The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 156 - 157: Primes

At the Border.

Pierce...

The sound split the air like thunder cracking through bone. The spear didn’t just impale—it thrust with such force that it ripped through the shield, the spine, the ribs, and the emblazoned sigil of Berkimhum, punching through the soldier’s back with a sound that was not a scream, but a gargle—wet, raw, final.

His eyes widened, not in surprise, but in inevitability. He had trained for this. Had dreamt of dying in battle. But not like this. Not ’so easily.’ Not without seeing his enemy’s face while being killed.

The cold spearhead tore through his chest, emerging with a sickening ’crack’ right where his heart should’ve been—a gaping wound leaking crimson in spurts.

He stared down at the iron shaft protruding from his body. The pain was distant. Only the sound of blood—his blood—dripping onto dry leaves reached him now. Drip. Drip. Like rain in a drought.

’I’m sorry... Mother.’

The thought came softly, like a lullaby on his final breath. freёnovelkiss-com

’I didn’t protect the farm... didn’t make it back to see the harvest...’

Then there was nothing. Only the pull of silence, and the cold kiss of soil.

Swoop....

The spear was yanked back—not carefully, but with brutal, practiced force, the same way one might pull a weed from the earth. It arced through the air in a tight, elegant loop, trailing blood that shimmered like rubies in the dawnlight before splattering the mossy ground in a crude semi-circle.

Plop!

The soldier’s body collapsed, lifeless, limbs twisted, mouth still open. The blood spurted once more, thick and sudden, like a crushed fruit bursting under pressure.

The woman holding the spear didn’t flinch.

She exhaled once, nostrils flaring, before ’snapping her wrist’ and letting the momentum of the weapon’s return ’whip the blood away’ in a single, fluid motion. The sound was like silk being sliced—elegant, final.

"...These Berkimhum fuckers..." she muttered, voice devoid of rage, of satisfaction—of anything at all. Just a cold, mechanical ’observation’.

Her gaze swept the trees, narrowed beneath ash-colored bangs that clung to her sweat-slick skin. Her body armor was stained dark, but not from wounds—’from others’.

Her chest bore the number ’7’, etched in thin, raised script over the plated surface, glowing faintly like a scar that had refused to heal. Her ash-gray hair—so like Prime Nine’s in tone—clung damp to her neck, but her ’eyes’ were the most chilling part of her: ’deep navy’, but not the shade of oceans or twilight. No. They were void of light, of soul. ’Eyes that belonged to someone long dead.’

She was alone.

Not in location—others had fanned out across the forest—but in ’presence’. She was a monolith in a sea of meat. A scythe in a field of rot. Hundreds had already died by her hand. ’One by one. Quietly. Thoroughly.’ No flourish, no mercy.

Every death was a statistic. Every corpse, an obstacle cleared.

She stepped over the broken Berkimhum soldier, whose blood was now soaking the roots of a nearby tree. ’The air smelled of copper, old bark, and impending rot.’ Wind barely stirred; the forest held its breath.

The mission was simple: ’kill every last soldier in this scouting fleet’ before they could return and report. The Empire’s airborne units had already struck once. If word got out... their advantage would be gone.

Secrecy demanded brutality.

Her fingers twitched around her spear. The weapon was nearly as tall as she was, long and tipped with obsidian-lined steel. Light shimmered over its surface—an enchantment, maybe. Or maybe it was just blood still sliding from the edges.

"...Are you not done yet!!" she barked, voice cracking like a whip behind her.

Plap! Plap! Plap!

The echo of skin colliding echoed from a bit afar, beside the trees. A knight, with the number ten etched on his back, had his leather pants fallen to the ground.

Plap! Plap! Plap!

With brown hair and a fat but muscular physique, he was holding a female mage, a female mage of the Berkimhum Kingdom. Her clothes were stripped from top to bottom as he continued to plunge his waist into the poor woman, her body continuously humped from behind as she held onto the tree before her, in tears, helpless tears. She bit her lips, blood seeping from the edge of her lips.

Plap! Plap! Plap!

"Yeah... yeah..." the prime voiced in pure lustful joy, still humping the mage, grabbing her tits, grabbing them so hard it left marks on them. "...Gonna cum... gonna cu... uummm... OHHH!" With a final hump, he pushed his dick into her, staying in climax.

"...That... that was good..." he voiced. "Hey....hey do you wanna... join the empire?" the fat prime voiced, still holding her naked body like a toy he still wanted to use.

"I... I... would... rather... die..." the mage voiced, her sound dry and weak, as if all hope from her soul had been crushed.

"Oh well... I asked nicely," the prime voiced. Within milliseconds, he plunged a knife into her head, giving a clean, painless death. "A pity... such beauty and that pussy, God... but I ain’t a heckler," he voiced, gradually pulling his pants up, still gazing at her bleeding body on the ground.

"Haaa..." he sighed, dragging the sound like a groan wrung from a man pulled out of a warm bed and tossed into hell. "Yes, yes, I’m coming, gods above," he muttered, adjusting the straps of his breastplate as he moved through the underbrush, the tall trees casting wavering shadows across his path. "Can’t even let a man enjoy a few damn minutes to himself..."

His boots crunched against the scattered bones of fallen branches and charred moss. Blood still stained the edges of his knuckles. He didn’t wipe it away.

Ahead stood Prime seven, arms crossed, spear dug into the earth like a warning. Her eyes burned—navy, piercing, a glare sharp enough to skin bone. She didn’t move when he stopped a few paces away.

"You foul, lustful fiend," she snapped, her voice a whip, cold and furious. "We are on a mission, you piece of shi—"

But then it hit them.

’A pulse.’

Not through the air, not through sound or light—but deeper. ’Bone-deep. Soul-deep.’ A silent ripple that tore through their spinal cords, spreading like ice across glass.

Both Primes froze.

Their breath caught, suspended in the hollow between beats. For an instant, time thinned.

"...One of us died," Prime Ten murmured, his voice suddenly smaller, rougher, the words catching in her throat like barbed wire.

He said nothing at first. His fingers twitched once, just once, the tremor betraying the sudden tightness in his chest.

"...Impossible," she said again, but her voice had lost its edge. It came softer now, raw and unsure. "From this range... it’s... it’s Brother Nine."

A silence descended—not the kind that came before war, but the kind that followed the final breath of someone you never thought could fall.

Her chest tightened. ’She hated Nine.’ Arrogant bastard, always quiet, always two steps ahead. But ....Burpt he was her blood, her own brother . Their unit. Their blood. Their proof that death was something that only happened to mortals, not Primes.

Her mouth moved, trying to say something, anything—curse him, praise him, deny it—but nothing came. Her heart dipped, dropped, as if something had hollowed out the center and left a pit in its place.

Prime Ten’s jaw clenched.

"...No body. No confirmation. The signal might’ve glitched—"

"It didn’t glitch," he said, softly now. No teasing, no grin. "You felt it. I felt it. It was clean."

The kind of clean that only happened when a Prime’s core stopped resonating. When the ’thread tethering them to the others was severed.’ It was done purposefully. Reason unknown.

She turned, eyes scanning the horizon beyond the treeline, as if she’d see something—smoke, collapse, a trace of him. Nothing. Just the empty sway of trees.

"...Brother Nine," she whispered, not a name, but an ache.

And for the first time that day, the battlefield felt shallow . Too shallow .

Too quiet.

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