The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 60: Let there be War.

Atlas smiled as he deactivated his skill. For a moment or so, he felt what she felt—her worry, her fear, her love for him coursing through like an unbroken thread between two souls. It wasn’t just empathy; it was intimacy. A connection so raw and vivid that it startled him. He hadn’t known this would happen when he used the ’Observer Perspective’.The depth of her emotions hit him harder than any physical force ever could.

Her love for him was palpable, suffocating in its purity. Palpable enough to make his chest tighten with both gratitude and guilt.

"Well, didn’t know having a loving sister would be such a pain in the ass," he muttered under his breath, but his lips betrayed him, curving into a grin he couldn’t suppress even if he tried. Not because it was forced or performative—it was genuine. Genuine in a way that felt foreign yet deeply familiar.

For once, Atlas realized he wasn’t alone. Someone cared for him. Someone had walked through fire—literally—to save him. Someone sacrificed their safety to ensure his own. And somehow, absurdly, he found it precious. Endearing. Finally, he understood what family truly meant.

"I will start crying if I keep this up," Atlas thought, shaking his head. "Come on, don’t act like a child... You’re a grown man." But the lump in his throat refused to dissolve. His eyes stung faintly, though no tears fell. Tears weren’t his style, but the weight of emotion pressed against his ribs like a vice.

{{{...}}}

Atlas exhaled slowly, collecting himself. Time here was slippery—slower, faster, who knew? Only God—or perhaps something far crueler—could answer how long he’d have to wait until he reclaimed his body. Yet now, at least, he could connect with others. He could see beyond the void, observe those still tethered to reality.

"Use ’Observer Perspective’ on Henry."

[[Observer Perspective activated...

Target ’Henry’ ...

Analyzing if the Target is influenced by the Host or not...

Analyzing finish, low influence. Access granted for observation only.

Acquiring Target...

Successful!]]

Instantly, his surroundings shifted again. Darkness gave way to light—a dim, flickering glow emanating from chandeliers hanging high above a grand meeting hall. The air smelled faintly of aged wood, polished marble, and the faint metallic tang of wine spilled unnoticed onto the tablecloth. His vision sharpened gradually, revealing Henry seated upon the throne, frail and ghostlike. Around him sat nobles of Berkimhum’s highest order: the four Marquises, true Dukes loyal to the crown, and Claire, whose sharp gaze cut through the tension like a blade.

The murmurs of the gathered elite filled the room, echoing off stone walls adorned with banners bearing faded crests. Each voice carried its own strain of frustration, accusation, and thinly veiled ambition. The atmosphere crackled with unease, thick as storm clouds before lightning strikes.

He gazed upon Claire first. Her purple hair shimmered faintly in the candlelight, strands escaping her usually immaculate braid. Fatigue shadowed her eyes, dark smudges beneath them betraying sleepless nights spent navigating crises.

She stared blankly ahead, fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest of her chair—a gesture Atlas recognized as impatience masked as composure.

Beside her stood Commander David, tall and imposing, his armor gleaming despite the dim lighting. His hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword, ready to intervene should tempers boil over further.

"The Empire proclaims we still hold their Empress captive!" growled Oxford, one of the Dukes. His crimson hair flared wildly around his face, matching the fury simmering in his red-rimmed eyes. "How ludicrous is it that we have nothing to show or prove?"

"Oxford, please," another Duke interjected, his tone clipped. Blue eyes darted nervously across the room. "You speak as though we did indeed kidnap her—which, apparently, isn’t possible at all."

"And why is that?" Claire finally spoke, her words dripping venom like honey laced with poison. The entire room fell silent, every noble turning toward her with varying degrees of apprehension.

"Because..." the second Duke hesitated, swallowing hard. "The Empress herself is a warrior of the highest class. Nobody is foolish enough—" freewёbnoνel.com

"Stop pretending to be so smart while we all know your bullshit," Oxford snapped, slamming his fist onto the table. Wine sloshed over the rim of his glass, staining pristine white linen. "My daughter Kury alone can take the Empress on. Such blasphemy against our kingdom’s might is ’unacceptable!"’.

As the argument escalated, Henry stirred weakly in his seat. His skeletal frame seemed barely able to support itself, let alone command authority. Still, when he raised a trembling hand, the room obeyed instinctively. Commander David bellowed,

"SILENCE!" The word thundered through the chamber, silencing everyone instantly.

Henry surveyed the assembly with a gaze heavy enough to crush mountains. Despite his frailty, his presence radiated power—an invisible sword poised at each noble’s neck. When his eyes landed on Claire, however, they softened infinitesimally. Only she and Isabella knew the truth about the missing Empress. Only they bore witness to the secrets festering beneath Berkimhum’s facade.

He had hoped. His son could come in time. But after the news of the demon attack, he knew that coming back alive was impossible. Encounter with disaster the moment he stepped out of the kingdom—such bad luck.

’I only hope Lara comes back...’ Henry thought in prayer, his voice a whisper carried away by the oppressive weight of the room.

Atlas felt his thoughts through their tenuous connection, disappointment simmering beneath the surface. Here he was, fighting tooth and nail to survive, while his so-called father had already labeled him dead. The bitterness stung sharper than any blade.

Henry stood up, taking his cane in hand. "Let’s not focus on the past, my lords. A disaster is coming to our doorstep."

His words hung heavy in the air, each syllable laden with unspoken truths. The Empire had never lost a war in decades, swallowing kingdoms whole under the guise of noble intentions. And now this nonsense about them kidnapping the Empress—it was nothing but a bloody excuse for an attack.

A thunderous silence gripped the marble hall. Nobles clad in velvet and armor shifted uneasily as Henry, pale but radiant with feverish intensity, rose from his throne. His voice, though weakened by illness, still commanded attention like thunder rolling across plains.

"Lords and Ladies of the Blood—scions of fire, heirs to the hunger that carved this kingdom from the jaws of oblivion—look upon me now. A king on death’s doorstep, yes. A shadow of the titan who once split mountains with his wrath? ’Never.’"

He slammed his fist against his chest, the clang of armor echoing like a funeral bell reverberating off the walls. The sound seemed to pierce through the very souls of those present, forcing them to confront the truth they’d been avoiding.

"Do you think the Empire trembles at the sight of my frailty? Do their spies smirk as I cough blood into silken handkerchiefs? ’Good.’ Let them believe their victory is written in the stars. But you and I—we know the truth. We are not men and women. We are ’forces.’ Storms wrapped in flesh. And storms do not ’die’—they ’gather.’"

The air grew colder as if the storm itself had entered the chamber, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth and lightning-charged ozone. Each breath felt heavier, charged with anticipation.

Henry raised the ’Ring of Authority’, its gemstone blazing like captured lightning—a copy of the ring he had entrusted to Atlas. The light refracted across the room, casting jagged shadows that danced eerily along the walls.

"Centuries ago, our ancestors stood where you stand now. Not in gilded halls, but knee-deep in the muck of the Dark Continent. They fought beasts that drank lava, demons that wore kings as puppets. And when the Empire’s forefathers came begging for scraps of our power, did we kneel? ’No.’ We devoured their fear and spat back crowns!"

The memory surged within everybody—an echo of battles long past, blood-soaked fields stretching endlessly under smoke-filled skies. He remembered how the earth shook with every clash of steel, how the cries of the fallen mingled with the roar of triumph. It wasn’t just history; it was a legacy etched into their soul.

Henry’s voice sharpened, cutting through the tension like a blade slicing silk. "The Empire declares war? Let them. They think us weakened by time, softened by silk sheets and pretty words. But I say to you—’this is our hour.’ The hour we remind them that Berkimhum’s soil is watered not with rain, but with the blood of cowards who dared underestimate us!"

He staggered forward, gripping the edge of the council table. Nobles leaned in, breathless, their faces illuminated by the flickering candles. Sweat trickled down Henry’s temples, mixing with streaks of dried blood. The metallic tang filled the air, sharp and acrid.

"You—Duke Oxford! You whose grandfather slaughtered ten thousand in the Crimson Marches. And you, Marquise Veyra, whose lineage forged this crown from dragonbone. Will you let the Empire paint our history as a ’tragedy’? Or will you rise—’again’—as the monsters they fear in their nightmares?"

Another cough wracked his body, violent enough to make several nobles flinch. Yet he straightened, eyes blazing like twin suns on the horizon.

"I may not live to see the final battle. But I will ’not’ die until I see this court aflame with the same fire that burned our enemies to ash at the Battle of Sundered Stars! The fire that turned traitors into legends and boys into kings!"

With a growl, he unsheathed his dagger, slamming it into the table. The blade sank to the hilt, quivering. The sound resonated deep within the bones of everyone present, a visceral reminder of what was at stake.

"Take up arms, my wolves. Sharpen your teeth on their legions. Let the Empire learn what we’ve always known: ’Berkimhum does not fall. Berkimhum ’feeds’.’"

A beat. Then softer, lethal as a shadow, he added, "And to any who doubt... remember this: I am Henry the First. And I will ’haunt’ your lineage until the Void Veil itself cracks if you falter."

The hall erupted in roars. Swords pounded shields, the cacophony drowning out even the loudest dissenters. The Marquise of Veyra tore her veil, crying, "For the Storm King!" Her voice cracked, raw with emotion.

Henry collapsed into his throne, laughing—a sound like gravel grinding against stone yet tinged with undeniable glory. His laughter faded into a wheezing sigh, and he whispered hoarsely, almost to himself.

"....this presence.....Atlas, my boy... are you there...?"