The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 44: A Mother’s Embrace

"Of course, I am your mother after all." novelbuddy.cσ๓

Atlas gazed at her smirk, his fingers twitching with the urge to activate his Truth Eyes. Just one glimpse—just enough to confirm what he was dealing with. Bela Von Roxweld. A woman who had consumed Henry's heart so completely that kingdoms trembled under their union. The same woman whose shadow loomed over every corner of this palace, even now.

And Atlas himself—their son. From the outside, they must have looked like a perfect family portrait: a king, a queen, and their heir. But beneath the surface? No one could guess.

He wanted more memories. More fragments of Atlas's past. Maybe that was the key to escaping this illusion—a map drawn from recollections buried deep within his borrowed soul. But when he tried to access his Truth Eyes or World Understanding skills again, nothing happened. His system was dead silent, as if mocking him for relying on it in the first place.

'...it's only me now...?' he thought bitterly, staring at Bela.

They walked together through the grand halls of their mansion-like palace, servants bowing low as they passed. Maids waited eagerly for commands, while knights stood guard like statues carved from stone, ready to die at a single word.

'Child Atlas lived good,' Atlas mused dryly, eyeing the tasteful maids dressed in impeccable uniforms. He felt Bela's gaze on him, sharp and knowing.

"...hehe. My son. I didn't know you already started to look toward women like that," Bela teased, covering her mouth delicately.

"But it's too early. When you reach the age of twelve—marking adulthood—take as many women as you want, however much you desire."

Atlas could only nod numbly as they entered the queen's private chamber. It was both an office and a throne room, a space reserved solely for her authority. Even Henry dared not sit upon the ornate chair she claimed as hers alone. Paintings lined the walls—portraits of Atlas from birth until now, each brushstroke capturing moments frozen in time.

"...so, Mom?" Atlas began hesitantly, breaking the silence.

"Yes, son?" Bela replied, draping her long gown-like coat over the armrest of her throne.

"Can you please tell me why you're here, how you're here.In my illusion? This dream place?"

"Straight to the point, huh?" she said, tapping her lap lightly. "Come here first..."

Atlas hesitated, but her piercing stare left no room for defiance. Slowly, reluctantly, he climbed onto her lap. Her scent enveloped him—sweet like honeycomb, warm and intoxicating. For a moment, the tension gripping his chest loosened, replaced by an unexpected calm.

Bela hugged him tightly, almost desperately. "Haaaa...I missed you...I missed you so much," she murmured, her voice tinged with longing and pain. "...okay, how old are you right now, dear? In your present reality?"

Atlas leaned into her embrace, savoring the warmth radiating from her body. "Soon to be fifteen," he answered softly.

She ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing it back affectionately. "So my son is already an adult then," she mused aloud. "Are you eating well? You haven't lost weight, have you?"

Atlas nodded, turning slightly to meet her eyes. "Yes, Mother. Yes, yes, and yes. Not to brag, but I've gotten stronger."

"Haha. Yes, my big boy is strong now. So strong," she cooed, patting his back gently. Her smile grew brighter with every word he spoke, feeding off his confidence like sunlight nourishing flowers.

As she listened intently, Atlas found himself unloading everything—all the burdens weighing heavily on his shoulders. He spoke about Henry, about Isabella, about his failed reforms and adventures in the Dark Continent. Each confession felt like shedding layers of armor, leaving him raw and vulnerable yet strangely lighter.

"Mother," he whispered finally, placing his small palm against her cheek. "...I will get out of this mess and survive. But I think I'll need your help."

Bela pulled the young Atlas closer, her fingers brushing against his cheek. "You already know, I was a demon—a succubus, right?" She preached with currious gaze.

Atlas nodded, his golden eyes steady despite the weight of her words. It didn't matter anymore whether she had been born human or spawned from darkness. In this moment, he wasn't just Atlas; he was her son. And in that truth lay an unbreakable bond.

"...in the end, I am still your son, Mother. So I will trust your words. But please," he murmured, gripping her hand tightly, "help me escape here and return to my reality."

Bela rested her chin on her palm, gazing at him with something akin to amusement. "And here I thought you'd miss your long-lost mother," she teased softly, her voice layered with affection. "Alright, dear. Putting aside all things, I'll help you—but first, hear me out. There's something you need to know."

She paused, her expression shifting into one of solemnity. Her brown eyes bore into his as if trying to pierce through time itself.

"Atlas, my son," she began, her voice trembling slightly, "there is no better way I can put it straight to you. From the moment I gave birth to you—from the instant I placed you in my arms and saw your sparkling golden eyes—I knew. The world would deny your existence, just as it did mine.

Regretfully, I broke the laws of nature by turning myself into a human. And because you were born from me...you would follow the same path."

Her hand found its way to his chest, pressing gently over his heart. "The world and its destiny will try to correct itself once more, turning you into a demon like I once was. Before fate abuses its power and brings more sorrow upon you, my son, I can change you now. Change you into a high Incubus, avoiding destiny and its wrath."

Atlas listened quietly, each word igniting fragments of memories buried deep within him. He had suspected it before—the game hinted at it. The plot demanded that he become a demon for the hero to slay him in some grand climax. But now, sitting here in his mother's lap, hearing the truth spill from her lips, it felt far less like fiction and far more like inevitability.

This wasn't just some narrative device crafted for drama. This was correction. Correction of error. And sadly, 'he' was the error.

"Mother..." he whispered, his voice laced with resolve rather than despair. "Don't worry. I'm not going to blame you. If you're wondering..."

He remembered the times when destiny had tried to shape him—when the crimson demon offered him a choice between death and transformation. When weakness clawed at his soul during battles where survival seemed impossible. Even in his previous life, he had defied those who sought to mold him into someone else, choosing instead to carve his own path until it led to his eventual demise.

Perhaps saying yes would have granted him peace. Perhaps accepting his fate could have spared him the endless struggle. But the mere thought of bowing to destiny churned something primal within him—a fire that refused to be extinguished.

'...fuck the world and its correction bullshit.'

"....I'm sorry, Mother, but I'll have to say no. I'm not someone fate can bind and chain. The world may carve heroes and demon kings, but it won't touch me—let alone carve me. I will, like I always have, forge my own fate. You don't have to worry about that." His voice rang with defiant confidence, echoing off the walls of the throne room like a war cry.

Bela watched him, her gaze softening as pride mingled with concern. She saw it now—the spark that burned brighter than any star. A fire that went beyond himself, consuming everything in its path. It was the same flame that had driven her to defy damnation centuries ago. The same fire that fueled rebels, outliers, and dreamers throughout history.

She smiled faintly, placing a hand atop his head. "...the journey you've chosen will be a harsh one."

"It's always been that way," Atlas replied without hesitation. "I can only accept that as of now."

For a moment, Bela hesitated. She had come back to this illusion hoping to guide her son toward a peaceful life—to shield him from the chaos of the universe. Yet here he sat, stubborn and unyielding, refusing to bend even under the crushing weight of destiny. Like her, he carried the burden of being different. Of being rare. Of being eternal.

"...I'll miss you, my son," she whispered, leaning down to kiss his forehead. Her lips lingered there, cool against his skin. "...I think this is it for me. I've forced my will into this illusion enough."

"Huh...wait!" Atlas exclaimed, panic rising in his chest. "You were going to tell me how to escape!"

But Bela's brown eyes shone white, blinding even Atlas. "You'll find the way when you save the right person," she said cryptically, her voice fading like smoke on the wind.

And then, just like that, she slumped forward, asleep on her throne. The light dimmed, leaving Atlas alone in the vast emptiness of the room.

"....Mother?"