Monsters Graphic Novels & Stories

“This one is a demonic one…” “A demonic monster?” Claude and Darrion frowned in alarm. Jai looked at them curiously. “What’s a demonic monster?” Claude tried to explain. “There are six types of monsters in this world. The normal ones without elements like cats, dogs, the ordinary cows and sheep are considered as domestic monster. They only cause a small amount of damage compared to the others. The next one is elemental monster that is able to use element to its will, and sometimes, they also produce the elemental energy themselves. The third one is intelligent monster. This one usually understands human language and has a higher comprehension of life, meaning, it’s usually a lot more powerfu

And then, the monsters breached the mist. They were horrifying. They were massive, grey-skinned abominations, their muscles bulging with sickening, unnatural proportions. Their chaotic, glowing purple eyes burned with mindless, explosive rage. To Mwajuma, they were the ultimate manifestation of the toxic, violent male spirit—beasts that existed only to destroy the beauty of the world.

I unlock the door as quietly as I can. Jonah’s asleep on the couch. He’s too big for it now—his legs hang off the edge, one arm thrown over his face and the other holding onto his inhaler—but he’s curled up under the blanket I bought him last Christmas. His sketchbook’s on the floor next to him, open to a page covered in dark, jagged lines. I kneel down. Look at the drawing. Monsters again. Always monsters. Claws and teeth and too many eyes, things that don’t look human but almost are, things that are breaking apart or putting themselves back together. I can never tell which.

I hate the look of my muscles all tense and stitched tight on my back. A lifetime of blows and bouncing back collects scars. I've had a lot of scalding showers, and bruises have become stretched and angry on me, causing pitted scars. There are no tears, but the groans come in multitude. As a monster, you learn never to accept pain. Pain only affects you if you let it. Black slacks. Black socks. Charcoal shoes are polished until they look like a crisp new apple skin. The shirt is deep forest green, which brings out the natural multiple hues of green in my eyes. Intentional. Gold flecks are juxtaposed in my iris.

“If there’s a single scratch on my body, the entire Chicago would know what kind of monsters you all are.” “When the time comes, you will meet our monsters first,” I snarled. “Keep your empty threats to yourself, Dominic.” She narrowed her eyes. “They don’t scare me anymore; in fact, it’s boring and repetitive.” “If there’s anything worth remembering about you, Sophia, that is, you are an attention-seeking whore. We know the video is fake, and you are desperate. Get to the fucking point. NOW!”

"*grrrr..." Several monsters immediately directed their intimidating gaze towards us. There were about two hundred monsters ahead of us. As I observed, they resembled black-skinned Minotaurs, each wielding a large axe in their right hand. They stood at around two meters tall, clearly stronger than the group of skeletons we encountered earlier. It seemed they also had the attribute of darkness—a Minotaur with the attribute of darkness. "*Slash..." "*Whoosh..." [Wind Arrow] [Light Arrow]

It kills and devours every wolf, werewolf, and animal it beholds. He is seen as the demon of hell; he is the mysterious harbinger of death. While I held my baby very tight to my chest, I tugged the curtain a little closer to see if I could see anything. Everyone seemed so terrified, but I wasn't that scared; I was rather curious to at least behold its face. This is the first time in my life that I am seeing the sight of the monster's visit. In the past, my dad would have us all locked up in the inner room while he went out with the rest of the rogue soldiers, the Gammas, in search of this unknown monster. It is said that despite their search, they haven't traced its route or even exactly how

Her eyes meet mine one last time, and there is something unspoken there—something heavy with expectation. “You chose to become the monster,” she says quietly. “Now learn what it means to wield it.” And just like that, the path forward is no longer theoretical. It has a destination. And a name. The Butcher. And somewhere deep inside me, something ancient and unfamiliar stirs—like it’s been waiting for this war far longer than I have. We pack in quiet motion. Mae moves through Ilythra’s home like she’s afraid of touching things too hard, like the walls might whisper secrets if she brushes them wrong. I’m stuffing clothes into my bag—things that already feel like remnants of another life—when I

“You’re safe from other monsters.” My quickened pulse returned. “Other monsters? Are you a monster? Is Em?”