The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss
Chapter 70: Rejection

Chapter 70: Chapter 70: Rejection

What remained of the Dreaming was quiet.

Not silence—no, ’silence’ had already been shattered —but something heavier. Like a breath caught mid-sigh. Like the pause between thunder and rainfall. The Dreaming no longer pulsed; it lingered. The great tide of illusion had receded, and what was left was ruin—and ’truth’.

Above it all, framed by a hollow sky smeared with the ashes of dreams, the GUIDE stood.

He no longer glowed. He no longer shimmered with stolen light. He simply was—a silhouette so still it seemed to warp time. Behind him, the wreckage of once-beautiful realms spun like dying galaxies, their light blinking out one by one. Below him, unshaped thoughts floated in black water like bones unclaimed—half-fantasies, unfinished poems, fragments of wishes abandoned mid-sleep. His demons destroying, eating, ravaging everything in sight.

And across from him:

Dracula.

Still standing.

Still burning.

But breathing hard.

His cloak of shadows was torn, flickering with holes where ancient spells had frayed. His crown—never real, always metaphoric—had vanished. And in its place, the Lord of Dreams looked simply human for the first time in eternity. His chest rose and fell. His hands trembled with memory. His eyes were wet, not with tears, but with exhaustion.

He looked like a tired father clinging to the illusion that his children still needed lullabies.

The GUIDE smiled.

Not cruelly.

Not even victoriously.

But with sorrow.

"Do you remember why we made dreams?" the GUIDE asked. His voice was soft—like wind slipping through the ribcage of a ruined church.

Dracula didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

The GUIDE turned toward the fractured horizon. The sea of memory. The debris of possibility.

We gave them a gift," he murmured. "Not just rest. Not just healing. We gave them ’wings’. When the body failed them, we taught their souls to ’fly’. We gave mortals a space to taste the gods they could never become. To imagine. To suffer safely. To kiss without consequence."

His voice trembled.

"It was beautiful."

Dracula closed his eyes.

Because it had been.

He saw it again now: the first Dream. A child reaching for a mother long dead. A farmer dreaming of rain. A prisoner dreaming of freedom. A widow dreaming of reunion.

They had built this realm not as prison—but as mercy.

But mercy had grown teeth.

The GUIDE’s voice changed—layered now with centuries, with grief, with logic sharpened by loss.

"But beauty is not without cost," he said. "And I’ve had eternity to measure that cost."

He stepped forward. The ground did not ripple beneath his feet—it refused to acknowledge that he had ever touched it.

"Half of their lives," he said, eyes glinting, "half" Dracula, are spent asleep. Generations lost in lullaby. They call it rest. I call it bondage. Dream dulls the blade of suffering. It makes injustice survivable. It makes hunger poetic. It makes oppression bearable."

He stopped.

Turned.

And now his eyes were like wells that remembered fire.

"It makes them docile."

Dracula’s hands clenched.

"They need rest," he said hoarsely. "They’re mortal. Not everyone is built for infinity."

"And yet," the GUIDE answered, "they carry it within them. Their subconscious is deeper than the stars. You know that."

He pointed to the void.

"The marrow of creation lies inside them. And you covered it in lullabies."

Dracula’s voice, when it returned, was cracked glass. "Is that why you broke the Law?" he asked. "Is that why you shattered the gates of sleep? To wake them?"

The GUIDE inhaled.

Then—softly:

"No."

"I broke it to free them. Free them from their chains."

The world pulsed.

Not a sound. Not a quake.

Just a pause.

As if everything, even the concept of existence, were waiting for what came next.

The GUIDE stepped forward.

He no longer had a shadow. He had a gravity.

"You," he said, "should understand this more than anyone. You who stood beside me before time had a name. You remember, don’t you? The world before choice. The world where all was written in gold and stone. Before mortals. Before sleep. When the cosmos ran on script and symmetry."

Dracula said nothing.

But he remembered.

He had once been a king—not of dreams, but of obedience. A ruler of static paradise.

And the one who taught him music, rebellion, grief—had been this man now before him.

The GUIDE. Atlas the Boundless.

"We broke it together," the GUIDE said.

He opened his hand.

A gesture of invitation.

"Help me again."

Dracula looked at it.

"I’m not that being anymore."

The GUIDE nodded.

"That’s the point."

"I don’t want to be a god," Dracula said softly.

"I don’t want you to," the GUIDE replied.

A pause.

Then:

"I want you to evolve."

"Into what?"

"Into something human enough to matter. But divine enough to choose."

Dracula looked down at his hands.

They were trembling.

He saw them again—cradling a dying child in a dream. Crafting landscapes of peace from pure thought. Kissing the forehead of a queen who had lost her husband. Holding the hands of dying soldiers and letting them dream of home.

"Do you know why I stayed?" he whispered.

The GUIDE waited.

Dracula looked up.

"I stayed because they needed a place to suffer safely. Because I remember what it meant to suffer without sanctuary. I made the Dreaming so that the world’s wounds could be felt—without killing the wounded."

His voice lifted.

"You call it bondage. I call it grace."

The GUIDE didn’t speak for a long time.

When he finally did, his voice cracked—once.

"They’ll never ascend while they sleep," he whispered. "They’ll never become more than what we fear they are. Only children. Forever."

Dracula shook his head.

And in that motion, there was so much grief. So much love.

"They don’t want to be gods," he said.

And then — softly, but with finality:

"They want to be loved."

Dracula felt it in his marrow — not just the crumbling illusions or the vanishing dreams, but the pulse of the realm itself dimming. As if the great heart of this place, which once beat with the hopes of the dying and the lullabies of children, had started to stutter.

He hovered in the void, wings of mist and memory tattered around him, and watched Atlas speak like a preacher carving commandments into existence.

And worse still—

He wasn’t wrong.

Half their lives are spent asleep, Dracula. Half. Like he did, for millennia.

Billions of hours, generations upon generations, given to illusion.

The words struck.

Not like blades. Like truths.

Like rot creeping beneath the floorboards of a house you built with your bare hands.

Dracula hated that he remembered the same arithmetic. The nights when he sat in the ruins of forgotten empires and watched mortals dream of things they would never dare pursue. The moments they gave up joy because it was easier to imagine joy behind closed eyes.

He knew.

He knew.

And still—

His jaw clenched.

Because this wasn’t about sleep.

This was about grief.

He looked at the GUIDE — this twisted echo of his oldest companion — and saw not a god, not a prophet, but a lonely thing, desperate to peel the world back to its bones so he could silence the ache in his chest or maybe, it was only him, projecting.

He had seen that look before.

On himself.

Long ago, before the title of Dream Lord. Before the thrones and crowns and mantles. When he had wandered the outer edges of mortality, watching cities die and prayers go unanswered. He had looked at the suffering and thought:

"I can fix this."

That was the lie.

Not the sleep. Not the dreams.

The lie was believing they needed gods to fix them.

And now his friend had returned, reincarnated once more, offering the same poison in the language of freedom.

"Join me. Leave behind this prison of starlight and sobbing. Walk beside me as you once did. My oldest friend."

Dracula stared at the outstretched hand.

Felt the tremor in the Dreaming’s core.

Felt the memory of Atlas — not the Guide, but the ’boy’— the broken, grieving, laughing boy who had once chosen death rather than live without his people.

The one below all had torn open a path to infinity.

But Atlas had chosen finitude— for love.

Dracula’s shoulders slumped — not in defeat, but in something heavier.

Understanding.

"I stayed," he said, voice quiet, "because someone needed to hold the door open. That’s what dreams are, my friend. A door. A mercy. A breath."

He looked up.

And for the first time, his voice trembled.

"I know they’ll never become gods. I don’t want them to. I just want them to be safe enough to wonder."

He turned his head slightly, the void whirling behind him.

"I built this place so their worst thoughts wouldn’t devour them. So their pain would have somewhere else to go. You think I did that out of control?"

Dracula’s eyes flared — not with rage, but with that terrible, holy sadness only the ageless can bear.

"No," he whispered.

"I did it out of love."

The Guide’s face shifted.

Subtle.

Almost human.

But Dracula saw it — that flicker of mourning.

Because some part of him still remembered what love had cost.

The two gods stood across the crumbling ruins of the Dreaming, once comrades, now impossibilities. The Dreaming beneath them groaned like a dying animal — not yet dead, but no longer dreaming.

The Guide turned away.

The offer had been made.

Refused.

And now, in silence thicker than time, he began preparing the LAST LAW.

Dracula did not move.

He simply closed his eyes and whispered, ’Forgive me, Atlas. I could not save you from this.’

Atlas raised his hands once more, To fight not an enemy.

But a memory wearing god’s skin.

The GUIDE turned away.

The offer had been made.

Refused.

And now came the writing of the last law.

Behind them, the Dreaming shook once — a spasm of dying memory. Somewhere far off, a temple crumbled into song. A child’s final dream unraveled into dust. A mother forgot her lost daughter’s face.

Atlas’s body, still housing the GUIDE, shimmered with unshed light.

He looked skyward.

And whispered:

{{{{{{{Then I will write it alone and unleash my children, which you caged below.}}}}}}}}

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