The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 167 - 168: Suicide?

The healing rate flashed again in his system. [Healing rate...8%].

Not bad. Not great. But Fast enough.

Atlas exhaled through his teeth as the mana surge crawled through his muscle fibers, scraping against the infection that still clung to his bones. The potion was holding. Holding tight.

"Ohhh... this is fast. I need to get my hands on some of these," he muttered, crouching briefly beside the healer who hovered anxiously nearby. Her robes smelled of dried herbs and phoenix feather oils, and her hands were trembling around her staff.

Claire was elsewhere—somewhere deeper behind the ridge, preparing fallback lines. Or traps. Or worse. But not here. Not for this part.

The healer hesitated, her voice shaking like cracked glass. "Umm... your highness?"

"Hm?"

"That potion... a-actually, it’s from o-our holy kingdom. If you want more... I can make arrangements."

His eyes snapped to her, surprise flickering under his exhaustion.

"Really! Then I want gallons. And don’t worry about the money. Claire isn’t just called the Serpent of Wealth for show."

She smiled nervously but faltered. "Umm... it takes more time. We can only provide a certain amount of vials... sorry to disappoint."

Atlas’s smile softened, not out of comfort, but memory. Her innocence reminded him of somebody.

"It’s okay. Your kingdom has helped us in more ways than one. Past generation or now—it matters. I’m far from disappointed. I’m grateful."

She bowed. Not out of duty, but guilt. A healer who couldn’t stop the bleeding world.

"Time to march...."

And March he did, walking right to their make shift base vamp.

The earth trembled beneath iron heels. Marching boots. Plates clinking. Voices barking orders in clipped, mechanical rhythm. Dust rose in a thick wall between the empire’s front line and the cratered no-man’s-land that reeked of fairy core exhaust and scorched magic. The scent of burned mana hung in the air like a prelude to something unspeakable.

And at the heart of that silence, Atlas stood—no sword, no armor, just bare hands twitching at his sides.

The blood from his last wounds had crusted black across his skin, spiderwebbed with healing cracks barely stitched together by Yggdrasil’s stubborn blessing. His hair clung damp to his face, purple strands hiding the raw gleam of his Truth Eyes—eyes that did not blink, did not flinch. Just stared.

One step forward. Then another.

The imperial soldiers parted like the sea before a storm.

Atlas walked past the first row of blades and spears, their points hesitant, the men behind them visibly trembling. No one moved. Not yet. Not until Number Five stepped forward.

His golden hair fluttered in the acrid wind, his face a portrait of merciless beauty—cold, immaculate, gleaming with cruelty. The black armor he wore still bore the scars of Claire’s explosion. His jaw clenched at the sight of Atlas’s broken, defiant form.

"You’ve got some fucking nerve," Five muttered, each word dipped in loathing. "Walking into our camp like a damned merchant."

Atlas didn’t answer.

He reached into his coat.

Blades rose.

Spells lit.

Mana surged.

But all he pulled out were scrolls—six of them, sealed with faded blue wax and crimson etching. Ancient. Forbidden.

He dropped them on the ground between them. They thudded against the dirt like bones.

"What the hell is this?" spat Five, brow furrowing.

Atlas met his eyes. Then he reached into the second layer of his cloak—another scroll, this one glowing faintly. Then another. And another. Twelve. Eighteen. Twenty-four. Thirty.

"You know what it is....specially you.." he muttered, pointing his finger towards Five.

The soldiers shifted. Some took a step back.

"Don’t," Atlas said, voice low, laced with that awful calm that always came before disaster. "I’ve already connected them. Layered triggers. Chained to a mana-link rooted in this—"

He held up a faintly glowing ring on his finger, etched with sigils from three different schools of spellcraft. "One pulse of mana, and I go off like a divine punishment ritual."

Number Five stared.

Atlas smiled—barely.

"I’m not bluffing. You know I’m not."

Number Five didn’t flinch. But his left hand twitched. His eyes dropped for the briefest second—to the scrolls. He could feel them now, their pressure like coiled serpents, too dense to be fake. Each scroll was genuine. Each one a silent scream.

"You wouldn’t survive it either," Five said.

"I know."

He uncorked the last vial from Claire’s stash and drank it in one gulp. The crimson potion slid down his throat like molten fire, and instantly his mana surged—a radiant spike screaming through his veins, rushing into the scrolls.

Every one of them hummed.

The air shifted.

Reality tilted.

The entire battlefield tensed.

Behind Five, Seven’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers itched for her spear, but she didn’t move. Ten blinked sluggishly from behind her, still bruised, still limping, but his eyes—those narrow, wolf-like eyes—locked on Atlas like prey catching sight of a storm.

"You’re insane," Five hissed. "You’d kill yourself just to take us down?"

Atlas didn’t smile. But something inside him cracked.

"...this body’s cheap."

He took another step forward.

The mana swelled.

One of the scrolls began to peel open, spells glyphs crackling with unstable magic.

Number Five raised his hand, and the army froze, like statues on the edge of a cliff.

"Don’t make me," Atlas said, his voice iron now. "Because I will. And you know what’s worse?"

He nodded up at the black banners fluttering behind the imperial formation.

"The Empress is coming....and don’t give me that ’how did you know look?’ You were practically shouting."

The silence grew leaden. Thick. Unbreathable.

Number Five’s jaw tightened, his gaze flaring.

"She gave you orders," Atlas said. "Didn’t she?"

Five’s eyes narrowed.

"Maybe.... lets say....To bring me in alive."

With those words spoken, Five’s eyes twitched once more.

"Bingo." Atlas voiced

’Eli, Eli, Eli....still the same, still predictable..’ he thought.

Atlas’s grin was no longer madness. It was strategy.

"So here’s my deal," he said, spreading his arms. "Very fucking simple to understand and also very fucking easy to do...You ....back off. You lot..... Leave this valley. No, correction...leave my valley. Return past the border. Today. Right now."

His finger hovered over the spell-ring.

"Or I paint this entire canyon with your bones."

Seven took a step forward. "You think we’re scared of—"

"Quiet," Five barked.

His voice didn’t rise. But it cracked through the field like a blade.

Seven’s mouth snapped shut, fury roiling behind her eyes. But she didn’t speak again.

The wind shifted.

Fairy core dust sparkled behind Atlas’s shoulders like ghost-fire, twinkling in the fractured sunlight.

The scrolls hissed.

A crow cried somewhere above, then fell silent.

Then, a voice—clear and amused—echoed from behind the rock ridge. Planning? Waiting. Patiently for the signal.

"Atlas," Claire’s voice floated through the air, low and honeyed, with that dagger twist of admiration and exasperation. "You’re mad..."

She stepped into view.

Her skin still bore scorch marks. Her right arm was wrapped in charred cloth. But her eyes shone with a savage, delighted gleam. Her green coat fluttered in the rising wind.

"...but madly brilliant."