The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss
Chapter 180 - 181: I missed you

Chapter 180: Chapter 181: I missed you

A warrior king I was. S+ rank, they revered me, named me as such. My brutal strength—yes, it came to use. To many, it was a gift. To me... a curse. A thing with teeth. But curse or gift—it didn’t matter in the end. I never let it burn me. I never let it define me. I used it. Hammered it into shape. Turned it into glory.

I stood atop battlefields bathed in smoke and screams, armor seared by fire and time. I earned fame. I bled for it. I wore medals—gilded things from nobles and the high-born who never knew the sting of ash on skin. Even the Empress herself... she bowed her head in honor of my strength once. Just once. And I bowed lower. View the correct content at f.reewebn.ovel.co\m

I married a noble lady. Beautiful. Gentle. Nothing like me. Her hands were silk, not calloused. She gave me children. Two sons. One daughter. The eldest only five, already lifting wooden swords with frightening ease. Gifted—like their father.

And I watched them. In the garden. Their mother laughing under sunlight. Their little feet pounding dirt. Flowers flattened under joy. I watched... from the stone steps. Happy. Whole.

Were they... memories?

{{{{{{You lived your life well...}}}}}}

The voice was soft, almost amused.

I turned.

He stood beside me like he’d always been there. The Mad Prince. Atlas. But no. I knew. My blood—what remained of it—knew.

This wasn’t him.

It was death.

"...oh... I died?" I asked, voice strangely calm. Like an old general hearing the final trumpet.

{{{{{{{....sadly yes.}}}}}}}}

Cold voice. A shrug wrapped in skin. His face was Atlas’s, but the soul behind the eyes was colder than winter steel.

"...so you really were that strong...ha..." I chuckled, breathless. "There’s always someone stronger.....?"

{{{{{{{{.....not me...}}}}}}}}

He tapped the side of his head, his mouth curving in a grimace.

{{{{{{{....but yeah. He’s strong. And he’ll keep getting stronger. Increasing my workload.}}}}}}}}

"Haha... well," I whispered, eyes drifting back to the garden fading behind me. "I led a happy life. No regrets. I suppose... the stories were true. Your life really ’does’ flash before your eyes when death comes."

{{{{{{{{.....this should be a secret, but anyways... ready to go?}}}}}}}}

He stretched a hand toward me. His fingers—Atlas’s fingers—gloved in something darker than shadow.

"...okay."

And in reality—

The night wind howled. Trees bent like they feared what they had just witnessed. Even silence broke.

Eight feet of pure muscle crumpled. A body, once called unkillable, fell like a monument toppling under thunder. A deep thud echoed like finality through the gathering.

Atlas stood still. His arm soaked in gore. His breathing uneven, but his face unreadable.

In his hand... a heart. Large. Dense. Still twitching faintly in the open air, as if it refused to accept death.

"...it’s my first time... seeing a heart this big," Atlas said softly. His voice echoed oddly—detached, almost childlike wonder clinging to it. He crushed the organ slowly, watching it collapse inward like wet paper. Blood painted his jawline, dripped down his neck, soaked his sleeve.

The crowd didn’t speak. Not even the wind dared interrupt.

"So... anybody next?" Atlas asked. His voice sharp now—cutting through silence like a guillotine. The King’s Aura clung to him, invisible but felt, a dread so thick it tasted like iron on the tongue. And then—

He surged it.

Half of his points, cast into the abyss of his dwindling mana pool, to evolve it. And the fear mutated. From king to emperor.

The Empress’s knights—the elite, even them—stepped back. Their knees betrayed them before pride could catch up. The very air shifted. Denser. Heavier. As if the gods themselves leaned closer to watch. \(n)ovel(.)co(m)

Inside, Atlas’s heartbeat screamed.

’Fuck—fuck—fuck. That was the last of my strength. My legs are gonna buckle if someone so much as breathes near me. Take the bait. Please—please—take the fucking bait...’

But outside—

A calm demon stood, covered in blood, back straight, eyes half-lidded like the world bored him.

"Your Majesty," a high mage called out, finally snapping the tension, "this is ridiculous! Everyone here is useless! Let me end this!"

But Elizabeth raised her hand. A single gesture. Enough to silence all.

Her heels clicked forward on blood-slick stone. Her robe billowed softly, brushing past shell casings, ash, and history.

"Stand down," she said without looking at the mage. "He is not here to kill. If he were... half of us would be dead already."

She stopped. Five feet away from him.

"Am I wrong... Prince of Berkimhum? Atlas?"

’.....Bait. Taken.’he thought.

Atlas didn’t even let himself smile. But inside, a shout of triumph roared so loud it nearly tore through his mask.

He bowed his head slightly. Not in surrender. In respect. "The Empress is wise...."

He walked forward, each step parting the crowd like knives through silk. His bloody hand still dripping. His breath shallow. His vision wobbling just slightly—he forced it still.

They stood five feet apart.

And for a second—just a second—they were not monarchs.

"...you still look so beautiful," he whispered.

The words were a soft arrow. One that found its mark.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly. Her pulse betrayed her. Heat surged to her ears, red blooming along her skin. She kept still. Dignity bound her limbs like iron chains. But inside, she wanted—ached—to fall into him. To forget roles. To let it all break.

But she couldn’t. Not here.

"...compliment received," she said, voice crystalline. "Prince of Berkimhum."

There was a brief pause. The battlefield held its breath with them.

"...so. Are you giving up these lands?" she asked finally. "Have you changed your mind? Or do you want your army behind the hills to die like your ten thousand soldiers before?"

Atlas sighed. Quietly. Deeply. His lungs ached from holding everything in.

"...the topic is still at hand. But I want to discuss this matter... privately. If you will."

A ripple went through the crowd.

"What—you dare—!" the same high mage began, furious, but—

Elizabeth’s glance. Razor sharp. That was all it took.

Then her voice, calm as winter rain: "...if the discussion is about lands, I want to add more things. Like access to the Dark Continent. And a hostage. Until our demands are met."

Atlas closed his eyes. His jaw clenched. His patience cracked—but only on the inside.

’Of course. She wants blood for every inch of soil. And a hostage on top. Still the same ruthless Empress...’

"...okay," he said, eyes reopening. "Let us discuss."

Elizabeth smiled. Not triumph. Not cruelty. Something else. Something older. Older than kingdoms.

"...okay then," she echoed.

She turned to Mary, her aide.

"Hover us up to the aircraft."

"...but Your Majes—" Mary faltered.

Elizabeth turned her eyes toward her, and the girl froze.

"Do I look weak?"

The words didn’t need to be shouted. They were gravity.

Mary’s head lowered. "N..No, I’m sor....sorry, Your Majesty."

"Be more useful than sorry," Elizabeth muttered.

The spell activated. A soft hum vibrated through the air. Light wrapped around them, a gentle vortex of shimmering runes. And slowly, they began to lift.

Atlas and Elizabeth, rising upward.

The earth faded beneath them. Soldiers, nobles, blood, corpses—all became ants.

But their eyes never left each other.

And in the silence of elevation, without the noise of war or roles, he finally said it. Low. Barely audible.

"I missed you...."