Razor Blade Gravity Knife Novels & Stories

I said, jabbing my blade into his abdominals. Muscle and ligaments tore. Ribs cracked as I carved into him. Precise, quick, deep cuts. The blade was hand crafted to suit my purposes. Just in case my past came knocking. He was so caught off guard by my revelation he couldn't rally in time to stop me ripping into him. Muscle memory took over. Ghost Blade went to work. Lance's blood splattered between us. His knife aimed blindly at my body while he choked on the blood pouring out of his mouth. Face marred in pain, but he refused to cry out.

Two blades in a sheath. John even got goosebumps, and his hands reached for the blades themselves. His blades! Flawless, perfectly balanced, made of a special alloy, the secret of which only the Coven knew. Jon took out each of the blades and ran his hand over them lovingly, as if they were the most precious thing in his life. The blades were somewhat reminiscent of a Japanese sword - a katana, but slightly different from it. The same narrow and ideal, but still with their own secret, which no one is supposed to know about, except for the Hunter himself.

Cain pulled the knife from the sheath and held it up to observe it. The blade glinted in early morning sunlight that drifted through the windows. Cain placed the knife on the ground and slid it over me. It stopped just shy of my foot and I leaned down to pick it up. Examining it, I knew it was definitely a military-grade knife. "It's an Ari B'Lilah," Cain said. "It's an extreme use combat knife with the toughest and strongest penetrating point possible and one of the finest tactical combat weapons made in the world today—-specifically for the world's most elite counterterrorism unit, the Israeli YAMAN."

It was wrinkled, creased at the edges, stained with the ink of desperation and resolve. I handed it to her with both hands, like an offering. On it was my design—a blade that curved like the crescent moon, elegant and ruthless. I had spent nights perfecting its form. It needed to be light enough to move with my silence. Fast enough to answer before words could rise. Strong enough to carry the truth. I had poured myself into the sketch—not just my grief and rage, but my story, my scars, my will to never be made voiceless again.

But then my eyes caught a glimpse of our reflection in the mirror. Roza's hand was holding a shiny curved blade, about twelve inches long. Its gleam reflected against the sunlight. The girl made a lightning strike at me. Her razor-sharp knife aimed directly at my throat, attempting to slit it out. But I pulled away just in time and grabbed her wrist, twisting the knife out of her hand. "What the..." I stared at the girl as my hand went back to her throat. "Go to hell, you bloodsucker!" Roza snarled back. I looked at her long curved blade and then back at the innocent-looking human Roza again. "A hunter?"

“It’s an obsidian knife, the sharpest knife in the world.” She took back the phone and examined the same image. “Good heavens, you’re right! It’s obsidian— three times sharper than a diamond and 500 to 1,000 times than a surgeon’s steel blade. Scalpels with obsidian blades have a cutting edge of only three nanometers thick and are said to heal with minimal scarring.” “We can only see a bit of it. If this knife is large enough…” I paused. “…it will be the murder weapon. It can cut through bones if its size is perfect,” she finished.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic pattern, his face slack and peaceful in a way that seemed almost innocent. Evan crept forward, his movements slow and deliberate. The tool Kade had given him was pressed against his palm, small and cold and reassuring. A thin blade designed specifically for slicing through chains and cords without making a sound. Evan had practiced with it for hours in the penthouse, learning the precise angle and pressure needed to cut through metal cleanly. He had run through the motion a hundred times, memorizing the feel of the blade in his hand.

"Besides I would remember the blade that you stuck into my chest cavity after all and this one isn't it." Brandon tensed in fear as he removed his claws from Brandon's cheek and reached down and unsheathed the long blade at his hip. Lifting it into the light a few inches and instantly Brandon realized that even though the grip and size were similar, the metal of the Shifters knife was completely different form his own currently lost blade.

The blade was jagged, pitch black, and it gave off a faint, eerie glow even in the picture, like it absolutely wasn’t just metal but something alive somehow. My fingers intensely tightened around the phone. “What exactly is that thing?” I asked, my voice severely shaking. My eyes intensely flicked from the horrifying image to Stan, desperately looking for a hint that this was just some sick, awful joke he was playing. His voice dropped lower, urgent and desperate now. “It’s clearly called the Wolfblood Killer blade. That specific blade can truly kill any werewolf, even the strongest one. I personally saw Enzo’s mom openly give it to Dean. If that terrible knife simply goes through Enzo’s che

It turned into a dark, translucent violet material, with veins of glowing orange fire running through it like a nervous system. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was a Thermal-Resonance Blade. I lifted it from the anvil, the weight perfectly balanced. As I swung it, the air hissed, the heat from the blade creating a localized vacuum. It wasn't just a sword; it was a surgical tool for the apocalypse. The Face-Slap of the Prototype Just as the blade reached its final temper, the ceiling of the forge groaned.