Naruto Executioner Blade Novels & Stories

The heavy silver blade sliced through the noon air, stopping a mere millimeter from Tatsumi’s exposed, trembling neck. Storm’s chest heaved violently, his large hand trembling so hard the leather hilt of the executioner's sword creaked under his white-knuckled grip. The deafening, bloodthirsty roars of the crowd blurred into a chaotic, dizzying static in his ears. Deep within his chest, his inner wolf was clawing at his ribs, howling in absolute agony, begging him to drop the weapon.

His remaining companion turned to face me as well. My favorite ninja wasn't done yet. As the second man turned, Miyako stepped from behind one of the false pylons and kicked the gun out of his hands. The ex-hanging man had the choice of reaching for his dropped Type-05, thus letting me chop him in the back as he bent over or...draw a sword?

We weren't survivors begging for a place at the table; we were the table. "And the Architect?" a man in a white suit asked, his eyes darting to Jinyan. "Does he still hold the leash? Or have the roles reversed?" Jinyan leaned forward, the light from the city hitting the silver scars on his jaw. He didn't look at the man; he looked at the back of my head, his gaze filled with a dark, obsessive pride that was almost suffocating. "I am the Blade," Jinyan said, and the room seemed to grow ten degrees colder. "A blade doesn't have a leash. It has a purpose. And my purpose is to ensure that anyone who looks at her with anything less than total subservience... ceases to exist."

We will see death take those we once counted as pack members. Nathan gestures to the executioner, a hooded thrall whose face is also hidden by his gas mask. The hulking figure takes an impossibly huge sword, practically a guillotine’s blade, from an acolyte as the first traitor is marched to the block. There are no final words. No moment of reflection. The thralls force the man to his knees, his head into the cradle of the block. They hold his arms clear, and the executioner brings down the blade. It’s that simple. In one stroke, the deed is done, and the headsman whips the blood from his sword.

In his right hand, he held the the blade of Obgun'abali and with each step he took, the grass around him died. "Whoa" Yamato exclaimed from the distance as he was warned to stay back. The world was silent to Orie and he could hear nothing as he struck the heels of his target and broke them. He saw a terrified Hughes turn around and beg for mercy but he could not make out the words. "The killer at night does not listen to the plea of the wicked" he said as he raised his machete and struck Hughes on the shoulder. The blade did not cut through but the strike was heavy and shattered every bone it came in contact with.

I launched my torso forward, my boots digging into the slippery, soot-covered steel as the primitive beast beneath my ribs woke up with a cold, calculating fury. The executioner swung his massive blade in a horizontal arc designed to sever my legs at the knee. I bounded over the whistling steel, the sheer heat radiating from the broadsword shaving the tattered hem of my canvas duster. Before his weapon could complete its trajectory, I closed the distance between us, driving the hilt of my tactical knife straight through the center of his jawline. The wet, snapping crunch of fracturing bone echoed sharply over the hiss of the molten iron, but the giant barely blinked.

Damion's POV The tension in the council chamber was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Warriors stood in a wide arc as the newly acquired weapons from Bloodhound were laid out before them. The blades were etched with runes, the spears were tipped with shimmering alloy, and the bows were strung with sinew, making it hum when it was pulled. I air was thick with anticipation as the warriors awaited my command. "Begin!", I ordered and one by one, the warriors stepped forward.

He moved into my space, his massive frame swallowing the light. He wasn’t wearing his executive armor anymore. His white shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the hard, corded muscle of his neck. His sleeves were rolled back to the elbows. He looked less like the CEO of Morton Global and more like the man who had personally overseen the erasure of my bloodline. I reached for the Phantom Blade hidden in my left sleeve, fingers brushing the cold titanium needle. He saw the movement. He didn't flinch. Instead, he reached out and gripped my left wrist. His hand was a manacle—cool, steady, and immovable.

I shouted. I stepped out from behind Rowan. The obsidian blade in my hand felt different now. It wasn't just a heavy piece of stone. It was light, almost weightless, and it thrummed with the soft, white light of the girl I had seen in the warehouse. It was the **Blade of the Unsaid**. Every word I had swallowed, every dream I had put aside for the sake of survival, every "I love you" that had been lost in the roar of battle—it was all there, feeding the light. Vane pivoted, his liquid form spinning like a drill. He ignored Rowan and came for me. He was fast—too fast for a human to track. He was a blur of silver and shadow.

The blade came down — not on Isabella, on my own forearm, a sharp precise cut that produced exactly what an execution produced in terms of sound and blood and the specific quality of aftermath that witnesses needed to see. The sound Isabella made was the right sound. Not performed — she’d felt the blade move and reacted to the motion before the outcome resolved. Damon and Rogers couldn’t see the difference from the passage entrance. I let the blood from my forearm fall where it needed to fall. Stepped back. Let my body do what a body did after executing an order it hadn’t wanted to execute — the specific stillness of aftermath, the weight of completion. The Ancient Lycan’s presence in my per