Blade Of Oppressed Souls Novels & Stories

Raphael replied, "I do not plan to annihilate or conquer a race or anyone except Roosevelt, what I will do instead is forge an alliance between me and each race, just like the pact I want to propose to you, wolf." I demanded, "What pact exactly." He smirked, "Annihilating Roosevelt together, and serving me." Mars snapped, "You expect us to serve you? Who do you think you are?" Raphael gripped his sword, he looked seconds from unsheathing it, his fingers locked the hilt, I could witness frozen tendrils of mist bleeding out. "You nearly forced me to draw frostbite" So Raphael’s sword is called Frostbite Blade. The blade is long, straight, pale blue like glacier ice. It doesn’t shine. It drinks

Luke continued, his voice softening but remaining firm, "you were the type to look the other way. Why would I shove my nose into a den that wasn't mine? And last night... you’d already bled enough. I wasn't going to twist the knife." "Well, I want the knife now," Cass growled, his eyes burning. "I want every bit of it. Tell me." "Why?" Luke pushed back. "So you can drown in it? So you can suffer more? Forget it. I won't watch you break again." "Damn you!" Cass screamed, putting his entire weight into a shove. He didn't just poke; he heaved against Luke’s chest with every ounce of his werewolf strength. The solid mass of the Alpha actually stumbled back two steps, his eyes widening in shock.

The steel blade was no longer humming with a blue electrical current; it was coated in a thick, oily black smoke that carried the unmistakable, suffocating clicking sound of the First Soul Eater. Laila brought her left blade up to block the strike, the sapphire fire of her steel meeting the black mist of the naginata with a horrific, screeching sound that sounded like a metal file scraping against her skull. The pressure was immense, the black smoke actively trying to crawl down her silver blade and infect her hand, but the runic lines on her knuckles flared with a bright white heat that burned the mist into a white ash before it could touch her skin. She pivoted on her heel, her right blade

The world collapses down to one truth: He will never touch or hurt anyone again. I don’t stop when he goes down. I don’t stop when he curls in on himself, hands coming up too late, blood at his mouth. I stop only when a sound cuts through the fog. A sob from Libby. I turn and see Libby is on the floor behind the counter and curled in on herself. Her arms are wrapped around her head and she’s rocking slightly like she’s trying to disappear into the tiles. “No, no, no,” she whispers. “Please—please—”

The obsidian blade goes through the grey Harvester’s plate as though the plate is warm wax, and the cut does not slow at the armor the way every law of the physical world says it should, because the engine is at full and full means the blade carries my entire frequency into the steel ahead of the edge, and the steel forgets, for one impossible instant, how to be solid. The Harvester comes apart at the gorget and I am already past it, already turning, already cutting down the second one that drops behind it out of the spine, and the corridor fills with the smell I have spent my whole life learning to scrub and hide and bury, scorched ozone, the burnt-storm reek of a Sovereign at full song, po

"The cut . . . How is this important?" "That cut is not ordinary." Calix's face darkened. "The blade Navea tried to hurt you with—it is made from the metal mined at the rim of Sygnus, the void in the Underworld. When imbued with the right spells, it can take a mortal's soul to Hell regardless of its purity. While it can do so without killing the body instantly, the physical form with rot from the inside over a short period of time." Flashes of Damien's blackened neck appeared in Kat's mind. "So Damien's been hurt by this blade too. I got hurt by it. Does that mean I have no soul anymore?"

Sethlzaar made it to his destination, his only obstacles being wandering attacks and a few annoying corpses that stumbled onto his way. The sight he beheld almost consumed his attention. If he were not in the midst of blood and death, he would’ve lost all of his focus to the fight ensuing before him. Reverend Bratvi fought alongside two other Most Reverends and the High blade, holding off a one armed man who fought them off with a sword. There was no debating the man’s identity. The way the High blade and the Reverends moved almost had Sethlzaar convinced they’d been fighting as a team for years. Each time one man attacked another was there to defend, switching positions as was necessary and

My wolf was restless, and my senses were acutely aware. An enormous stone altar, adorned with antiquated carvings and symbols, stood at the far end of the room. There was a pedestal in the middle, and on it A dagger of gold. Evans took a deep breath. She stopped short of the pedestal, as though drawn by some invisible power. "This is the reason we came." I scowled. "A dagger?" "No," she said in a whisper. "The Blade of the Blood Oath." A tool that was created to bind fate.

“You can choose whatever material you want to fight each other,” the matriarch declared, her voice echoing through the arena like a spell cast over the room. She stood with her arms outstretched, as if offering them a divine gift—freedom to choose their own destruction. Without hesitation, Dorian moved. His eyes locked onto a long, curved blade resting among the scattered weapons on the ground—a katana. He stepped forward, the steel whispering as he lifted it into his hands. The weight was perfect. Balanced. Silent. Deadly.

"Think about it, the name Kopis is ancient Greece for a knife and it's no coincidence that your name..." "... Is Blade." I finished for her as I began thinking about it. "If this is in anyway true, that means I'm cursed." "Yeah!" She said. "You are." My heart crashed as somehow, I had been hoping that this bloodlust thing would go away and I could try to have a normal life again.