Mimicry Sword Mga Nobela at Kwento

Kiran turned to look at Malachi and he nodded his head as well. “Kiran Sinclair, step forth and claim the first incision,” Malachi said, and I looked at the knife in Kiran’s hand. Aegishjalmur, Valknut, Triskelion, Yggdrasil, Gungnir, and Mjolnir were etched on the handle, the symbols of our ancestors and our history.

The Counter-Attack But the "Final Cut" Liling-Mimic didn't vanish. Her face twisted into an expression of pure, human-like rage—the "Envy" of the Anonymous finally surfacing. "If you want the Truth," she hissed, her body beginning to expand into a towering mass of liquid-carbon blades, "then the Truth is that The Heir must die for the many to live." The Spire began to shake. Outside, the millions of Mimics in the streets let out a synchronized scream. They weren't actors anymore. They were The Discordance.

Ang kanyang mga mata, na dati ay kayumanggi, ay panandaliang nag-flicker sa kulay violet. ​Hindi siya clone, at hindi rin siya cyborg. Siya ay isang Bio-Mimic—isang bagong creation ni Vane kung saan ang bawat cell ay isang micro-computer na kayang gayahin ang human tissue hanggang sa antas ng DNA. ​Naglakad siya patungo sa nursery kung nasaan si Alexander. Ang bawat hakbang niya ay hindi naririnig ng mga sensors dahil ang kanyang katawan ay naglalabas ng isang Frequency Jammer.

“A futile question, Siron. I have gathered memories from many sources. I know more about you than you remember yourself.” Siron backed up again, but his leg hit a chair. He nearly fell. “Morat, Lyra, get ready. We have to fight.” “Agreed,” they both replied in unison. Siron raised his hands and exerted his weave. Golden, blue, and pink light erupted from his palms, forming a sphere of energy that he hurled at the Mimic. But the Mimic simply raised his hand, and the energy sphere was absorbed by the shadow tentacles in front of him. “The same energy. But you are tired, Siron. The seal repairs, the battle with the Devourer... you are not in prime condition.”

Blood welled from the cut, but not a single drop reached the ground. Morvienne placed her other hand over the cut. Then, slowly, she began to pull it away. As her hand withdrew, the blood clung to her fingers instead of dripping. It stretched into a long crimson strand before thickening, hardening, and crystallizing as it flowed from the wound. Inch by inch, the forming blade followed her hand, as though she were unsheathing it from her own blood. By the time her arm was fully extended, she held a fully formed crimson sword, its translucent blade forged entirely from her blood.