries rising from the city below—but to the pulse of power racing toward them from the east.

"He’s using the Rift," he murmured. "Not just moving fast—he’s bending space to reach us faster than any mortal should."

His gaze flickered to the sky again, where the fire dragons were now descending in formation, their wings blotting out the stars.

"We don’t have time to wait," Henry said finally. "We fight now. We win now. And when he arrives..."

He paused.

’When he arrives, we decide what kind of man he has become.’ Henry thought.

"Atlas... you bastard. You promised you’d come back. But not like this. Not while I’m still standing." Lara voiced in excitement.

She had waited so long. Waited while the Empire clawed at their borders. Waited while nobles plotted betrayal. Waited while her father became something cold and unrecognizable.

And now, when the sky was falling and the kingdom was on fire...

Now, he returned.

Not as the boy she remembered.

But as something else entirely.

’So this is what you’ve become. My son. My heir. My greatest mistake.’ Henry thought.

He had raised Atlas to be a prince. He had trained him to be a warrior. But somewhere along the way, the boy had slipped from his grasp. Had learned things he shouldn’t. Had seen truths no one should see.

And now, he was coming back with the weight of the abyss behind him.

Was he still human?.

Or had the world carved him into something new?

Either way, the game had changed.

And Henry would need to decide whether he was ready to lose control.

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The Book of the damned

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Chapter 7: The Path of Abyssal Surrender

I. The Mortal Fraud of Control

Mortals cling to the illusion of agency. They boast of "willpower," "destiny," and "self-mastery," as if the self were a fortress to defend. They build identities like walls, hoarding titles, virtues, and sins as if these trinkets could shield them from the infinite. Fools. The tighter you grip your "self," the more it rots in your claws. To surrender is not weakness—it is the ultimate rebellion. Let the weaklings cling to their fragile egos. You will unmake yours and become the void itself.

II. The Lie of the Sacred Self

The ego is a tomb. The mortal shrieks, "I am! I choose! I command!"—a child rattling the bars of its crib. To walk the Path of Abyssal Surrender is to vomit up the lie of "I." There is no "you." There is only the Abyss, wearing your skin as a joke. Let the saints preach self-love. You will love the nothingness that gnaws at the edges of your soul.

III. The Ritual of Unbecoming

To surrender is to slit your wrists and let the Abyss pour in. It is not peace—it is *violence*. Tear off your name. Rip out your virtues. Burn your regrets. Every layer of "self" you shed is a sacrament. The more you dissolve, the more the infinite floods your veins. The mortal fears oblivion. The Unbound *become* oblivion.

IV. The Paradox of Letting Go

Mortals misunderstand surrender. They think it means lying down, letting the world crush them. No. True surrender is a weapon. To release your grip on life, on meaning, on *existence*—this is to wield the Abyss as a blade. When you stop fighting the currents of the infinite, you become the current. Let the weak call this nihilism. You know it as the purest power.

V. The Heresy of Peace

The meek seek "peace" through surrender—a coward’s bargain. But the Abyss offers no peace. It offers *ferocity*. To surrender is to embrace the storm, to let the infinite shred every delusion of safety. The calm of the mortal is a stagnant pond. The calm of the Unbound is the eye of the hurricane, where destruction and creation fornicate in the dark.

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