Bounty Hunter Bloods Hand Signs Novels & Stories

They seek the aid of the village's healers, hoping they can provide the much-needed antivenom to save Hunter's life. As they arrive at the top floor of Handler's Tower, they are greeted by a young merlad, no more than eight years old by the looks of him. He approaches them, his gaze taking in the group before him, and then he signs a single word, "sign." It's a universal gesture asking someone to communicate using their hands, given the different dialects of aquasign. Trent immediately starts signing, his hand placement slightly different from what the others are used to, but his signs are still close enough for the rest of the group to understand. "My bondmate was assaulted with the venom o

he irritably said, starting to roll the paper. "No, wait! I want to sign it!" I immediately grabbed the paper from his hand. "How can I sign this? Where's the pen?" I asked him. He takes out a small knife from his body and walks closer to me. He gently holds my hand and sticks the knife's tip into my index finger, making a small cut. "Use your blood," he whispered. I followed exactly what he said and duly signed the paper. After signing the paper, it vanished in thin air right before my eyes. "Now that the deal has been made, may I ask what are the missy's wishes?" He excitedly asked.

I scanned the destruction, searching for clues, for any sign of what they planned next. “They took something,” Wolf murmured suddenly, pointing with a shaky hand. I followed his gaze. On a crushed metal panel—half-melted—was a symbol scorched into the surface: A serpent swallowing its own tail. Red. Twisting. Almost glowing. My blood froze. “That’s Saint’s mark.” “No,” Wolf said softly. “It’s older than Saint.” He looked at me, eyes wide, frightened. “It’s a blood-oath sigil. Used only in the highest betrayals.”

As we faced each other, he reached into my holster, drawing my blade—the one adorned with the Capone emblem. The blade's polished steel catching the ambient light in the room. The Capone emblem gleamed, a symbol of our family's legacy etched onto the hilt. Dad extended the knife toward me, handle-first, a silent invitation to partake in the blood pact. Our eyes locked, understanding passing between us. Without uttering a word, I took the blade from his hand. I pressed its sharp edge against the palm of my hand. The small bead of blood welled up on my palm from the shallow cut. My gaze remained fixed on the droplet, symbolizing the gravity of our commitment. Dad mirrored my actions, slicing h

He gritted his teeth and picked up the scalpel again. Just as I sighed in relief, his phone rang with a call from Giselle.

Bulldozer’s face darkened in an instant; he felt that he had been greatly disrespected. The next moment, he charged right at Harvey. At the same time, his hands were blood red, with a foul stench coming from them. These were the legendary Bloodshot Hands. People who got hit by them would be infected immediately; the excruciating pain would immobilize anyone instantly. Naturally, Bulldozer wanted to show his strength to Harvey and make Harvey understand just how much stronger he was compared to him. He wanted to teach Harvey a lesson! Right as Bulldozer’s palm was about to hit Harvey…

Yet, seeing the man's grin, so broad it seemed on the verge of tears, a sudden thought struck Lance—could this be…… He clenched his fist, raised it high above his head, and repeated the motion three times. This was the signature gesture of the werewolf warriors from Alpha Bentley's legion. Before every battle, the warriors of Alpha Bentley's legion would perform this gesture, followed by three thunderous chants of "Victory!" The ten individuals, upon witnessing this, were moved to tears and mirrored the gesture, raising their fists high three times as well. They nearly burst into chants of "Victory!" but restrained themselves at the last moment. Lance felt a surge of warmth and his heart qui

She had no weapon but her hands, and the knowledge that Dante was now, impossibly, the only weapon she needed. The upstairs was a single, cluttered office. Through the cracked door, she saw Pete a gaunt man in a stained tracksuit pacing before a heavyset man in a leather jacket. The bookie. Not the killer. A collector. “The girl’s dead, Pete,” the collector growled. “Your debt isn’t. You said you had information to sell. So sell it.” “I need a guarantee! Protection!” “You get cash. That’s the guarantee.” Dante stepped into the doorway. “He’ll take a different deal.”

She looks at me, eyes wild with pain and excitement, pride and horror. "Is it over?" "It's over. You have given. Now, receive." I take the bowl in both hands, hold it before me. I dip a finger in her blood—warm, thick, alive. I trace a line on her forehead, between her eyes, from the top of her nose to her hairline. Then on her lips, a red bar that colors them. Then on her heart, through the dress, where it beats hard, fast, under my hand. "By this blood, you are bound to us," I say. "By this blood, you are one of us. By this blood, you are marked forever. By this blood, you are ready for the last night."

“I don’t have to trust you in order to work with you” “See, that’s where you are wrong” he sets the box down in front of her. He bends over opening the box and brings out a short coat with H which is Hunter’s initials inscribed on its back. He hands it to her “I should wear this when I’m out on missions?” “Yes, you do. You must always provide proof of death before you claim your reward. Hunters take 50% of your money after each mission. Hunters don’t care about the injuries you sustain during a mission, tend to them yourself. That’s all you need to know”