Soulless Synonym Novels & Stories

Luna Daisy says. “I don’t think he will,” I say. “I think he will,” King adds. I glare at him. “You’re not helping.” “Oh well, what did you expect?” he shrugs. “Anyway, I’m more interested in the part where he said his soul is standing outside, is that slang for something?” “No, his soul means his soul. He looks like Rome’s shadow, except you can feel him if he wants. It’s another complicated feature in the whole god dynamic, but yeah, his soul, his shadow, same thing…kinda.”

"Please calm down, Mr. and Mrs. Swanson. Cassidy always wanted this targeted drug developed. It was her dying wish. She'd be thrilled if she knew we succeeded!" How dare he use my name? I couldn't help but tighten my fists. Clearly, Miles had no idea that I was back, much less that I was watching him put on such a shameless, scheming act. Pah! Dying wish, my foot! He was just making use of my parents' love for me and squeezing out every last drop of value from my name. But in his eyes, I was already dead. So what he was doing was essentially using a dead person's name to extort money from my parents.

Time becomes their tormentor, as a soul cannot endure for more than an hour within the suffocating embrace of the vault. The effects of the Soul Dungeon's essence are readily apparent in its victims. Their once vibrant and rosy complexion fades to an eerie pallor, while their body grows cold to the touch. The life sparks within them dims and wanes, until ultimately it is extinguished, leaving behind only a lifeless husk. The Souls Dungeon stands as a testament to the depths of suffering that can be inflicted upon the human spirit. It is a place where hope goes to die, and where the remnants of life are cruelly extinguished, leaving behind nothing but eternal darkness.

‘Those who encountered the beast, come to me.’ Hearing the beautiful lustrous voice, the soul of the young man drifted out from its earthly macabre looking body. Eyes pecked out by crows, intestines laying on the ground, soiled and eaten by foxes, wild animals. ‘Come to me, come to me.’ The beautiful voice sang. The light blue soul turned dark. The sins, the transgressions and the wickedness the soul had endured overruled its purity. Turning it into a ghoul.

“If a person lacked these things and was instead ruled by fear, the blank tiles could instantly change into Downfall tiles—ones marked with signs for Pestilence, Downfall, or Misfortune. Drawing one of these tiles forces you to return all your tiles back into the pile. Then you must start again.” He looked back up at us, his gaze somber, eyes intensely black and probing. “Of course, if your soul is plagued by deeper, blacker things—cowardice, jealousy, envy, greed, hate, or evil—the blank tiles could summon any of the Four Sacred Beasts or even worse, Chiao, ending the game and exacting the Price.” Silence.

“I needed to feel the cold. To let it sink into my bones so I can read its meaning clearly.” No one spoke. The air was a breath away from freezing. “This evil,” she whispered, “is tied to a coldness… an emptiness. A broken soul. Something submerged held underwater for far too long. Struggling. Suffocating. Silenced.” A chill wrapped around my spine. Her words twisted like smoke in my mind, forming shapes I couldn’t yet understand. Coldness. Broken soul. Something drowning. Something trying and failing to breathe. I remembered my father’s warning from years ago:

Not quite a shadow. The Pale One smiled — faint, knowing. “You shouldn’t be here,” it said, voice carrying the echo of a thousand deaths. “I could say the same,” Soreth replied, though his throat was dry. “You shouldn’t exist.” The Pale One tilted its head. “And yet, here we both are. Two ghosts searching for the same truth.” “What truth?” “The one your masters buried.” The Pale One’s form flickered — now nearer, close enough for Soreth to see the faint shimmer of symbols written across its skin. “The Soulbound were the price of your immortality. You just forgot who paid it.”

I took my regular route down to the archives and picked up right where I left off from the day before. From my previous search in trying to uncover all I could about ‘soul-snatchers’, I did happen to stumble upon a couple of passages that captured my attention. ‘Most dark creatures (i.e, demons, spirits, and specters) are attracted to large volumes of power and lively activity. Where they lack in soul and genuine moral decency, they seek to steal and take from others as a means to quench their undying hungers...’ “How pleasant,” I muttered to myself.

The words sliced through the air, sharp and dangerous. For a moment, Synx’s smile vanished. Her expression hardened, like ice forming over warm skin. "Soul alchemy," she said, as though correcting a child, "is not vulgar necromancy. It isn’t animation. It is restoration. Bringing the soul back into the vessel… even if that vessel is wounded." My heart raced. I looked at Max, his eyes still open, glazed with absence. My chest tightened. "You… you can really do that?" I asked, my voice trembling. "You can bring him back?"

Chesterfield, who was staring at me with a somewhat friendly expression. “There are enough werewolves in and outside this building to destroy your base,” I said. “You killed one of my friends on the blood moon and made me kill the other. What makes you think you’re leaving here alive?” Mr. Gordon grinned as he mockingly tap-danced around the room and swung his hands up and down before facing me again.