Striker X Novels & Stories

If we stop him, we will cut the pass link with the strikers. "Is it really that good?" Helder said. "Unfortunately. It was a big surprise for everyone that he was not selected for the u-12 national team. " "What"s his name?" Helder said. "His name is Melih. He wears a size 10. A left-footed player. As I said, we must be very careful with their rust. " "Yes, coach!" "Oh, there is one more thing. Helder, I am telling you this specifically. He can shoot at unexpected moments and his team has scored many goals in this way. You have to watch him. "

Memories he'd longed buried. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he crossed the room. "Stay away from her," Ollie said, voice chipped, as he dropped on the seat opposite his father. The man's response was a slow, infuriating smirk. "Who?" He drawled. Ollie flexed his fist, etching to drive it into his father's face. Hearing his father's voice alone tightened his muscles with despise. "Oh, the stripper?" Clear disdain dripped from his voice.

The next attraction he was eyeing was the High Striker, a game of strength using a hammer to strike a lever until the bell rings. There were lots of students gathered around it and a group of females were cheering for a man who was showing off his muscles before he struck the lever. Sean walked over there like a king who wanted his slaves to clear the path. He gave the man a challenging stare and when the player agreed to let him hold the mallet, Sean just smirked.

Everything about him was sharp, deliberate, his eyes dark and unreadable, his body coiled like he’d been waiting for this moment. The air shifted. I could feel it in my bones. Lester’s men turned, but they didn’t stand a chance. In seconds, the room descended into chaos. Kendrick moved like lightning—precise, brutal, unstoppable. The sound of fists meeting flesh, glass shattering, groans filling the air. My heart raced as I tried to stay out of the way, frozen between shock and something far more dangerous. When it was over, the room was a wreck. Men lay scattered across the floor, groaning or unconscious. The sharp scent of blood clung to the air. And there he was standing between me and th

After she said so, she reached for my arm and smacked my palm against her face. Surprised by this sudden turn of events, I couldn't stop myself from leaving a heavy imprint of a palm on her face. Almost instantaneously, Zephyr pushed me heavily down the stairs, and I rolled all the way to the ground like a ball. My entire body hurt so much that I couldn't even make a sound, and the cameras of the paparazzi were practically smudged in my face. "You're Theresa? The actress, Theresa Carter?" "Goodness, since when did you become so fat?"

Because he looked amused. "I see the Crimson Fang Alpha still prefers introductions with weapons." Marcus frowned. "You know me?" "I know all of you." His silver eyes swept across the group. "Gabriel Silver Moon." "The noble diplomat." "Marcus Crimson Fang." "The warrior who trusts his fists more than his mind." Then his gaze settled on Alex. "Alexander Ashford." "The billionaire who inherited an empire built on secrets." Alex's jaw tightened. "You've mistaken me for someone who cares what you think." A faint chuckle escaped the stranger.

She staggered back due to the power of the strike and found it difficult to regain her balance. As she struggled to repel the rogue, she caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. A massive, powerful figure emerged from the trees, rushing directly for her. Kyra's heart skipped a beat as she recognized Xander. "So, this is where you've been hiding," Xander hissed, his eyes full of hate. "Did you really think you could stop me?" Kyra gritted her jaw and gripped her sword closer. "I will not allow you to destroy everything we have built. "We will stop you." Xander chuckled in a chilly, scornful tone. "You are a fool, Kyra. "You and your valuable pack are no match for me."

Destroying the temple was an automatic loss condition. A mech suddenly came into his view. The mediumweight looked terrible. Fractured armor was all that was left of its armor, and it had lost its entire right shoulder and arm. Despite the extensive damage, the mech still held on to an intact flamethrower in its other hand. One of the ways striker-type mechs distinguished themselves from others was their capability to damage a wide area. Accuracy was less of a concern for them as they'd always hit something in their attacks if they came into range. The particle mist unintentionally provided the striker with the perfect hunting environment.

Xander crossed the distance. What happened next was not, technically, a fight. A fight had some theoretical symmetry to it. What Xander was doing was closing range against someone whose suit was reading his bio-electrical frequency and translating that input into micro-predictions about his next movement, which meant every strike he initiated was partially anticipated, which meant his strike timing needed to be not his own timing. He threw a chunk of liquefied concrete at Sterling's head instead. Not as an attack. As a distraction — the suit's prediction system was reading his nervous system, not objects. The object had no bio-electrical frequency to read. It arrived at Sterling's helmet on