Grim Reaper Blade Novels & Stories

"So, if there's any grudge, settle it with them. Please don't involve us!" They desperately tried to distance themselves from Prospera Corporation. Before they could finish, Blade casually drew a dagger from his waist and slit an old man's throat. Blood gushed out as life fled his body. "Fuck it! I'm killing you old bastards! Do you think I didn't see what happened earlier? Bunch of turncoats! If Frederick and everyone else find you annoying, so do I!" Blade then declared impatiently, "If none of you have any connections with the company, you can all die!"

“I’m tired, Dislav. I want to get the girl, kill the son of a bitch, and get the fuck out of here.” He didn’t look at them when he spoke. He just kept loading another clip, each movement calm, grim, and terrifying. “Boss, I need to take a dump,” Blade said in a low voice. Damien slowly lifted his gaze to him. “Do you want to die?” he asked coldly. Blade only smiled. “No, boss. I’ll be back soon.” He started to jog off when Damien’s voice stopped him. “Karim, go with him.”

—a weapon forged from the concentrated light of the Great-Attractor. ​The Reapers lunged. Kaelen moved like a blur, his bronze-lines flaring with a golden heat that melted the brass gears under his feet. Every strike of his blade didn't just cut metal; it released a burst of "Stolen-Time." A Reaper would shatter, and suddenly, the sound of a song or the smell of a forgotten summer would fill the air.

He didn’t want to kill Professor Jackson of course, but the man was so powerful that unless Mane approached him with the intent to kill, he had no chance of winning. All the Mane’s years of trying to master the Bloodied Blade arts had led him to an ultimate technique called Reaper’s Call. Unlike Prideful Sword that had its set skills which could be studied, emulated, and mastered as long as one was sharp enough, Bloodied Blade art required that the user incorporated his understanding into the techniques. It took Mane months to master Crazed Cut of the Blade King, a year to master Reaper’s Dance, and another year to master Reaper’s Edge. It was after mastering these three that the door to the

Aziz murmured a snarky remark, so only I could hear. I didn’t spare him a glance, instead. “Uncle, do you want me to?” “Yes,” Eren said. “Bring the scimitar.” I took the other curved blade from its box. Not a hellblade flashing a ruby, just good old steel. The old man’s eyes lit when it flashed. He set the cane aside with his thumb stroking the curve of the blade. “Magnificent,” he breathed. “This blade looks so good. Can you fix it up for me before purchase? sharpen it, nothing vulgar since it is a gift.”

Blade watched under half closed eye lids as Rain and the woman she called Babe left the room. Then he turned his head slightly to see Greer watching him carefully. Greer had moved over to lean against the wall at the foot of his bed. “I know you can see me, asshole.” Greer growled. “You aren’t fooling anyone here.” Blade opened his eyes and stared at him. “I know you don’t believe me but I really don’t remember the man you were talking about before.” He hesitated then asked, “Did I really do all that shit?”

Rider was also engaged, and Sky’s first line, the one that was supposed to be there as a perimeter, was forced to move in to hold them off. Cutter chose a demon to concentrate on, one that was closest to the doorway of the church, but before he could do too much damage, he looked up to see four Reapers closing in, their scythes raised. Unlike any of the Reapers he’d ever pursued, these actually were made of bone, which was startling to him. It took him a moment to recover, and that split second was enough time for one of the Reapers to hit him with a wave of black energy. Cutter staggered backward and fought against it, managing to bring the light from his right hand around to cut through it

He was the wealthy, arrogant playboy girls would swoon around, and also the Blade family's eldest son. "Ezekiel?” A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Ezekiel Blade,” he said. "Why are you without your glasses, freckle face?” He always mentioned his last name like he was nothing without it. But I knew that he loved the name so much as it meant people would fear him. I rolled my eyes, pulling my hand away from his grip. “Still a bully, huh? Besides, I don't wear glasses anymore, and I'm definitely not freckle face. It's Lydia Winters,” I said, mimicking his words.

he instructed, his voice steady but firm. His team immediately complied, scanning the surgical site with careful precision. Every vessel had to be examined, every stitch secure. Even the slightest uncontrolled bleed could turn into a catastrophe. Marcus observed as his assistants moved efficiently, scanning for leaks, ensuring that no silent danger lurked beneath the surface. The seconds stretched, but soon, the verdict was in—no active bleeding. The bypass held perfectly. It was time to close.