Griffith Berserk Sword Novels & Stories

He still had a scar over his left eye where the wineglass she hurled at him shattered too close for safety. Rhychard glanced down at the Guardian Sword in his numb hand. The blade had returned to cold bronze. The broadsword, his inheritance from a dying elf, had an intricate design of vines engraved around the edges. Faeries cross, a stone resembling the bark of an ancient pine, encased the pommel. The stone supposedly helped him to draw upon the elemental magic around him, protecting him against the Void and its denizens. The Guardian Sword held the memories and skills of a dozen previous Warriors who wielded the blade before him. He wondered if the Seelie knew the number thirteen was bad l

My eyes caught a particular sword, it was big and beautiful. " It belongs to Alpha Berrent. He uses that and no one else can use it" one of the warriors said. I saw how it was looking akd I agreed with him. " He asked us to give you this" he handed me another sword that was similar to his but a lower one. " Thank you" I collected it from his hands. I have my sword, but this was better than the one at home. I drew it out and tried to use it,it was smooth and not heavy, it was something I could handle so well.

Derek’s POV Elise lay on the long table where council judgments were usually passed, her body too still, too quiet. Blood had been washed from her skin, but I could still see it when I closed my eyes, how it had poured from her, how it had soaked my hands, how warm it had been while her breath grew shallow. The sword was no ordinary blade. Everyone knew it. The elders whispered it openly now, no longer hiding behind ritual or pride. A blade forged for war against beasts and traitors, enchanted to tear through flesh and spirit alike. A sword meant to kill quickly. Permanently.

Yet the pressure and aura emitted from it instantly told everyone that the weapon was anything but ordinary. Silver and black symbols resembling ancient runes covered the body of the blade. The sword hilt carried the carving of a dragon head with glowing eyes. The moment the sword appeared, even the surrounding air seemed to grow heavier. “What sword is that?” the crowd watching outside muttered in shock and excitement. Before the other warriors could fully comprehend what was happening— Another streak of light burst out from the crack. This time Phoniex caught it. The light faded. A black whip appeared in her hand.

Alexander's sword strikes were relentless and grew more intense, landing multiple cuts on Griffin. With the close quarters of the fight, Griffin's Mayan Saint Spear could no longer wield its full power. Despite the belief that a longer weapon was more powerful, the spear's length was limiting Griffin's effectiveness in close combat. "This is the end!" roared Alexander, gripping his sword with both hands for a powerful downward chop, the blade enveloped in a condensed sword intent. Against a Paramount semi-Empyrean like Griffin, Alexander chose not to use his most powerful sword moves.

"To be honest, I'm so injured that I can't even stand straight. Right now, the most my body could handle is one punch. But If you resort to needless violence, I'll have no choice but to stack up my second berserk skill, which I absolutely don't want to do right now." "You think you can take us on with your second berserk skill?" Grisha smirked as she gazed at him in the eyes, "You're pretty arrogant for the leader of a measly party!"

I hissed directly into his face, my baritone vibrating with the deep, savage roar of my beast. I tightened my long fingers around the shaft of his blessed spear, ignoring the divine burn that lacerated my tendons. With a violent movement of my right arm, I reached for the pommel of my dark steel sword. I did not seek a clean execution. With berserker brutality born of the need to cleanse the North of his presence, I brought the edge of my blade down directly against the joint of his golden armor. The blow shattered his shoulder guard, sending him stumbling back three steps over the cracked stone. Ethan dropped the spear, falling to his knees as his real blood gushed from the wound, staining

’ everybody assumed impatiently. Tension of the crowd was aroused in alarm, their hearts raced with unwelcoming anticipation. Finally, a figure emerged from the huge waves as a victor, the sword of Eryndor– Eryndor, exhausted but triumphant, his Conch shell still clutched in his hand.

* * * Brend issued a charging order, brandishing his sword out and leaping forward toward Grub, Gary not far behind him. “Now man chest, Grub will show you how to stab,” Grub said, rolling forward and to the side, running one of his long blades across Brend’s thigh, smiling when he heard the tell-tale cry of pain. He winced slightly, forgetting he had rolled to the side that was still in recovery from his fight with the crossbowmen in town. Grub rolled under a wide horizontal slash from Gary, who held a broadsword in one hand and a large silver shield in the other. He wore his heavy plate mail and Grub was enjoying exploiting the lack of vision Gary had with his vertical eye slits in his sol

Not words, just hunger. “If we touch that with our bare hands,” Frynn murmured, “we’re losing fingers.” “Or worse.” I reached into my pack and pulled out the sword our priest had given us, the blade forged in moonlight, etched in runes older than any of Seraphine’s curses. Frynn unsheathed his as well. The moment the blades hit the air, the runes glowed. Soft blue at first. Then brighter. Brighter still. A hum vibrated through the metal, resonance, power, recognition.