Blood Of The Samurai นิยาย & เรื่องราว

Chapter 1: Blood Debt The warehouse smelled like rust and death. Luca Rossi stood over the body, chest rising slow and steady, the only sound in the sudden silence. Marco Vitale’s eyes stared up at the cracked ceiling, vacant now, blood pooling dark and thick beneath his head. One clean shot—center mass—then two more to be sure. Message delivered. Luca wiped his hands on a rag one of his men handed him, though the blood had already dried under his nails. He didn’t flinch. He never did.

For ten years, I was Vincent's blood bag and his sharpest blade. I offered my rare blood to sustain his ancient power. I offered my loyalty to secure his throne as the Vampire Lord of this territory. I thought my devotion might earn me the eternal embrace of the turning. Instead, I received the announcement of his marriage to Lilith. A princess from a powerful European vampire clan. He said it was a necessary alliance. He said my blood was still precious. But when the sanctified silver tearing through the car,he used my body as a shield, to ensure his bride remained unblemished. That's when I knew. I was never his lover. I was just a consumable resource, a blood bag to be used and discarded.

“You believe you lose your blood because you have money?” His jaw tightened slightly. “My parents died, and it is people like you who made my voice shake,” I said. “People who determine that others are irrelevant.” The guards came nearer, and they caught my arms. "Take her," Dino said. Trying to turn my head back to look at him, I was pulled by them towards the door. “It is no use killing me and washing your blood,” I said. Dino hesitated, the first time in a long time. "Wait," he said suddenly.

A white wolf locked eyes on him, grabbed the jar in its jaws, and respectfully placed it in my hand. Another wolf bared its teeth and sank them into Noah's neck. It tossed him into the air and slammed him to the ground. Just as they opened their jaws to finish him off, I raised a hand. They stopped at once, crouched by my side with their heads lowered. Noah's eyes lit up. "May, I'll… be happy to die here. But you stopped them… Does this mean—" I yawned, then continued, "You're reading too much into it. I just didn't want them tainted by your filthy blood."

For a second there was silence. Then— "AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" Samuel's scream exploded through the air. It wasn't the scream of a king or the scream of a warrior. It was the scream of a man feeling agony down to his very soul. His body twisted violently across the blood-soaked ground, blood pouring from the places where his limbs had once been as tears streamed uncontrollably down his face. He screamed and screamed and screamed, yet I only tilted my head, watching him expressionlessly and empty, as though I was observing something far away.

Lucien smiled faintly. “Then let the blood decide.” Their hands tightened together. A surge of light erupted red, white, and black intertwined—obliterating everything in its path.

To the new leader of the blood-born, Malakai was the ultimate prize—a never-ending, self-replenishing blood bag of pure sustenance. The entity pulled back, its jagged jaw smeared with Malakai's bright, vibrant crimson blood. The monster let out a low, vibrating hum of sheer satisfaction. With a casual, effortless tug, it hauled Malakai's limp, paralyzed body out of the mud by his ruined silk collar, dragging him backward toward the edge of the cliff like a piece of slaughtered meat.

He didn't reply, forcing me to peer into those unreadable eyes and drink him in. “Is this from the blood oath?” I tried again. He shook his head, leaning into my touch like an obedient pet. His eyes were trained on me, as if challenging me to a gaze holding standoff. “No.” He said after a few minutes. He turned his other hand where a small scar marred his palm. “This is it.” “While this,” He said and his hand connected with mine which was still clinging to his face. My heart beat tripled. He continued effortlessly. “This Happened in a fight many years back.”

he sighed, a sound of genuine, disappointed resignation. He pressed down. The blade tore into the flesh of my left forearm. A gasp of pure, unadulterated agony tore from my throat, my body violently jerking against the heavy metal chair. The thick leather straps bit mercilessly into my wrists and chest, holding me pinned, offering no escape from the searing heat of the blade. Hot, crimson blood began to well up from the deep, clean line he had drawn, spilling over my skin and dripping slowly, rhythmically, onto the pristine white tile floor. In the blinding brightness of the room, the blood looked unnaturally dark, almost black.

She starts toward the mess, probably planning to clean it up, and I want to tell her not to bother, want to tell her to just leave and take her stupid concern and her circadian rhythms with her. But then she kneels down next to the broken plate and reaches for one of the larger pieces of ceramic. Her hand slips. The edge of the shard catches her palm, cutting a line across it that immediately starts to bleed. She makes a small sound, barely more than a breath, and pulls her hand back. “Leave it,” I say, my voice coming out rougher. “It’s fine. I just need to—” “I said leave it.” She looks up at me, her hand pressed against her stomach now, trying to hide the cut even though I can already see