The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss
Chapter 179 - 180: True Royalty

Chapter 179: Chapter 180: True Royalty

Claire stepped forward, her boots pressing into the churned ash and trampled mud that still reeked of mana burn and blood. The wind was colder here, not from temperature but from memory, from the absence of him. The remnants of the army stood scattered like broken teeth—some seated, some still staring at the horizon, some bandaged, most silent.

General Denish sat beneath a scorched war banner, his arm freshly wrapped and blood seeping through the gauze. The healers around him moved with purpose, eyes sunken, lips drawn tight. The war had not ended. It had paused. And everyone feared what would come next.

"Where is the prince?" Denish asked, the question weighted, not by urgency but by disbelief. His voice was low, hoarse, but it cut the air like flint.

Claire didn’t answer at first.

She only looked out toward the dark swell of smoke. A towering mushroom cloud of ash and broken sky still reached upward like the memory of a scream that wouldn’t end. That was where she’d left him.

Her fingers clenched slowly. She could still feel the warmth of his hand pressing hers before he let go. The force with which he pushed her back, the look in his eyes. That wasn’t trust. That was a man trying to carry the apocalypse alone.

She had begged to stay. Pleaded. Cursed. But he had just smiled—that terrible smile of conviction masking something close to resignation—and told her to believe in him.

Believe in what?

That he’d die a martyr? That he’d buy them time with his body?

Or that, somehow, the mad prince would survive bargaining with whatever gods or demons still listened to broken men?

Even the Mother of Dragons—had made it clear. Her youngest dragons and the others would arrive late. Reinforcements would be delayed. They were walking into a slaughter with words for armor.

But still, Atlas insisted he could manage.

A selfless act. An arrogant one. And she couldn’t decide if she hated him for it or loved him more because of it.

"He will be fine... Commander," Claire said, her voice stretched thin. "Our royal line... Princess Lara and Prince Atlas... they are both miracle workers. There will be another miracle... I hope."

"Hope?" Denish repeated. The word sat bitter in his mouth. He received no reply.

Claire’s gaze did not leave the cloud.

"...Let the army be ready," she commanded at last, her voice suddenly sharp. Her spine straightened like drawn steel. "I spent millions on this army. On every sword, every forged armor, every cursed gem. Now is the time to make good use of it."

No more words.

Only movement.

Behind her, soldiers roused. Weapons checked. Magic recharged. Healers cried softly over the near-dead and pushed their limits for the still-breathing. Orders echoed. Squires ran with potions and scrolls. And the ground pulsed with gathering resolve.

Meanwhile, beneath the fractured sky, a lone healer collapsed beside her patient. The mana had drained her dry, her skin pale, eyes fluttering.

She fell—but a pair of hands caught her.

"...It’s enough now," Atlas said, his voice gentle but hoarse, barely masking the tremble in his bones. "You did your best."

The girl barely nodded before slumping near a pile of broken crates, sleeping in the shadow of war.

Atlas rose slowly. His legs still screamed with every motion. The virus laced in his veins—its origin unknown—ate at muscle and marrow alike. The pain was not in his bones. It was in his soul. But pain was irrelevant now.

He looked up.

The sky roared.

Airships descended like metal gods, blotting out the stars. Thick, armored vessels hovered with the grace of monsters, massive and humming with magictech runes, displacing the wind in chaotic spirals. From their bellies, soldiers dropped—sliding down blackened ropes like ants swarming from a corpse.

They landed near him.

But none saw him.

He watched quietly, cloak drawn in illusion, his presence veiled so precisely that not even mages sensed the shift in air where he stood.

They brought the best. He knew it without seeing their insignia. You could tell from the way they moved—clean, coordinated, without wasted motion. Shield units took point, mages fell back, archers ascended higher rocks. An empire’s finest.

But Atlas wasn’t here for the meal.

He was waiting for the main course.

And then he saw her.

Descending not with grace but with command. Hovering midair, framed by the glow of the enormous flagship behind her, Empress Elizabeth came down like judgment incarnate. Four mages encircled her—gold-tasseled robes, rings that shimmered with power, talismans carved with runes from forgotten ages. High Mages. And yet their presence paled next to hers.

The air itself bent.

She landed.

Atlas felt the wind shiver.

That ship... the flagship from which she descended—it wasn’t a vessel. It was a cathedral of war. Layered in plated obsidian armor and glowing crimson cores, a beast born of steel and sorcery. A calamity made by human hands.

"That... that’s going to be trouble," Atlas muttered under his breath.

He stepped forward, cloak falling away.

And the moon chose that moment to shine.

Its light fell like a divine spotlight, illuminating him as though the heavens had chosen a martyr. His body emerged from nothingness—bruised, limping, tattered—but his aura surged.

A blinding pulse.

"I’m here, Eli," he called out.

And for a heartbeat, the battlefield fell silent.

Elizabeth turned.

Her eyes widened—not in shock, but in a slow, blooming recognition. As if she’d known he would come. As if she’d waited.

Only after her gaze met his did the rest of the army notice.

And then they moved.

Knights. Mages. Archers. Even a few Warrior Kings. They formed a wall between them in seconds. No words. No hesitation. The path was blocked.

Atlas stopped.

He recognized many of them—names from history, from the game, from prophecy. Each one difficult. Each one lethal. Characters with plot armor, now in his path. The Empire had brought its deadliest. The most loyal. The most deluded.

"You loyalty will mean nothing if you die..." Atlas said, his voice shifting low, guttural, tinged with pain and fury. "...So I will ask kindly... to give me my FUCKING PATH."

His aura ignited.

[Prince’s Aura > King’s Aura]

The ground cracked.

Soldiers collapsed.

Like dominos their bodies buckled, not from damage but from weight. A pressure too thick, too heavy, too ancient. Knees gave out. Spears fell. Mages screamed mid-chant as their concentration shattered.

Even those who stood firm had blood running from their noses.

He kept walking.

Each step cost him a breath. His legs bled again. The virus clawed at him. But he moved.

Because that was all he could do.

A fool’s plan, Claire had said.

And maybe a fool he was.

But he walked.

The path opened. Not from will, but instinct. Like animals before a storm, they parted. Yet the way behind him closed just as fast.

Elizabeth watched.

And she smiled.

Not a cruel smile. Not victorious.

A smile painted in something far stranger—pride, pain, nostalgia. She didn’t lift a hand. She didn’t order his death. Not yet.

The four mages watched too.

"Why is nobody attacking him?" one whispered.

"Yeah... he’s just one guy..."

"Patience," the old man said. His beard was silver, but his eyes burned blue. "You are witnessing a prince....a true royalty in action."

Beyond them stood the decorated giants.

Warrior Kings.

Some seven feet tall. Some eight. Their armor glowed—not from enchantment alone—but from god-blessed runes etched into the metal. Divine sanction made manifest.

"You... you are no normal man," one of them said, stepping forward. His voice was iron wrapped in thunder.

"No, I’m not," Atlas replied calmly.

"But you’ll die like one."

And with those words, the axe came down. Heavy and Fast.