Ghost Swords Novels & Stories

“A ghost wolf. Bound to this place.” The spirit growled, and its voice came out broken, layered with pain. “Traitor… murderer…” It lunged. Varic shoved me aside just as the ghost slammed into him, claws slicing through his armor like smoke cutting cloth. He grunted, rolling to his feet, blade flashing as he countered. The steel burned with a faint red light, striking the specter again and again — but it only howled, reforming. I scrambled back, panic clawing up my spine. “You can’t kill what’s already dead!”

Wisps ghosted forward, specters of violence, heralds of an arriving carnage that was certain. Sethlzaar moved, slipping between ghosts replaced by humans in a heartbeat, striking them down, ending lives in one or more blows. He found himself going through sword stances Father Ordan and Narvi had ingrained in him many years ago. His footing was undisturbed, his movements fluid. And as had happened in the floors above, men fell where he passed. And death followed in his wake.

I call ghost, he got more than one skill, and opening closed-door virtual and real ones are one of his many skills. He uses his key locks tools and messes with the door for a bit until it opens. Finally, I walk down with ghost behind me, I find a small girl laying naked on the floor. She's thin, too thin, her blond hair match mine only hers is dirty and matted on her head. Her blue eyes are hardly open, I can see bruises all over her fragile body. Taking off my shirt I cover her quickly and pick her up leaving this hell behind. "You're safe now baby sister" I whisper in her ears she closes her eyes letting darkness take her.

The last thing he saw was Khaleana screaming and blood—lots of blood. **Chief Gharcha Sharp Fang** Anarungu opened his eyes. The hut was warm, and he noticed a figure sitting across from him. It was a skeleton, the remains of a person. It wore strange white things, solid and shimmering like water in the light. A cloak draped over the shoulders, made of a material Anarungu had never seen before. In the skeleton's hand, a dagger was locked in a death grip. The skeleton's hand clutched a huge dagger, its blade as long as an arm. The dagger was white and smooth, resembling water but incredibly straight and razor-sharp. What kind of white stone was it made from? The base of the blade splits in tw

But he never reached me. When I opened my eyes back up I was startled to find that large beast pinned against the wall by a very angry looking Lucas. Only this time, Lucas’ eyes had turned completely black, on his head stood two large horns that curled around themselves in perfect spirals. His white hair falling around his face messily. His hands had formed into talons which where currently pressed against the bodyguards throat, his nails digging into the skin drawing blood. Tormund was trying desperately to overthrow Lucas but to no avail. The more he thrashed about, the bright the shade of puce he came as Lucas cut off his air supply. Before I could comprehend what was happening, Lucas’ na

Half of his head was blown off, brains and dark red blood clinging to his eye socket. He must have been one of Marco's hired guns in life. There was no way he was among the living now. "Careful, little kitty. Nosing around can get you killed," the spirit said with a ghastly smile, black blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. A ghost. "Another one of Marco's guard dogs?" I asked coldly. "I'm the master of this pier," the spirit said, closing in. "But I took the boss's offering, so I have to clean up any bugs that crawl in."

That blade. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness behind my eyelids reconstruct the memory. The dark titanium alloy. The distinct, weighted crossguard shaped like a weeping willow leaf. It wasn't a modern tactical design. It was old-world craftsmanship, built specifically for close-quarters executions where Kevlar couldn't protect the target. Years ago, before I consolidated the Thorne empire, the eastern syndicates used to whisper bedtime stories about an elite phantom assassin who worked exclusively for the highest bidders. An untraceable phantom known only as Ghost.

The Monadikos were cornered, their numbers dwindling as the Cartel forces and the Ghosted advanced in unrelenting waves. Mikhail, battered and breathing heavily, clenched his fists as he surveyed the battlefield. His men were being slaughtered like animals. The Ghosted moved like wraiths, striking from the shadows, their blades cutting through throats, slicing through tendons, leaving nothing but lifeless husks in their wake. The Cartel soldiers advanced with brutal efficiency, their gunfire drowning out the pained cries of the dying.

Seras is a walking inferno, green ghost-fire mixing with her normal red. Remy fights like a wolf possessed, claws and dagger and pure refusal to let anything touch me. I’m everywhere at once: Mirror Step through broken reflections, blood-lightning carving trenches in the fresh spring ground, Vinča symbols flaring across my skin for half a second before my healing erases them again. We’re losing. Then the ghosts show up. Al Capone and the boys step out of the steam like they were waiting for the cue. Tommy guns made of moonlight and 1920s wrath.

Now, only power spoke. Gloria knelt first, laying a talon-shaped blade across her knees. Its hilt was carved from bone that pulsed faintly in the darkness, like a heartbeat echoing through the ground. The air grew colder around her, coiling like serpents, and her lips moved without sound. The frost crawling along her skin wasn’t entirely natural; it was the blade calling to her, the spirits whispering their obedience.