The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss
Chapter 177 - 178: She’s Back

Chapter 177: Chapter 178: She’s Back

The sound of the engines huffed and puffed like iron beasts breathing in unison. The sky—once clear, once sovereign—was now cluttered with balloon-like skycrafts, vessels bloated with alchemy, wind crystals, and raw mana, slicing through the heavens with eerie grace. They coughed clouds of steam and magic into the air, painting long contrails that stank faintly of sulfur and lavender. This was not just war—it was spectacle. A new era of dominion.

It had taken centuries to dream it, decades to build it, and one woman’s madness to make it real. For no one in their right mind had believed humans could truly claim the sky—not in a world where dragons ruled the air like gods, where phoenixes burned holes through the clouds, and the phimosis circled high, winged serpents tasting the mana currents for prey. But that faithless assumption had died the moment she rose.

Eli—the Empress of Ash and Engine.

All it took was one innovation. One cursed miracle: fairy dust. Its scent—sharp as citrus, sweet as rot—sent even the eldest dragons fleeing. It disoriented the phimosis, drove the phoenixes mad. That scent was Eli’s vision, her gamble, her poisoned gift to the world. The scent of ambition.

She now sat upon her throne at the very peak of her flagship: Heartsbane. Ten times the size of the vessels in its wake, it was a city in the sky, a monolith of war. Magic-infused iron wrapped around dense mana shields, ten layers deep, pulsing like a second skin. Even the red dragons—the most vicious of their kind—splintered against its outermost shell like glass against obsidian.

Eli leaned back into her seat, head tilted to one side. A breeze of unnatural warmth spilled from the engine’s core. The vibrations of thousands of lives working below her feet gave the floor a faint hum. And then:

"...We are near, your imperial majesty..."

The voice belonged to a mage—black hair streaked with gold, shoulders curled inward like a hound trying to disappear. His voice was thin, like parchment stretched too far. Eli turned her gaze on him slowly.

She took out a length of rope—her rope. Not ceremonial. Not symbolic. Just coarse, old rope. She stretched it lazily, letting it scrape against the floor. Then, without a word, she binded the mage below her feet.

He flinched as if expecting a whip, but no blow came. Only silence. Silence and the weight of her contempt.

He remained kneeling, trembling, unsure if the pain would come later, or if this was worse: to be beneath her gaze and yet invisible.

She knew what broke men. Not pain. Not powerlessness. Confusion. When loyalty became performance, when humiliation was repackaged as ritual, men crumbled. He was already half-dust.

"How long until we reach the Berkimhum territory... the land of the conquered... Number Five?"

Her voice was like velvet soaked in acid. Beautiful, but cutting.

The pilots—three of them, the best in the Empire—coordinated the course of the fleet. They had invented a new discipline: Piloting. No horses, no sails. Only mind, motion, and mana linked by symbiotic bindings. They whispered among themselves before one spoke aloud:

"...Two hours. Twenty-six minutes, Your Imperial Majesty."

Eli arched a brow.

"Hmmm... Use the exhaust. Make it one hour."

The command left no room for interpretation.

The pilots stiffened. One hesitated. Then, as though controlled by invisible strings, they bent back to work. None dared disobey her. There were no second chances beneath her sky.

The chained mage’s staff began to glow, a flicker of indigo fire snaking up the wood.

"Yo... Your Highness... the Warmaster is attempting to relay contact."

Eli didn’t answer. Instead, she walked towards the wide viewing panel at the edge of the command room. The floor beneath her shifted slightly as the vessel passed through a gust of cold mana wind. Her breath fogged the window faintly.

And then—there it was.

The green cradle of Berkimhum. Rolling plains, sprawling woods, rivers that shimmered with mana. The land itself pulsed with life. Birds circled far below. Beasts roamed in lazy herds. Monsters of every stripe burrowed, crawled, flew.

And beyond it all: the border of the Dark Continent. Once a curse. Now a bleeding artery of power.

She remembered the past with bitter clarity. Once, any trade with the Dark Continent had to pass through Berkimhum’s gates. Now, the Empire needed no such permission. They had learned. Adapted. Consumed.

Every resource, every child’s breath, every copper coin had been poured into this war machine. Every defeat had carved the blueprint of eventual victory. And still... still Berkimhum resisted. That cursed land. That cursed legacy. Following from her grandfather to her.

"At first, it was the Hero who defeated the Demon Kings," she murmured to herself, hands folded behind her back.

She could still see his face—etched in old tapestries and half-true legends. The King with his sword, whose blade drank lies and shone with memory.

Then came his son, Henry. Wily, patient, devastating. A king who brought peace but not surrender. His hammer silenced armies.

And now...

"...Atlas. That monster."

The words left her mouth like ash. _{fre ewe bnove l.com}

She remembered him vividly—not the way the world saw him, not the stories they told. No, she remembered the curve of his jaw as he dreamed with eyes open. The reckless, shining mind that turned impossibilities into plans. His smile—half curse, half prayer. And the way his blood had burned on her skin the night he almost didn’t make it out.

Atlas. Always Atlas.

She clenched her jaw. There was a taste in her mouth like old iron. Regret? Lust? Or just the knowledge that if he were alive—truly alive—he would burn her fleet with a single gesture.

"He won’t stop until the very end," she whispered. "Not even then."

The mage, having recovered some courage, crawled forward again.

"Your Empress... it’s... Doctor Vale."

That gave her pause.

She turned back. Her voice, when she spoke, was steel dipped in delight.

"...Yes? Uh huh... okay... oh! Hahahaha... You are indeed a genius. I expect nothing less."

A brief silence followed. Then:

"So when will he be battle ready?"

Her voice turned cold.

"Where I got the genes? It’s none of your business... is it? Just make the new Prime battle-ready as possible."

A pause. Then a smile.

"Okay. Thank you for your service."

She cut the link. Her fingers drummed once, twice on the wood of her throne.

She knew it would work. She had submitted the gene sample herself. What little remained of Atlas still clung to her—not in memory, not in longing, but in mucus, blood, and biological fragments. She had wept when her period came that week. But strategically, it was a good outcome.

No pregnancy. No delay. No vulnerability.

Yet still, she was enough. Enough to replicate him. To twist the miracle he once was into something useful.

She turned, the pilot giving a bow for his announcement.

"Your Majesty... we have arriv—"

BOOOOOOOOOOOM.

A shockwave split the sky.

Eli barely registered it before the ship lurched, the whole left side of Heartsbane shuddering like a giant struck by a hammer. Alarms flared—arcane sirens screeching like banshees. Mana trembled across the hull like ripples across water.

She stumbled once. Just once.

Glass shattered. Somewhere below, a pilot screamed.

Outside the window, smoke trailed from the ground below. One of the mid-tier ships had erupted into a rain of molten metal and shredded canvas. Debris flared against the sun.

And then she saw it—cutting through the cloud like a living comet.