Splitting Sword Novels & Stories

Beneath the falling rust revealed a weapon utterly different: An obsidian-black sword, smooth, unmarked, no runes—completely plain. No runes. No glow. No divine markings. Just a black sword that made space itself quiver in terror. The Seraphim slashed. A hundred-foot golden arc tore the sky open, roaring toward the facility. Quintan slashed too— His voice finally rising in a deep, earth-shaking cry: “HEAVEN’S SPLITTER!” His strike was small—tiny compared to the golden colossus—but infinitely concentrated. The two forces met. The resulting explosion was like a nuclear detonation suspended mid-air.

She took a deep breath and opened it gently. Inside the box laid an ornate weapon, no longer than five feet. From a quick look, Cassana could tell the handle was made of obsidian. A fine carving of wreathe with the shape of willow leaves twisted around the handle up to its arms. The upper and lower limbs, made of either holly or cedar, extended out from the handle to form an exquisite symmetrical arc that curved on its ends. A string made of sinew fiber stretched from one groove to the other, pulling the wood into shape, while seemingly emanating an ineffable hum.

He knew that they had a special cultivation method called the Ghost Split–capable of cloning an entire human being that looked extremely real. Just as Adam was marveling to himself, the split behind him raised his long sword, piercing it in the direction of his chest. Both figures were barely a meter apart, and Adam had no chance to duck at all. With a light sound, the back of his chest was pierced through by the sword. Adam's body jerked as fresh blood sprayed from his mouth, his gaze turning bloodshot in an instant. "Are you trying to kill me by creating a split of you? You're acting out of hand."

Eryndor's Shadowing dagger seemed to dance in the moonlight, its dark blade slicing through the air with a haunting screee-ksss. Each strike landed with a thud-thwack-thoom, sending tremors through the troop's warriors. The troop's hearts raced as the violent zing-ting-zap of clashing daggers filled the field. The savages of warriors, fueled by fury and loyalty, clashed in a frenzy of arms and teeth. The ground grew slick with blood, the earthy smell mingling with the metallic tang of steel. Jack Wolf stood firm, his Moon-whisper spear shining with a soft, ethereal light. He parried Eryndor's strikes with a precision born of desperation, his movements a blur of speed and strength.

His sword started to glow, and a powerful burst of light struck where the Swarm Queen stood like a lightning bolt. "Zephyr Slash!" The blade flashed brilliantly, carrying an unsettling presence around it. However, the attack was only half completed and was still in mid-air when the Swarm Queen extended her right hand ahead. The blade in her hand immediately struck upward. Clang! There was a loud clang, and the longsword possessing murderous intent broke into two…

The sound of splitting air filled the battlefield as waves of purple energy surged, mesmerizing the surrounding space. Adrian’s gaze hardened, a cold glint in his eyes. “It’s time for you to die,” he declared, raising the Soul Devouring Sword, which radiated a brilliant light that illuminated the heavens.

I run at him at full speed. “Oh no you don’t, Fucker,” I shout as I barrel into him. The momentum of my speed slams him into the wall of the stage, wood splinters and metal screeches as I push through the structure, using his body. Pain radiates from my wrists and I'm pretty sure I've broken them but I continue to push until I've nearly ripped a path through the middle of the stage. Warm liquid splatters over my face, blinding me as it covers my eyes. I wipe my face with the sleeve of my jacket and blink until I can see again. My sleeve is smeared with red and I look up to see a horrifying yet highly pleasing sight.

The Weight of Silver She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe, to order the chaos that roared inside her skull. The vision was not done with her. It unspooled again in jagged fragments, then sharpened until she saw it with unbearable clarity: the Veil, fissured and bleeding light. Not a single rupture, not one sudden cataclysm, but a steady, insidious unraveling—like silk tugged apart strand by strand. The decay was accelerating.

"We don't need to go to Lin's house. Let's go to my place so I can change. This is a minor wound. I can handle it myself." Ludriev took her spirit sword she had previously put on the side of the arena, and followed him without anymore words. Spirit sword was forged in a special method for those who reached a certain level in swordsmanship. The sword was unique and believed to be sacred, as it had its own spirit, which, if it didn't feel a strong connection with the wielder, they wouldn't be able to use it. Therefore, usually a sword spirit only had one owner and vice versa.