Black Clover Nozel Novels & Stories

The black Kevlar was sized for a six month old infant. A velvet box sat next to it. It contained a solid gold Desert Eagle handgun. Noah paced the length of the garage. He held his phone up, running a live video call. He yelled at the screen. "Are you insane?" Noah roared. The sound echoed off the concrete walls. "Who ships a tactical vest to a newborn? She does not even know how to hold her own head up! You sent her a Desert Eagle!" I walked closer, resting a hand on my heavy stomach. I peeked at Noah's screen.

I pulled it open, revealing a sleek, black velvet box. Inside — a collar. Unworn. Untouched. I'd had it made months ago. Custom cut. Soft black leather, matte, no tag yet. I hadn’t known who I was waiting for. But now... My thumb ran over the inside edge of it. Noah's name would look good on the tag. A small lock. Silver. Eventually. Not yet. Let the boy fight. Let him spit sparks. Then let him crawl. I slid the box shut. Later, I told myself.

"What's this?" "Fan letters." 'I'm so dead,' she muttered inwardly. Clover bit her lip and dug her fingernails into her palms, forcing herself to stay awake despite the stinging pain. Blood was leaking. The cuts around her wrists had gotten deeper, and a trace of metallic smell drifted along with the lavender scent. In fact, it was noticeable if one paid enough attention to it. "Kyle, can you get my backpack in the trunk?” 'Trunk?!' She jerked.

"Do you think they’ve sensed us?" "I’m not sure," Nol admits. "But that doesn’t matter." Reaching into his pocket, he produces three darts that are sticking out between his fingers. Remaining in place, he waits until the men come into view and then flicks his wrist, letting them escape and jab into the men’s necks before they even have the chance to alert their friends. When they hit the ground, we move, rushing forward while being careful not to make any sound in case there were more guards present.

A song Knox used to whistle when we were kids, working late in the shop. I leaned over the railing, my heart leaping into my throat. "Knox?" I hissed. A figure stepped out from the shadow of a massive oak tree. He was dressed in tactical black, his face obscured by a hood. He looked up, and for a split second, the moonlight caught his eyes. They weren't grey. They weren't violet. They were a flat, lifeless silver. The figure didn't speak. He simply raised a hand, mimicking the motion of a gun, and "fired" a phantom shot at my heart. Then, he vanished back into the trees just as the estate’s secondary sirens began to wail.

"Let me do it this time, sir." "Alright, he's all yours. Don't hold back." "Don't worry. I'll chop him up." The guard had released Noss from the chains bound to his body, and he launched into the air holding his pitchfork. At the same time, Wilbur summoned the thunder cleaver and channeled the power of destruction into it, turning the cleaver a murky black color with pale blue symbols flickering around it. Noss raised the pitchfork and was about to attack. In just a split second, Wilbur launched a dozen attacks. It was not long before the thunder cleaver disappeared from sight, and Noss' entire body exploded into a pile of flesh and bones that fell on the ground.

She shut the blinds, untied her robe where she had nothing underneath and made her way to the bathtub. Smelling the honeysuckle and its almost thick sort of scent, but fruity and warm hints of honey and ripe citrus relaxes the soul. It's like she could stay like that forever but can't afford that luxury. Submerging into the water together with her in-depth thoughts. Half an hour had passed, on her way out of the tub she heard the door knob clicking. By that instinct she took out Des-- her stunning, black finish Desert Eagle Scope.

She patted my cheek. A curious warmth surged through my chest at her praise. I was somehow stuck between feeling like a pet who performed well for his master and an errant child who finally made his teacher smile with pride. "Now, I'm going to hook these," she held up a collection of what looked like stainless steel links with an odd shaped contraption on either end, "to your body. They're called clover clamps. The more you wiggle, the tighter they get. One end is going on your dick; the other on your tongue." She waited for long moments in silence.

the woman who had traded the stars for the soil. ​Kael stood on the jagged cliffs of Graham Island, his eyes—a striking, unclouded hazel—fixed on the horizon. At nineteen, he was a scout of the fourth generation. He wore a tunic of woven cedar bark and a tactical vest that had been patched so many times the original camouflage was a ghost. On his hip hung a "Hush-Blade"—a piece of obsidian-edged steel that didn't vibrate, didn't hum, and didn't leave a trace.