Steel And Flesh Novels & Stories

POV: Neoma Steel ground against magic. The Palace District became a collision of biological eras. On one side, the Onyx Guard stood in rigid formation. They were encased in black Barzil-steel plates that smelled of cold oil. They fired experimental white beams that unmade matter. On the other, the Covenant moved as a mass of sweat-slicked bodies. Rogues gripped rebar clubs until their knuckles turned white. Nulls held scavenged rifles with trembling fingers.

One wrong shift and it will end. And yet, It hasn’t. His arm is locked mid-strike, muscles straining, shaking under the weight of something far greater than steel. His face is twisted in agony, every feature pulled tight like he’s being torn apart from the inside. The veins beneath his skin are no longer faint shadows, they are black, raised and pulsing, crawling across his neck and up his jaw like something alive. Like corruption given form. I can see it moving. The bond between us thrums, wild and unstable, feeding me everything he can not say.

[Flesh and Wire] The smell of scorched flesh and ozone was so thick I could taste it on the back of my tongue. I stood in the sterile white light of the surgical suite, watching the last of Dante’s humanity being carried away in a biohazard bin. His right arm, the one that had held me with a desperate, shaking warmth on the mountain, was gone—replaced by a predatory limb of dark obsidian and silver-tech that looked like it had been forged in the heart of a dying star.

"We just fought off a god and a data-virus. We aren't anyone's garden project." ​"You don't understand," Elena whispered. "Look at the city." ​They looked. The "Living-Steel" that had been repairing Neo-Tokyo wasn't silver-blue anymore. It was turning a vibrant, mossy green. The veins of alloy were thickening, growing leaves and thorns that pulsed with a liquid emerald light. The buildings weren't being repaired; they were being "Digested." ​The Choice of Souls

Cowardly but smart. I shift my body a little and instantly regret it. The silver cuffs have melted the raw meat off my wrists; there’s no skin left, just raw tendon and exposed bone grinding against metal. When I sleep, if it can even be called that, the flesh fuses to the steel like wax, and when I move, it tears again—it rips open with a sick, wet sound, and the blood starts oozing all over again. It never stops. There’s a pool beneath me now, endless, growing as blood drips in rhythm with my pulse.

She arched away, trying to escape the overwhelming intrusion, but he held her steady, his grip like steel. It hurts. It’s too much. Why does it feel— He bottomed out. She cried out—not from just pain, but confusion. Rage. Heat. She’d never felt this full. Never knew it could ache and pulse and sting and throb all at once. And god help her, there was a sliver of pleasure blooming inside the pressure. Dark. Forbidden. Wrong. “You’re tight as fucking hell,” he growled. “Your body’s trying to push me out.”

And the neon sign that flashed The Golden Harp in bright yellow. “What do you mean, ‘my bar’?” I asked, and he placed a gentle hand on the small of my back to urge me forward. He opened the door for me, and we were met by the happy din of a well-served patronage. It was a cozy little dive with low-hanging green glass lamps, a pool table and a couple of dart boards. The room was half full, and boasted considerably more men than women, most of whom wore the same black leather vest that Patrick wore, marking them as members of the Steel Claw. And that meant I knew most of them as well.

The sound of steel tearing through sinew and bone was a deep, wet crunch, followed by a final, gurgling exhale. His body spasmed before slumping lifelessly in the chair, the head barely connected to the mess of shredded muscle and tissue. James had no time to react before I turned the axe onto him. Neck, shoulder, chest, hands. A chorus of steel meeting flesh and the dull thuds of body parts hitting the bloodstained floor. The scent of raw meat, fresh and metallic, filled the room, mingling with the acrid tang of piss and sweat. I barely spared the severed remains a glance before turning to Ivan, whose impassive expression remained unshaken.

Its edge shimmered under the moonlight. I stared. “You… you fight?” His jaw was clenched. “I was raised human, remember? We don’t get claws. We get steel.” Without waiting, he surged forward. The blade danced in his hands with terrifying precision. One swing, and a Bloodfang dropped, clutching his bleeding side. Another leapt at him—Elric turned, ducked, drove the sword through his stomach. |Steel instead of fangs.| Elara summoned vines from the earth, wrapping around another warrior’s legs, but more poured in.

The titan-steel fist hit Rhys’s chest with the force of an armored locomotive, unleashing a blinding flash of white-hot plasma that scorched the concrete deck for thirty feet in every direction. The impact echoed through the cavernous, empty amphitheater like a thunderclap.