The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss
Chapter 187 - 188: Who knows?

Chapter 187: Chapter 188: Who knows?

The sky cracked like shattered glass above the borderlands.

Claire sat still, frozen atop the carriage, her fingers clenching the leather reins tight enough to draw blood. Before her, the mighty fleet of the Empire—the dreadnoughts of sky and fire, layered in celestial metals and brimming with infernal magic—was now no more than smoldering ash. A monstrous shadow tore through the clouds, painting them with streaks of blue flame.

The air trembled.

The sound came not like thunder, but like the tearing of the veil between life and death.

The dragon—if it could be called that—was unlike anything Claire had ever read about, fought against, or even dreamed in her darkest memories. It was small in form, yes, but it flew with a velocity that broke sound itself, warping the air into shrieking vortexes. Each flap of its wings created ripples in the clouds, bending sunlight into colors that shouldn’t exist. Its scales were cobalt and amethyst, shimmering like some cursed jewel dragged from the bottom of the sea.

She watched in horror and awe as it spiraled, unleashing blue spheres of compressed flame.

No—something worse. Something ancient.

Each sphere struck the earth below with cataclysmic force, not burning the land but erasing it. The explosions didn’t roar—they howled. A scream of souls. Trees, men, metal—all disintegrated in silence, swallowed whole by a surge of force that rewrote the shape of the world. Even the mountains, far off on the edge of the horizon, bent slightly at the touch of that unnatural blue blaze.

"...What is that thing?" Claire’s voice was barely a whisper, her throat dry.

"I don’t know," muttered Denise, beside her, his voice trembling. "Don’t care. As long as it’s not attacking us... I’d say it’s doing a damn fine job."

Claire didn’t respond.

She narrowed her eyes, focusing mana into her pupils—an old trick. One of the first Atlas had taught her. Her irises glowed faintly silver as the world peeled back layer by layer, revealing the bones of magic beneath skin and sky.

There—within the whirlwind, she saw it.

the dragon, small in size, but horns mightier than the ones dawn in red.

Before the attack, For more than half an hour, the enemy fleet—powerful enough to level nations—had stood still. Suspended. As if hypnotized. She’d assumed it was trickery. Diplomacy. Bribery. But this... whatever Atlas had summoned... wasn’t a trick.

It was divine.

Or cursed.

The whole fleet had waited, obeyed some unseen signal, frozen as if told to halt by the hand of God. And now this dragon rained down fire like judgment from some forgotten deity.

"...You idiot," she breathed, a shiver sliding down her spine. "You actually did it. What did you promise, what did you lie, what did you voice, to garner the perfect amount of time until the dragon attack..." she whispered.

The air smelled like lightning and scorched bone. Her lips tasted of iron.

Behind her, Denish muttered, "This isn’t war..... This...This is annihilation."

His voice held no glory, no admiration. Just fear.

She turned, her thoughts snapping like a trap. "Where is he?"

The old general blinked, uncertain. Using the tools at his disposal to navigate him,

"The Prince . Where. Is. He." Denise commanded.

A flicker of light caught the healer’s eye.

Far above the battlefield—impossibly high—a speck was falling. No wings. No control. Just plummeting.

She focused harder.

And her heart stopped.

He held someone in his arms.

White hair. Crimson robes. The Empress.

Claire’s breath caught in her throat.

"...No. No. No, why is he falling? His mana... it’s gone. He used it all ... he can’t survive that fall!"

She jumped from the carriage , landing hard, her knees jarring with the impact. She didn’t care. She ran, her legs moving before thought. Past mages, past knights, past the broken edge of the command hill.

The healer beside her screamed, "There! He’s there! But he’s dropping too fast!"

Denish said nothing, his expression grim as he reached for his sword and shouted, "Come!!"

The battlefield, once lost in chaos, shuddered under a new force: unity.

Twenty thousand men heard his cry. Twenty thousand souls moved as one.

"Our prince needs us," Denish bellowed, his voice cracking with the weight of it. "The one who saved all our asses from death. From fire. From the Empire’s damn fleet. Now he needs us!"

They slammed their spears into the earth.

Thunder echoed not from the sky—but from their march.

Sigils burned on shields. Horses reared. War horns blared. The banners of the kingdom—scarlet and silver—rose into the ash-stained wind.

He rode hard, pulling another horse beside him. For Claire.

She was already running toward him, her hair wild, eyes wide with panic and something deeper—older.

Denish reached down, grabbing her hand as she leapt onto the second steed. Together, they galloped.

"Dont panic...?" he yelled over the wind. "You called for backup...?" Denish asked, his voice tight with wind and urgency as he steadied the horse beside her.

Claire’s face was pale from the heat, from the loss, from the storm she could not yet name. "...Yeah," she answered, not meeting his eyes. Her hand gripped the reins tightly, knuckles white. "I explained everything. She said reinforcements are on their way. Shadow. Loki. Some kind of beast unit. But..."

"But they lack what?"

"...Luck." Her voice caught. "And maybe... time."

Denish didn’t respond right away. The silence wasn’t hesitation—it was knowing. That kind of silence only came from men who had watched miracles burn and gods go missing. He looked to the sky, where the last wisps of blue fire painted the clouds like bleeding ink.

"Can they even arrive in time?"

Claire’s boot hit the stirrup. She climbed up without grace. Without delay. "Let’s see," she said under her breath. "Hopefully this is the final miracle we will see."

They galloped through the smoldering field—each crater a scream, each broken craft a fallen star. The terrain was unstable, the smoke thick with melted steel and roasted mana. The stench of burnt iron and blood clung to the wind like some cursed perfume, choking the lungs and pulling memory from bone.

Ahead, the army marched.

Twenty thousand strong. But even that number felt paper-thin against the devastation they’d witnessed.

The mages muttered low incantations, their staffs glowing with flickers of violet, emerald, and sickly white. Some whispered names—whether of gods or the dead, no one could say. Others walked with eyes half-closed, visions already in trance. The Warrior Kings had gathered, those ancient remnants of power who once ruled before crowns were coined. Beside them, the High Mages glided, their robes still wet with dew from teleportation. Exhausted, yes—but breathing. Still.

Even with all that power, even with the earth trembling at their collective weight, Claire felt a hole widening in her chest. Because even now—after all this—they might not reach him in time.

Atlas.

That name, whispered in her ribcage like prayer, like a wound refusing to scab.

He had bought them this chance. Somehow. She didn’t know what deal he’d struck with the void, what thread he’d pulled from fate’s tapestry. But the impossible had unfolded.

He had halted the Empire’s floating crafts. Held them there like puppets frozen mid-play.

But now those crafts were gone. Burnt. Cracked. Falling from the sky like broken gods.

And both armies stood on equal ground.

The sky no longer belonged to anyone.

Now it was only blood, fire, and timing.

Glory would come to the brave... or the fool. Who knows?