The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 159 - 160: Blood tells

The air was thick with the stench of scorched earth and betrayal, the battlefield a canvas of shattered bone and fairy core dust that glittered like a cruel jest.

Atlas Von Roxweld’s instincts screamed, his Truth Eyes catching the blur of a figure plummeting from the sky. A Prime. Not just any Prime—her mana was a furnace, her presence a blade pressed to the world’s throat.

He smiled, a jagged thing, sharp enough to cut glass. "Both of you, back away," he growled, his voice low, steady, a predator’s warning.

Claire and the healer obeyed, their steps retreating into the shadows of the crater where Number Nine’s corpse had laced, a mangled testament to Atlas’s fury. Claire gave him one last glance, lips taut with unspoken curses, while the healer knelt in silence, her eyes half-lidded, as if praying. Atlas remained still.

The ground trembled.

A low hum of mana pulsed like a second heartbeat.

Shhhhh... DOOOOM!

The impact shook the earth, debris exploding outward, dust choking the air like regret. Rocks shattered like brittle bones. A landing from that height should’ve been a death sentence, even for the empire’s elite. But Atlas knew better. Primes weren’t human. Not anymore.

Their movements were too fluid, too eerie, their magic a forced hymn sung through artificial veins. Their hearts beat twice, a relentless drum of power, and their resilience... God, their resilience.

He’d pounded Nine into the dirt, shattered his legs, crushed his ribs, and still the bastard had gasped for air, clinging to life like a curse.

A wind tore through the haze—not natural, not kind. The dust cleared with a single swing of her spear, a gust of mana slicing through it like a guillotine.

Number Seven stood there.

Her armor glinted dully, splattered with old blood and fresh hatred. Her ashen hair, a mirror of her brother’s, clung to her cheeks in sweat-streaked strands. Her eyes, deep blue as the sky and raw as grief, fixed on Atlas with a heat that could melt steel.

Her voice cracked from the weight of fury held too long.

"Are you... are you the one who killed my brother?"

Atlas tilted his head, the smile never leaving. It stretched wider. Cruel. Unyielding.

"If you’re talking about the legless bastard... yeah, that was me."

A twitch passed through her lip. Her hands gripped the shaft of her spear until the metal groaned. Her eyes fluttered shut. Inhale. Exhale. She swallowed the world’s pain like it was hers to bear. And perhaps it was.

"Then die," she whispered.

She moved.

She didn’t run—she launched. Her legs were coils of compressed agony, propelling her forward in a blur that carved the air in half.

Atlas cracked his neck. His muscles, weakened by virus and divine punishment, protested.

"Fuck it."

"Light Weight. Enhance Speed. Iron Palm," he muttered.

Mana sparked like wildfire through his nerves. Tang! Her spear met his palm, the impact a thunderclap that rippled through the battlefield.

Dooommm!.....

Shockwaves kicked up dust, sent cracks snaking through the crater’s edge. Claire stumbled back, cursing under her breath, while the healer’s staff dug into the ground to keep her steady.

Atlas didn’t move.

His boots rooted like anchors. The earth cracked beneath him but did not claim him.

"Hmm," he said, voice low. "You’re strong. ....But it’s not enough. Not even close."

Her eyes burned. She didn’t respond with words. The shaft twisted in her grip, and she kicked upward, using her spear as leverage to spin mid-air. A crescent slash carved toward his ribs. He barely tilted back, the edge grazing his coat, slicing the hem clean.

He moved like a broken storm—not as fast as he used to be, not nearly, but still deadly in intent.

She landed, her feet skidding across ash. "Your death will be now on my hands..."

"Hehe..."

Seven’s face twisted, her rage a kettle screaming on a dying flame, the kind of scream that came from something already broken. Her hands trembled around the spear shaft, knuckles white, breath catching like rusted gears grinding beneath her breastplate.

"You think you can mock me?" she spat, her voice splintering—half sob, half fury, as if rage was the only glue holding her sanity together.

"You took him. My brother. My half." Her mana surged in a snap of crimson, a pressure wave warping the air around her like heat on bent steel. Each step forward left a scorch in the earth. Then she lunged, the spear arcing like a divine execution—faster than before, grief-fed and mercy-starved.

Atlas sidestepped, his Supersonic skill activating with a silent hum. The world slowed—a dream unraveling mid-thought. He saw her eyes. Red, raw, deranged. The blood-slick edge of her grief.

Her spear passed so close it kissed his cheek, slicing a thin red line beneath his eye. But he was already past her—rotating on one foot, palm twisting midair, his Iron Palm slamming into her side like a war drum striking flesh.

THUD.

She staggered. Breath left her in a cracked grunt, her footing slipping. Yet she didn’t fall. Didn’t even buckle. Her spear spun once in her grip like it was alive, as if her pain had given it hunger.

Not human, Atlas thought again, stepping back, flexing his wrist. Something between awe and disgust twisted in his gut. That hit should’ve broken ribs—at least bruised a lung—but her body clung to momentum like a predator out for its last kill.

Claire’s voice sliced through the chaos, fury and worry in equal measure. "Atlas!.....Don’t play with her!"

She was on the edge of the crater, fists clenched, her mana building in jagged arcs around her arms like chains snapping loose.

The healer stood behind her, silent as snowfall, staff clutched gently in both hands. Her yellow eyes didn’t blink. She looked like she was watching something holy die.

Atlas didn’t look back.

"Stay out of it," he snapped, still facing Seven. His voice didn’t rise, but it thickened, like blood congealing. "If you interfere, you’ll fuck up the symmetry."

Seven charged again, faster—her technique tighter now, more dangerous. Her spear was no longer wild grief. It was precision pain. A dance learned by heart.

But Atlas caught the tip, his palm bleeding instantly. His grip held firm.

"You want revenge?" he said, his voice low, a near whisper. "Prove it with blood."

Her eyes met his—no hesitation. Only fury.

"My blood already stained the earth when he died," she snarled. "Now it’s your turn."

She ripped her weapon back, but Atlas didn’t let go. His boots dug into the earth, muscles flexing under virus-weakened skin. Pain flooded his arm like molten ice, but he didn’t blink. He leaned in, their faces inches apart now.

"You know what your brother’s last words were?" he said, tilting his head. "Nothing. He gargled blood like a dog choking on its own tongue. That was it. No glory. No prayer. Just piss, bile, and the smell of cooked flesh."

"Youuuu!!!!" Seven screamed.

Her mana exploded outward like shrapnel, blasting him back, his body skidding across the broken ground. He landed hard, coughing blood into the dirt, ribs aching. But his smile never left.

He rose slowly, brushing his jaw. "That’s better," he breathed, voice hoarse, eyes burning with feral glee. "Now we’re dancing."

Seven’s breath hitched, fury fracturing. "He hummed to me," she muttered, eyes glassy. "Every night before training. Off-key. Just enough to annoy me. But it helped me sleep."

Atlas paused.

For a moment, nothing moved. A gust of wind dragged ash through the air like drifting ghosts.

Then he chuckled—low and cruel.

"He’s quiet now."

She charged again with a scream so raw it peeled the sky open.

But Atlas was ready.

"Lightweight. Death Decay. Supersonic."

His form blurred, his palm colliding with her chest before she even saw him move. A second strike followed to her jaw, then her thigh, then rib—quick, exact, anatomical. Like a surgeon teaching suffering.

"Your style’s rigid," he said mid-combo. "Too imperial. You were trained to win. I was forged to survive."

She spat blood and spun midair, slashing his shoulder open. "I was trained to kill monsters."

Atlas grinned, his blood spilling hot across his arm.

"Then let’s see who dies first, little sister of the dead."

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