Backhand Blade Ash Of War Novels & Stories

Porcelain hands, relentless, snapping another's wrist, tanto-drop, knee, gutting third windless. We fought synced lethal—his dominance blade my fury heel, bodies brushing mid-strike, sweat-slick, obsidian meeting hazel mid-bloodspray. Last rebel charged me knife-high; I sidestepped twist, palm-heel nose-shatter, Kenji's bokken finishing spine-crack. Dojo reeked slaughter, copper-thick, tatami slick crimson pools, our chests heaving thunder-sync, indigo hakamas spattered gore.

The air smelled strongly of spent gunpowder, cold concrete, and copper. Asher stood at the primary firing line, his massive, muscular back completely soaked in sweat, straining against his tight black t-shirt. He didn't have his protective earmuffs on. He was firing a sleek, customized handgun with a terrifying, rapid precision, blowing the center right out of a paper target fifty feet away. "You're tracking your shadow again, doll," Asher growled over his shoulder without lowering his weapon. He let out a dry, short laugh and slammed a fresh magazine into the grip with a definitive click. "I told you to stay in the east wing."

It was because I would not buy him expensive toys or let him play on his phone without finishing his homework. The biggest reason was my refusal to allow Leia to be his mother. Even so, when I noticed the slab that was about to fall, I rushed forward without hesitation to shield him with my arms. The slab struck me on my head and left a gaping wound. But he pushed me away and grabbed Leia’s hand. He asked her with a concerned look on his face if she was scared. Williams Taylor burst in with a gas mask, and he was the first to rush over. He got hold of the only gas mask and handed it to Leia.

Blade and I moved in the same breath, steel and fire in our hands, cutting into the wave that crashed over us. The night exploded into war. The circle cracked around us, the first wave of Hellborn Kings crashing like waves against a cliff. Dirt and gravel sprayed under spinning tires, guns flashing with the faint burn of tracers. I shoved Nova low, her scream barely piercing the chaos. Isla clung to her mother, tiny fists curled like iron. “Stay down!” I shouted over the roar. “Blade, cover the left!” Blade didn’t hesitate. He was already a shadow in motion, sliding behind a fallen crate, knife flashing as he cut down a man trying to flank us. “Move! Now!”

They moved like ghosts made flesh, blades tearing into the Ash born flank before warnings could even rise. Vessa turned at the first scream. Too late. The ambush struck like the final breath of a forgotten god. Ash born scouts were swallowed in moments. Wolves torn from their saddles. Shields broken. War cries clashed with spell fire. And Vessa stood at the line. Not behind. At it.

Shoving at another warrior who came towards me, about to tackle me to the ground, I tried my best to stop that from happening while pain flared in my back. It was just a few seconds of distraction and almost cost me my life. “You're weak and no match for us,” the one who had slashed through my back said, and he ripped his head back in laughter. I saw the knife in his hand, still glistening with my blood. “And now we will show you what it means to be a warrior of this pack house.” “Watch out, Ashley!” I heard Kelly and Kael’s scream but it was too late for me to make a reaction.

“Count me in.” Yaro grunted from the cot, raising two fingers. “Give me a blade. My knees are useless, but my hands still remember.” I let out a breath and turned to leave. It wasn’t praise I needed. It was action. Words were cheap. As I stepped outside, the early dusk painted everything a deep amber. The forest wind carried hints of pine, ash, and the thick anticipation of war. The camp buzzed behind me, soldiers preparing weapons, murmuring prayers to gods that had long stopped listening.

The swords are bronze, beneath their silver skins. I’m barely two feet from the line, and I give away one of them stepping back from Black’s slash. The howling around us becomes a gasp as his blade is motionless in the moment before he starts the backswing, and I reach out, and grab it with my bare hand.

It liked this. “Careful,” Noah said softly, after a vicious exchange left their blades locked near the center of the strip, hand guards almost kissing. Through the mesh, she could see the outline of his lips, his jaw flexing. “You’re enjoying this.” “Scared?” she asked. “Not of the fight.” The air stretched thin. The foil grip bit into her palm. Beneath the glove, her ring pressed cold against the bone. “Again,” Deveraux barked. Laurent, quit flirting with the target and test her.

I was not standing still. The Ashen Discharge at ground-contact, propagated upward through both his feet simultaneously — the same technique that had worked against Vergara's aura suppression, now aimed at disrupting the Foundation qi flow that was feeding his kampilan technique. The disruption was partial. The blade lost half its aura pressure. But it still had mass and momentum and caught me across the left forearm in a line that was more burn than cut, the residual qi searing through cloth and skin. I did not make a sound.