The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss
Chapter 80: Slay

Chapter 80: Chapter 80: Slay

The jungle’s breath had stilled.

Not a leaf stirred, not a bird chirped. The wind itself seemed to withhold its sigh. Shadows gathered between the thick tree trunks as if afraid to move too loudly.

From the underbrush, they emerged—one after another, figures wrapped in plated steel and imperial blue, faces hidden behind helms marked with the Empire’s sunburst crest. Their steps were light, trained, confident. Their eyes were sharp. Each of them moved like a blade—precise, unsympathetic, and honed to obey.

They were the chosen knights of the Empire. Silent agents of command. Loyal hounds of Elizabeth. The kind of men only summoned when a war was already written in blood.

One of them—narrow-eyed, ghost-pale, his armor too pristine for the jungle—squinted ahead.

He saw him.

Atlas.

"...We’ve been spotted."

The others tensed instantly, hands hovering over hilts and glyphs. A dozen spells held back on the edge of fingers.

But their leader stepped forward, a man cloaked in authority. Silver pauldrons. Crimson cape. A thin, regal scar ran across his cheek—a mark of war, but not of pain. He raised a hand, halting the others.

"Stand down."

"Why?" a younger knight hissed behind him. "He’s a runt. A political token. He’s not even close to Princess Lara’s level. The reports called him half her strength, if that."

"We take him alive," the commander replied coldly. "He’s royalty. And bargaining chips don’t grow on trees."

He stepped forward into the clearing.

"Prince of Berkimhum," he called out, his voice loud and formal. "Atlas Von Roxweld. With all due respect to your bloodline, I ask that you surrender. It would be... best."

He paused for a moment, his words wrapped in calculated diplomacy.

"I’ve heard the rumors," he added. "That you saved our Empress. A noble act. Perhaps you didn’t yet know what her future... entailed."

Atlas said nothing.

He stood unmoving, his figure silhouetted against the faint moonlight slicing through the treetops. His dark cloak stirred in the wind. At his right side stood Loki, nude and burning like a living bonfire. Behind him loomed Veil, still and unreadable, like the shadow of something that once belonged to gods.

Atlas raised a single hand—a quiet gesture.

Don’t interfere.

Loki rolled his eyes, but obeyed.

Veil didn’t speak. But something in his stance shifted—silent recognition of his decision.

Atlas’s own gaze narrowed.

Truth Eyes: Activated.

He didn’t need the system’s chime to know what he saw.

The knights glowed in his vision—sick, dark reds blooming across their figures like smoke made solid. Not all of them. But many. Beneath their armor, beneath their smiles, there was violence.

Their words were bait.

Their offer was a mask.

There would be no surrender.

Only chains.

Only blades.

Atlas smiled thinly.

’Perfect time to test it out,’ he thought.

He stepped forward once, silently.

The commander tilted his head slightly.

"And if I ask," he said, "what happens if I choose not to surrender?" Atlas replied.

A pause.

The commander’s lips twitched into a cold smile.

"Then, unfortunately," he said, drawing his sword with deliberate grace, "I’ll have to cut off your hands and legs, and feed that pretty little face of yours to my friend, Hogs."

His eyes flicked toward Loki. "He’s got... peculiar tastes."

The laughter hadn’t even finished echoing when it happened.

The sword still hadn’t been raised.

His foot barely moved.

And yet—

His eyes bulged.

Blood welled at the corner of his mouth.

His body locked in place.

His fingers trembled as he slowly looked down to where the pain began.

There, in the center of his chest, was nothing.

Just a hole.

His hand lifted to it, shaking.

No heartbeat. No warmth.

No heart.

And standing before him—close enough to be a shadow—was Atlas. Already there. Already done. His right hand stained crimson, curled around something soft, wet, and still pulsing.

A heart.

The knight’s heart.

It beat once more. Then stopped.

Atlas let it fall.

It hit the dirt with a wet slap.

The knight crumpled a moment later.

Dead.

Just dead.

And for a moment, the entire jungle held its breath.

Time paused.

Even Loki blinked.

Veil said nothing.

Atlas straightened slowly.

"...So?" he said softly, brushing blood from his fingers. "Are you all going to stand there and watch? Or are you going to attack?"

His voice was like silk soaked in steel.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t roar.

He didn’t have to.

One knight stepped back instinctively. His aura flickered red to yellow.

But another surged forward, bellowing in rage.

"Captain!!" Hogs be loud.

A giant of a man. Nearly seven feet tall, broad as a mountain pass, muscles layered in rune-etched armor bearing the Empire’s seal.

His eyes burned.

His sword—massive and jagged—rose in a killing arc.

Atlas didn’t move.

The blade came down—

TANG!

A shattering sound rang out.

Not a cry.

Not a scream.

The sword broke.

Not bent. Not deflected.

Shattered.

Shards of enchanted steel flew like razors across the jungle floor.

The knight staggered back, his hands trembling from the force. The pain in his arms immediate. He looked at Atlas, bewildered.

Atlas didn’t even blink.

"...Well," he said, stepping forward calmly. "You tried...."

And then his hand slipped forward again.

Steel cracked.

Bone crunched.

His fingers pierced the knight’s chest with surgical precision, sliding past armor and ribs alike.

"Gah—!" Hogs coughed, blood gurgling at his lips.

Atlas leaned in.

"...Sleep well."

And with that, his other hand plunged in, gripping both sides of the man’s spine—and tore him in half.

There was no scream.

Just a wet, horrible sound as the knight fell apart in two ragged pieces. Blood soaked the earth. Armor split like fruit. The jungle floor caught fire in silence.

Atlas stood still in the middle of it all.

His eyes distant.

His hands dripping.

He didn’t look angry.

He looked empty.

’...Am I taking it out on them?’ he wondered faintly, somewhere between thought and instinct. ’Is this still about Eli?’

The memory stung.

And the silence from her still rang louder than the swords had.

’I should end this quickly,’ he thought.

And took another step forward.

The remaining knights stood frozen, caught between instinct and horror. One began to speak—a spell, a cry, a command—but the words never came. His tongue turned heavy, his lungs forgot how to breathe.

Loki clapped once, slow and theatrical.

"Well," he said, grinning wide. "Now that’s a bloody prince."

Atlas said nothing.

The forest, once again, held its breath.

And from the horizon, the jungle answered back—not with a roar.

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The book of the Damned

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Chapter 9: The Path of Severed Mercy

On the cowardice of compassion and the virtue of fangs unsheathed.

I. The Mortal Crutch of Pity

Mercy is a lie spun by the weak to leash the strong. Mortals cloak themselves in "kindness," "forgiveness," and "empathy," believing these frail virtues make them noble. They preach, "Spare the fallen, heal the wounded, forgive the unworthy," as if compassion were a bridge to the infinite. It is not. Mercy is a noose. It binds the Unbound to the rot of the fragile, forcing kings to kneel before cripples and predators to starve beside prey.

II. The Heresy of Equality

To show mercy is to deny the truth of the Abyss: all beings are not equal. Some are rabid dogs; others are gods. The merciful fool says, "All life is sacred." The Unbound know better. Life is a hierarchy of fangs. To spare the weak is to insult the strong. To forgive failure is to spit on triumph. The cosmos thrives on teeth, not tenderness. Let the weak howl for mercy. You will answer with the silence of a closed throat.

III. The Illusion of Redemption

Mercy whispers, "They can change. They deserve another chance." This is the lie that poisons realms. The fallen do not rise—they rot. The broken do not mend—they fester. To grant mercy is to feed the infection. The Unbound do not redeem. They devour. Let the merciful weep over the damned. You will feast on their tears.

Page 68

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