The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 161 - 162: Me…Weak?

"...Change of plans..." Ten whispered, his voice a low hiss, barely audible over the wind’s moan as it skated across the dead soil, lifting ash and fairy dust like the sighs of a fallen warrior.

Seven’s head snapped toward him, red eyes blazing, feral with rage and adrenaline. "What? Don’t tell me Five—"

"No," Ten cut her off, his voice dropping lower, urgent and trembling with something dangerously close to fear. His gauntleted fingers curled into fists, the steel trembling at the joints. "Analyze him. He’s infected."

Seven’s rage flickered, sputtered, and momentarily collapsed beneath the weight of that single word. Infected. Her expression twisted—not with anger, but with something far worse: doubt. She turned her gaze back toward Atlas, her eyes narrowing as if hoping sheer will could pierce the storm of contradictions before her.

He stood there, unmoving. A statue carved of power and wrath. Black hair matted to his brow, his lean frame cloaked in blood, sweat, and dust. His breathing was calm. Too calm. His golden eyes glinted with that wild luster again—not just madness, but defiance laced with something that tasted like despair.

"No," Seven muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Her grip slackened for a breath, her voice cracking under the weight of recognition. "He should be dea..."

"Dead by now," Ten murmured, swallowing hard. His brown hair sparked faintly, reacting to his rattling mana core as fear rippled through him. "But he isn’t. Five says..." He leaned closer, his voice barely a thread, lost to the wind and the sound of fairy core ash sizzling faintly on the ruined stones. Words spilled in fragments, uncatchable.

High above them, the outline of Five shimmered through the flickering invisibility spell, watching, calculating, silent. His presence was not felt as much as endured—an oppressive pressure in the air, like standing under a stormcloud made of judgment and ice.

Atlas tilted his head slowly, neck cracking like dried bark under a blade. A slow, almost lazy smile pulled across his lips—sharp, knowing, amused.

’Whispering? While I’m standing right here?’

He didn’t need their words. He read them like a script through their blood.

His Truth Eyes flared, the world burning into detail—pulses of mana rippling off Ten like nervous sweat, the faint twitch in Seven’s left wrist, the way her fingers subtly realigned on her spear for a feint she hadn’t yet committed to. The fear was blooming now—like rot under armor.

Good, he thought, the smile curving wider. Let it grow.

He didn’t speak immediately. He let the air stretch, tighten, become a noose of silence.

Then he said, coolly: "Claire."

His voice cracked through the tension like lightning splitting a bone. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He could feel her—the warmth and fury of her presence behind him, the mana boiling at her fingertips, the way the battlefield’s light bent slightly around her like even the world knew not to get in her way.

Her purple hair caught the wind, snapping like a war banner. Her jaw clenched, eyes hard emerald, her spine a line of judgment.

She stepped forward through the wreckage of stone and blood. "You said you want one," Atlas went on, voice sharp, measured. "Why?"

Claire’s steps halted inches from his back. Her fingers trembled—just once—before curling into fists. "Description for later," she said. "King’s orders. We need one. No matter what." She didn’t blink. "The kingdom depends on it."

That word again.

Kingdom.

The damn kingdom.

Atlas’s smile thinned into something dark, bitter. Something cracked inside him, just for a second. A memory flashed—Henry’s voice in the throne room.

He still asked more.

He let out a low snort, a sound devoid of humor. "Lucky," he muttered, turning his gaze back toward the two primes. "One of you gets to live."

The words fell like a sentence.

Ten swallowed, but did not step back. His mana coiled, dense and heavy, a steady rhythm that spoke of training, not genius. A soldier’s mana—not a monster’s. freēnovelkiss.com

Seven growled, the sound rising from her throat like an animal too broken to weep. "Infected," she spat, as if it were a curse. "And still you fight like this?"

Atlas chuckled. "Infected?" He rolled his neck again, letting the joints pop one by one. "No, sweetheart. Infected is what happens to mortals." He took a single step forward, the ground cracking beneath his boot. "I’m past that now."

"You’re broken," she snarled. "Whatever you are—it’s not human."

Atlas didn’t blink. "Good," he said. "Humanity never got me anywhere."

Ten shifted his stance beside her, his voice quiet but resolute. "You’re going to kill her, aren’t you?"

Atlas tilted his head again, as if weighing the question.

"You think I came here for a fair fight?" he asked. His voice wasn’t cruel. It was empty. "This isn’t a duel. It’s a message. Burned into bone."

The wind shrieked

Number Seven stared at him, trembling, her spear low, her mana faltering in the haze. Her hands clenched the shaft so tightly her fingers had gone pale. That weapon had been enough to fell siege beasts, to cleave mountains during training simulations. But not this boy—this thing in human skin.

He wasn’t just fighting. He was enjoying it.

"You think you’re stronger than us? Stronger than the Empire?" she rasped, voice broken by disbelief more than pain. "You’re bleeding. Slower than before. The virus is eating you alive. I can see it."

Atlas tilted his head, slowly, his breath a steady fog in the cold. He could feel it, too—the virus pulsing like a parasite beneath his ribs, the lag in his muscle response, the faint tremor in his right shoulder. But that didn’t matter. It was like fighting through drowning. You learned to breathe through it, or you drowned anyway.

"And yet," he murmured, his voice sharp as broken bone, "you’re the one on your knees."

Seven flinched. Her legs shook as she tried to rise. Behind her, Number Ten stepped into view. He wasn’t as refined, nor as fast, but his aura held weight—like a stone thrown into deep water, the ripples came slow but hard.

Ten narrowed his eyes. "She’s not done yet. We don’t break that easy."

"Is that so?" Atlas asked.

He took a step forward, his boots crunching over shattered armor fragments and seared grass. The weight of his presence hit like thunderclouds pressing down. Inside, his heart thudded—but not from strain. It was hunger. A slow, sick satisfaction. He was finally being tested. Broken. Honed.

He welcomed it.

Memories flashed. Lara, shoving him out of the training ring. Irene, teaching him how to pivot his hips mid-strike. Sansa, laughing over dinner while he bled out on the floor for failing to dodge a wild spell. All of them—steel on skin, affection wrapped in violence.

Now they felt distant.

Now he was only this. A blade. An echo of pain.

"Come, then," he whispered. His hands lifted. " both of you...at the same time."

Visit freewe𝑏n(o)v𝒆l.𝑐𝘰𝑚 for the best novel reading experience