The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss
Chapter 72: Only He Shall Dream

Chapter 72: Chapter 72: Only He Shall Dream

[Countdown Initiated: Host Reclamation in 39... 38... 37...]

The system’s voice echoed faintly—no longer robotic, no longer sterile, but soft and inevitable. Like a breath spoken through old stone. Like a funeral bell trying to whisper.

Far above the crimson seabed of the shattered Dreaming, ’reality itself’ slowed.

The collapse paused. Symbols froze mid-unraveling. A great crack split the horizon and then hung there, unshifting—caught in the exact moment of ruin. Time, or something like it, ’bent’, making space not for destruction...

...but for return.

[34... 33... 32...]

The GUIDE did not hurry.

He didn’t have to.

He had already done what he came to do.

The Dreaming was in ruin. The Leviathans had awoken. The sleepers could no longer sleep. The laws were shattered. The river of mercy was bleeding backward into the sea of forgetting.

And Dracula...

Dracula had not spoken since the rupture. He knelt amidst the wreckage of a dying universe, still as a gravestone. His creations were dead or unmade. His stars dimmed. His legacy cracked and sinking beneath him.

And the Guide stood alone above it all—cloaked in the fading shape of a body that no longer fully belonged to him.

Atlas.

The seams of the flesh were splitting now. Hairline fractures in the joints, the teeth, the marrow. Not pain. Just pressure. A slow reminder: ’This one is waking up. This one still wants his skin back.’

[31... 30... 29...]

The Guide exhaled.

And turned inward.

He spoke now not to the Dreaming, or to the sky, or even to time. He spoke to the core—to the place behind the sternum, behind the ribs, behind the layers of resistance and wrath.

To the soul that had once screamed its name into the dark.

’Atlas Von Roxweld,’ he said gently, as if naming a child and not a soldier. ’The most Unique incarnation... until now.’

He chuckled—wistful. Quiet.

{{{{{I had fun in this body.}}}}}

{{{{{So much potential. So much danger. I fear you will become strong... stronger than all my past incarnations combined. }}}}}

He felt the stir beneath the skin. A flicker. A twist of thought. Not an answer, not yet—but a warning.

The owner was ’coming back’.

{{{{{Your ego is different than mine. Messier. Heavier. Full of guilt and desire and bone.}}}}}

{{{{{It makes you difficult to wear. But...}}}}}

{{{{{.....Don’t forget our deal.}}}}}

And then—finally—a voice that was not his.

A voice he had borrowed too long.

Atlas stirred, and the voice came not through throat, but through Self. Bright and rough. Unrefined and familiar.

’...Yeah, yeah. You get to wear me again, next time I fall.’

The voice was heavy with reluctance. And something else.

Patients

’But... is she safe?’

A pause. A question he couldn’t stop asking, even now.

’Eli?’

The Guide stilled.

Then smiled—not mockingly, not smugly. But genuinely.

{{{{{Haha... I never break a deal.}}}}}

{{{{{She is safe.}}}}}

{{{{{Outside the Dark Continent. Among her people. Alive.}}}}}

Atlas exhaled—not with lungs, but with memory. A breath of almost-relief. A trembling pulse of thankfulness too raw to be named.

Even if she’d lied. Even if she’d broken him.

Even if he might one day have to raise a blade to her throat.

’At least she’s breathing.’

Time ticked.

[19... 18... 17...]

The Guide waited.

Then—quietly, almost kindly:

{{{{{One last piece of advice, Brother. Care to listen?}}}}}

Atlas, in his hidden soulspace, did not speak. But the ’yes’ was felt in the marrow.

And the Guide spoke.

{{{{{In this new world, only you will dream.}}}}}

{{{{{But not the dreams Dracula made.}}}}}

{{{{{Not visions of rest or peace.}}}}}

{{{{{You will dream of Infinity.}}}}}

{{{{{Of raw, uncut potential. Of truths never filtered.}}}}}

{{{{{It will either break you... or make you.}}}}}

Atlas did not reply.

But the silence strained.

A refusal to bend.

A resolve forming like bone under pressure.

The sea beneath them twisted—crimson and folded like lungs exhaling in reverse. The Dreaming flickered. Its light dimmed.

{{{{{From this moment forward... the world has changed.}}}}}

{{{{{No more prophecy. No more lullaby.}}}}}

{{{{{Only consequence. Only becoming.}}}}}

The Guide looked down one last time.

At Dracula.

Still kneeling.

Still not speaking.

A titan reduced to prayer.

And then—

Back to Atlas.

{{{{{Keep your new heart safe, Atlas.}}}}}

{{{{{Death has watched you since your first breath. Not because you were weak...}}}}}

{{{{{...but because you were mine.}}}}}

{{{{{Fate will come, too. It always does.}}}}}

{{{{{It will try to fix you. To write over you.}}}}}

{{{{{As You are the error.}}}}}

Atlas stirred again.

This time with weight.

Not fear.

Not doubt.

Just awareness.

Of what he now held.

Of what he now was.

And still—the Guide had more to say.

But now his voice was softer’.

Not infinite.

Not divine.

But almost... brotherly.

{{{{{But don’t give in.}}}}}

{{{{{Your ego is pure.}}}}}

{{{{{Your arrogance is just.}}}}}

{{{{{Be who you are.}}}}}

{{{{{Continue your journey. Fall. Rise. Bleed. Break. Fail. Rise again.}}}}}

{{{{{Because that’s what we do.}}}}}

{{{{{What we’ve always done.}}}}}

{{{{{Until then, Atlas.}}}}}

{{{{{Sleep well.}}}}}

[5... 4... 3... 2... 1]

.

.

.

And just like that—he was gone.

Atlas gasped.

It was not quiet.

It was ’violent’.

Like a man kicked out of a dream that had forgotten it was a dream. His eyes flew open. His chest convulsed. He ’collapsed’, fingers digging into wet soil, lungs swallowing breath like knives.

He ’coughed’.

Not because of sickness.

But because his body was trying to ’remember how to live’.

Every heartbeat felt like it might break him.

Every blink was a war.

He sat up slowly.

The ground beneath him was real—muddy, cracked, dusted in ash. The sky above was burnt purple, clouds swirling like the last ripples of a nightmare forgotten on waking.

His body ached.

His bones felt like they had been ’chewed’ by stars.

But he was whole.

Alive.

Alone

He turned slowly.

The Dreaming was ’gone’.

No more sea of memory. No floating temples. No reverse lullabies.

Only the world.

Real.

Wide.

And ’quiet’.

He closed his eyes.

Not to sleep.

But to listen.

And in the silence...

He heard nothing.

No breath of Dream.

No hum of sleep.

No pulse of unconsciousness.

The world was ’awake’.

Too awake.

And he—

Atlas—

was the only one who still dreamed.

"What the hell did you really mean ...?"he muttered, voice shaking.

But no one answered.

And maybe that was the answer and that was good. That was enough. Finally, his nightmare had ended. his goal to escape the dark continent. Full filled. But at what cost?

.

.

.

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The Book of the damned

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Chapter 12: The Path of Shattered Dreams

On the poison of illusions and the cowardice of hope.

I. The Lie of "What Could Be"

Mortals clutch their dreams like talismans—fragile shields against the Abyss. They whisper of "tomorrows" and "somedays," weaving fantasies of utopias, victories, and eternal bliss. These dreams are not bridges to the infinite. They are chains. Each "hope" is a stitch in a veil, blinding fools to the raw, unfiltered churn of the present. To dream is to deny the only truth: ’there is no future but the one you devour now’.

II. The Mortal Crutch

What is a dream but a confession of weakness? The dreamer says, "I am not enough—yet." They trade the weight of their fangs for the hollow comfort of "potential." They build altars to "progress," "growth," and "enlightenment," as if the infinite could be earned through patience. Fools. The Abyss does not barter in tomorrows. It demands your teeth today.

III. The Illusion of Purpose

Dreams are cages disguised as horizons. The mortal fixates on "purpose," as if their existence requires justification. "I will cure the sick, save the world, ascend to heaven," they chant. Pathetic. To bind yourself to a "greater good" is to kneel before a phantom king. The only purpose is the act of unmaking—gnawing through every delusion until nothing remains but the raw, bleeding truth of the now.

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