Spell Knuckles Novels & Stories

Allan walks leaving the tundra with the chest plate on my chest torso and full arm gauntlet. Allan walks out of the king of seal only to find a horrible sight and the stench of death. Twenty-five knights trapped and only seven remain with lots of giant spiders on the floor. The remaining seven barely stood as they were exhausted. Prince Screven had joined the fighting with a piper sword. A slim sword in the form of a needle and he was cover green liquid over his body. “Where have you being Allan? A helping hand would have being nice", Bumi collapse to the ground. it has being several hours of fighting, Allan place his hands on the barrier.

Knox is on the floor. Shirtless, soaked in sweat, and something about his body is WRONG in a way that my brain tries to reject before my eyes finish processing it. The muscles under his skin are moving – MOVING, shifting and rippling like something underneath is trying to rearrange itself, and his hands are pressed flat against the hardwood and his fingers are tipped with something that isn’t fingernails. They’re longer and curved and dark and they’ve gouged lines into the floor like trenches, and the word my brain supplies is CLAWS even though that word doesn’t belong in a sentence about a human being.

The palm was broad, the fingers long and powerful. But it was the knuckles that told the story. They were thick, calloused, and bore the faint, white jagged lines of old scar tissue, the kind of scarring earned not from kitchen work, but from the repeated, violent impact of bone against bone. "Look at the radial bone," Julian whispered, pointing at the screen. "Look at the grip strength required to hold those shears at that specific angle. That is a masculine hand. More specifically, it is a hand that has been trained to kill."

His grin spread, wider now, baring teeth. Then he lunged. Misha sidestepped, already moving, hands up to redirect. Unfortunately, Knuckles was faster than he looked. He adjusted mid-charge and slammed a hook straight into Misha’s jaw. Crack.

The crack echoes. Bark splinters under his knuckles. Blood wells, dark against skin. “Knox!” I catch his hand, turning it over, staring at the damage he’s done to himself. “I’ll heal,” he says flatly—as if that excuses it. “I know.” I let his hand go. He watches me do it. A sharp, humorless snort leaves him before his gaze lifts to mine again. I look down and something catches my eyes. A thin leather cord resting against his chest.

I blinked, trying to see what was happening, and Kral had already made several bloody holes in Nick. Kral's black shirt was stained with blood, and the knuckles on his knife hand bulged. Each time he made a cut, it was precise and quick, and there was not a trace of hesitation or emotion in his movements. A dull thump rang out, turning the white hilt of his knife red.

Zachary rolled up his sleeves, showing his strong forearms, and clenched his fists as his metacarpals and phalanges gave off a cracking sound. It seemed that a fierce battle was about to take place. All of a sudden, a deep baritone suddenly sounded out of nowhere.

The colors of House Dreadmourne. Kael sat up slowly, which told him two things. First, the body he was in was alive. Second, it hurt. A deep ache across the ribs and shoulders that suggested whoever this body had belonged to had not been sleeping comfortably. He looked down at his hands. Broad palms. Calluses on the right hand, none on the left. Young, maybe nineteen or twenty at most. The knuckles were scarred in the specific way that came from years of training rather than brawling. He knew these hands. He had read about them, briefly, in a paragraph and a half before they stopped mattering to the plot.

Not surface pain — deep pain, the specific ache of things rearranging themselves into configurations they weren't in before. By Body Tempering Level 3, my knuckles had stopped splitting. Not because they toughened — because the skin itself had changed, the underlying structure denser, less breakable. By Level 4, achieved on the morning of day eight against the stone pillar at the market's northern entrance before Madam Gu's vegetable supplier arrived, my fists hit stone and the stone felt the impact more than I did. I looked at my hands afterward. The knuckles were smooth. No scarring. Just a faint, almost imperceptible luminescence under the skin — the Ki pathways of the Iron River Scriptur

He stared at Kirou with an odd expression as he spoke, "Is that so, lad? You mind giving this old man a demonstration on the usage of these gloves of yours?" "No problems, Senior." After saying this, Kirou activated his skill to circulate his mana within his body, which he then willed to enter the gloves. Following this, a few previously hidden wires became visible as they started dancing within the air. Under Kirou's control, the wires themselves turned into various shapes, both simple and complex.