Skimming Blade Set Novels & Stories

"Your mom made me take this. Said you'd need it." I accepted the blade, feeling its weight. It was heavier than I expected, and covered in symbols that seemed to shift and move in the corner of my vision. "What's it for?" "Killing demons," Skye said simply. "Or at least hurting them enough to make them rethink their choices." Despite everything, I almost smiled. Almost. We approached the gym entrance together, and with each step, I could feel the magic inside me responding. Growing stronger. More insistent. Like it recognized we were walking toward danger and wanted to protect me.

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.

There were three more rolls on the shelf, and he took them all out. The knife roll contained five knives with different sized blades, some had serrated edges and others had odd hooks in them. One had an exceptionally long blade and had specks of old blood on it. James picked it up and it felt comfortable in his hand. He put it back immediately, it felt too comfortable.

The obsidian blade goes through the grey Harvester’s plate as though the plate is warm wax, and the cut does not slow at the armor the way every law of the physical world says it should, because the engine is at full and full means the blade carries my entire frequency into the steel ahead of the edge, and the steel forgets, for one impossible instant, how to be solid.

"Tell me what I am looking at." [Warning, Host Eva! Tier 2 Mutated Variant identified: Blade-Stalker. High speed, high durability, and lethal melee capacity. Your hunting knife cannot pierce its main chest plating. Avoid direct blocks. Structural damage to the immediate ledge is critical!] "I do not plan to block, " I said through my teeth, my eyes locked onto the burning red glare of the beast's eyes. The Blade-Stalker did not wait. It let out a loud metallic hiss that made my teeth hurt and its right arm swung forward fast. The bone blade cut through the air with a whistle aiming straight for my neck.

Next, he had Sethlzaar watch as, setting the grindstone turning with its pedals, he put one of the blades to it, finding rhythm counting in twos in the language the priests often spoke with before handing the task over to him. As the blade met stone it let out black sparks the likes of which Sethlzaar had never seen before, unsettling him at its appearance. He held his wits about him and kept at it a while, moving the length of the blade at the correct angles under Sigael's instructions, increasing and decreasing the speed of the stone through its pedals as per the smith's command so its whole length honed. Then he performed the task on the other side. He did this for both blades for a while

He would destroy anyone and everyone who laid a hand on her. I rushed back into the sanctuary, with no time to waste. Walking into the artifact room and grabbing the pair of cutlass swords, I had always admired, hanging up on the wall. Both are trimmed with gold, and both are etched with the lunar phases on one side of the blade. The only difference – is their handles. One woven in white the other black. The supposed twin swords of Skoll and Hati. The sons of Fenrir. The balance in both blades was perfect, as I tested them out, rotating my wrist and twirling the blades. The sun catching the finely sharpened edges.

I watch, breathless, thinking it will disappear — but instead, the condensed currents split, sliding smoothly along both sides of his throat, brushing the skin with the gentlest, most deliberate, and menacing caress, before they meet again behind his neck. There, in a heartbeat, the wind snaps back into form, reforming into a razor-fine blade. And then — faster than the eye can track — it whips across the room. CLANG. The windblade slices straight through a steel art sculpture standing by the far wall — a polished metal spiral about thirty centimeters wide — and cuts it clean in half. The halves clatter apart with a ringing sound, the edges gleaming sharp and fresh. The blade itself dissipat

I told them about the incident with the blade. As I pulled the blade to show them, my breath hitched. A sickening realization settled over me—the blade had begun to decay, its once-impenetrable metal now chipped where our blood had mingled. The sharp edge had dulled, the intricate engravings that once pulsed with power were now barely visible beneath the damaged metal. It was as if the weapon itself had been tainted, consumed by the impossibility of what had touched it.

It started with a blur, too fast and too close, the kind of shift in energy that makes your skin prickle before your mind even catches up. One second I was reaching for a second sleeper, still humming with leftover resonance, and the next there was a sound like ripping fabric and a sudden burst of movement behind me. I turned just in time to catch the glint of metal, a blade aimed straight at my head. The knife wasn’t ceremonial, ornate, or sharpened for show, just clean, narrow, and deadly, a weapon meant purely for killing.