The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 168 - 169: I’m Coming

At the edge of the empire, where the jagged hills rose like broken bones beneath a colorless sky, the land bore no greenery—only dust, frost, and the silence of things long dead. Wind howled across the barren ridges, dry and sharp as glass, carrying with it the stench of iron, oil, and gunpowder.

And atop those cold, cold hills, spread out like a mechanical beast feasting on the earth, lay the imperial front—no mere camp, but a living, breathing war machine. A temporary city, forged in haste but run with precision, built not for comfort but for conquest.

Steel towers jabbed at the sky like spears. Iron platforms shuddered under the weight of mana-driven aircraft, hundreds of them docked in synchronized grids. Wings folded, engines purring, mana thrumming through their cores like caged lightning.

Soldiers moved in synchronized patterns beneath them, like veins pulsing beneath a skin of iron. Thousands of boots thundered across the reinforced walkways—no, tens of thousands—every one of them clad in the black-and-silver of imperial war doctrine.

Order was everything. Structure bled from every corner of the makeshift city. There was no room for rest, no room for softness. Only discipline, only precision, only war.

Commanders barked from elevated control decks, their voices magnified by rune-powered amplifiers. Their words were not spoken—they were thrown like hammers. Orders struck the ears of lesser officers, who in turn shouted them down the chain like thunder rolling through the sky. There was no confusion, no deviation. The empire did not allow it.

Even the air felt different here—taut with expectation, as if reality itself held its breath.

Supply caravans moved in constant loops through the inner rings, soldiers unloading crates of enchanted rounds, spell scrolls, combat stimulants. Mages knelt in silence, carving runes into steel-plated artillery with blood and chalk. Medical tents glowed faintly with healing glyphs, but none were crowded—because weakness was rare here. Weakness was punished.

The scent of burnt mana lingered like smoke from a funeral pyre. The clang of weapons being sharpened rang out beside the metallic stomp of mechanized infantry calibrating their armor. Drones hummed above like angry wasps. And through it all pulsed a quiet, constant sound—the low thrum of the main mana-reactor buried deep beneath the central tower, a reminder that the empire’s lifeblood was not peace, but power.

And in the center of it all, raised slightly above the rest like a throne of war, stood the Warmaster’s personal command fortress. Black. Obsidian-paneled. No banners. No symbols. It didn’t need them. Its very shape—sleek, brutal, absolute—declared who ruled this place. Not a woman. Not a monarch. But a force of nature wrapped in flesh.

No fires burned here for warmth. No laughter echoed through the tents. Even the night, when it came, arrived in silence—cut into hard segments by floodlights and rotating watch schedules. No stars dared to shine overhead. Only the low blinking of mana-beacons painted the sky red.

This was not a place where men lived.

It was where soldiers waited to die.

Step!

Step!

Step!

Her steps were a relentless drumbeat—each one more like a sentence than motion, her black cloak billowing behind her like a raven stretching its wings. Her silver hair whipped in the wind, sharp and lustrous like unsheathed blades. She walked without hesitation, though the ground itself seemed to recoil beneath her weight. Her mana radiated in waves, dense and suffocating, warping the very air around her. The grass beneath her boots curled black.

The soldiers nearby did not cheer. They knelt.

Behind her, War Master Arthur scrambled to match her pace, his boots sinking into the ash-drenched mud. He panted, breath catching in his throat. His armor clanked with every step, a clumsy counterpoint to the Empress’ soundless wrath.

"Your Imperial Majesty!" Arthur shouted, the desperation in his voice cracking like splintered stone. "Your Imperial Majesty!"

Eli didn’t stop.

Arthur stumbled again, ash caking his knees as he tried to close the distance. His hand lifted, hesitating just inches from her shoulder, before dropping. Even he wouldn’t dare touch her without invitation.

"Why—why are you crossing the border?" His voice pitched higher, edged with something more than fear. "So suddenly? It’s lunacy!"

Still, she walked.

"The information only spoke of a strong defender holding their lines!" Arthur gasped. "We’ve won—ten thousand of their soldiers crushed without a single loss on our side! Your airships, your secrets, they’ve guaranteed victory! There’s no need for you, our final flag, the strongest of our empire, to risk yourself!"

Eli stopped. Abrupt. The wind howled between the ruined peaks. Her cloak snapped like a thunderclap.

Arthur froze. The air turned heavy—so dense he could taste the ozone, a bitter static crawling along his skin. Her presence pressed down on him like a mountain. He fell to his knees, not from reverence, but from necessity.

"Let me ask again," she said, her voice low, not loud—but sharp enough to carve silence into the very air. Her eyes met his. Cold. Steel. Absolute.

Arthur swallowed.

"Y-yes, Your Majesty," he stammered, eyes to the ground.

"The defender," she said. "The one who collapsed a portion of our air fleet. A man with golden eyes. Black hair." Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It coiled.

A memory flickered in her mind, brief but vivid—a young man standing beside her. Unblinking. Smiling. Blood in his hands and a crown not meant for his head.

"Possibly the prince of Berkimhum?" she asked.

Arthur hesitated. He had read the reports. He had heard whispers from Number Five, scattered phrases laced with a kind of dread Arthur had never seen on the man before.

"Ye-yes, but it’s not confirmed. Number Five is conducting a search—"

Eli’s lips curled.

Not in amusement.

In hunger.

"Then that is enough," she said.

She turned again, her boots crunching through blackened bone shards and sunken stone. She headed toward the awaiting airship—its core humming, mana sigils etched along its underbelly like veins on a beast. The ship’s captain snapped to attention. No words were exchanged. None were needed. She ascended the gangplank like a queen returning to her throne.

Arthur remained kneeling.

His thoughts spiraled.

The victory had been flawless. His strategies, her weapons, the primes—they had overrun Berkimhum’s defenses with brutal elegance. Yet here she was, abandoning the command post, the front lines, the safety of distance. For a rumor. For a flicker of golden light.

For a name.

He closed his eyes and whispered a curse.

Inside the airship, Empress Eli stood at the helm. Her fingers curled over the rail, cold and calloused. Below them, the battlefield stretched like a corpse: twisted terrain, dead soldiers, the stench of sundered mana saturating every gust of wind. The sky outside was bruised purple, like a swollen eye.

She didn’t blink. She didn’t breathe. She just stared.

Atlas.

The name sang through her thoughts like a discordant hymn. The mad prince. The bastard thorn who had slipped the blade between her empire’s ribs not once, not twice—but repeatedly.

He had broken her primes.

He had mocked her tactics.

He had survived.

And now, he had stood before an army and made them halt. Not flee. Not fight. But halt.

Her fingers tapped the railing once. Twice.

A slow, unrelenting rhythm. The sound of execution drums.

Behind her, the crew dared not breathe.

She closed her eyes.

A flash of memory.

Atlas at his young and fruitful age. Standing tall and almighty, above every goddamn monster they faced, surviving every impossible scenario —those golden eyes—glinting like suns that refused to set.

"I’ll come back," he had said. "And when we meet, my eyes will not burn for you in love but... in Rage and hate...."

She had Cried then. Her, the mighty empress, had tears. Unbelievable but true.

Now, her smile returned. But it wasn’t laughter. It was prophecy.

The airship groaned as it surged forward, fairy core crystals glowing a fierce blue, crackling against the storm that gathered on the horizon.

The Empress was moving.