The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 166 - 167: Do or Die

The wind carried the char of burnt metal and mana, each breath a taste of war, bitter and sharp like crushed bone. The crater still smoked, the ash curling upward like incense from a godless altar.

Number Seven opened her eyes, her body jerking upright, a thin sheet clinging to her naked form, barely shielding her from the cold bite of the imperial camp. Her muscles screamed, each breath was a punishment. Her lungs drew air like it were poison. Her ribs felt cracked. Her vision stuttered.

Atlas’s punches. His kicks. The sound of his bones meeting hers. His golden eyes. They clawed at her memories, raw and relentless. His voice echoed too: "I don’t need to beat you, Seven. I just need to make sure you remember this."

Her brother, Number Nine, his broken body in the crater, flashed behind her eyes, a wound that wouldn’t heal. She had called for him. He hadn’t answered.

"...What the... what the fuck just happened?" she rasped, her voice a cracked blade.

The tent reeked of blood, medicinal herbs, and old metal. The linen beneath her was coarse, soaked through in patches. Outside, the bustle of soldiers was constant. Boots on stone. Voices barking commands. Armor clanking like chains. The camp never slept. It only waited.

Knights stood guard outside. She could see the faint silhouette of one through the curtain. They looked away, not out of decency—Seven had never inspired that—but out of fear. Pure, bone-deep fear.

Her gaze swept the tent and caught sight of Number Ten, slumped beside her. His bare chest rose faintly, slower than it should. Tubes and glowing threads of mana ran from his side into the wall, pulsing like veins.

"Ten!" she shouted, her voice cracking, the fear hitting her before she could brace against it. She stumbled across the floor, falling beside him. "Oh, thank God..." Her hands hovered, uncertain if touching him would hurt more.

He didn’t answer, but a twitch in his lip confirmed it—he was alive. Barely.

Her relief curdled in seconds, hollowing out and making space for the rage to flood back in. Atlas. The mad prince. His fists, his taunts, the way he’d humiliated her. Her own face bruised and burning in memory.

She rose, the sheet slipping from her shoulders, naked and unashamed. Shame was a luxury. She didn’t feel shame.

Only fury.

The camp parted for her. Soldiers bowed. Knights dropped to one knee. Her body was bruised, bleeding in some places, but none of them dared speak. Her beauty was a blade. Her presence, a guillotine. She passed them like a storm cloud, barefoot in the dust, teeth clenched.

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears, like drums before war. She spotted him. Number Five.

He stood at the center of it all, black armor gleaming, his arms crossed, the blue in his eyes cold and unreadable. He was a statue of divine wrath. He watched her approach and did not blink.

"Where," she growled, teeth bared, voice shaking with fury, "where is that bastard?"

Five didn’t answer. He moved.

His boot struck her gut before she even realized it. The air fled her lungs. Her body flew. She landed hard, pain exploding through her ribs. The sheet tore away. She lay in the dirt, naked and gasping.

"Disobeying orders," Five said, stepping forward, voice a venomous hiss. "Letting emotions cloud your mind. And worst of all... losing. Losing to some filth from Berkimhum. Useless. Utterly useless."

Each word was a whip. Not just at her, but at himself.

His hand twitched near his sword. Not a threat—a temptation.

The memory of Claire’s explosion—that yellow sun, the shockwave that had torn through his body, the taste of his own lungs burning—haunted him. It lived in his blood now. Seven saw it. That fear. That hatred. But not directed at the enemy.

Directed inward.

Seven spat blood, her naked body trembling, but she didn’t rise. Not yet.

"The Empress," Five said, louder now. A bellow. It silenced the camp like thunder. "The Empress arrives soon. We need him in custody. Do you hear me?"

The name struck like a blade.

Seven froze.

The Empress.

Her rage drained, replaced by something colder. Sharper. The fear of disappointing the Empress was worse than any physical wound. Worse than death.

Slowly, painfully, she forced herself to her feet. The blood ran down her legs. Her body screamed. But she stood.

She bowed, head lowered. "....Whatever you say. I’ll follow."

Five stared at her for a long moment, then turned away. No forgiveness. No words.

He dismissed her like a broken tool.

But Seven wasn’t done.

Her heart pounded. Not with rage now. Not with pain.

With promise.

Atlas would pay. She would make sure of it. Carve the price of her failure into his bones.

.

.

.

Across the valley, on a scorched hill, Atlas crouched.

Fairy core dust swirled around him, the particles glowing faintly in the dusk light. Each breath was like breathing fire. The mana in the air stung his lungs. His wounds had stopped bleeding, but only because there was almost no blood left to give.

The healer knelt beside him, her green eyes glowing softly, her staff tapping the ground in a steady rhythm—tick, tick, tick. Like a countdown. Like a heartbeat.

Claire was gone, sent to rally what was left of their forces and also...preparing . Her explosion still lingered in the air like a ghost, yellow mist curling over the ruins.

Atlas’s body was a ruin of its own. The virus screamed inside him, Yggdrasil barely keeping pace. [Healing mitigated... process... healing continued... 2.5%]

His stats were pitiful, but getting better Bone 160. Muscle 180.

But his mind... his mind was fire. Schematics. Energy. Propulsion. Fairy-core compression. It all lived there now. He’d memorized it the second before the blast. He’d seen the airship’s beating heart. And that was enough.

"They’re alive," the healer said, her voice soft and steady. "All three. Moving already."

Atlas smiled.

A slow, cruel thing. "Fucking primes," he muttered. "Tough bastards."

His golden eyes scanned the camp below. Truth Eyes flaring red.

He saw Seven bowing, naked, her skin bruised, her head low. Ten beginning to stir. Five, standing tall, cold and unbroken.

Atlas’s smile widened, sharp as glass.

He held the three crimson vials Claire had given him. The liquid shimmered like bottled war. He asked for more, but she warned, in the end, he took it all. Drank them one by one like some free liquor.

His nerves already hummed. But he wasn’t done.

The healer glanced at him, her breath catching. "Six minutes," she said, barely a whisper. "That’s how long I can keep healing."

Atlas nodded.

"Good," he said. "Keep up."

He cracked open the first vial.

It burned his throat like liquid lightning. Mana surged. His vision blurred. His spine arched. Every cell screamed. The virus raged, trying to consume the potion’s power. Yggdrasil fought back.

His flesh split open. Then sealed. Then split again.

The healer placed her hand on his chest. Her staff glowed. Warmth spread through him like candlelight in a storm.

"You’re insane," she whispered.

Atlas laughed. A jagged, broken sound. "Insane’s my best feature."

The horizon trembled.

The airship’s hum was returning. A low thrum like a god clearing its throat. Somebody was coming. And he felt it, her presence, ever so far but ever so near.

Atlas stood.

Every joint ached. Every bone cracked. His smile was a promise of ruin.

"Let’s give ’em a welcome party," he said, cracking his knuckles.

The wind howled.

And in that breathless quiet between beats, somewhere deep in the haze of dying stars and broken gods, an ancient laughter stirred.

A whisper from the dust, watching as the universe braced for its breaking.

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