Sword Of God Novels & Stories

Swoosh! Several beams of sword light ripped through the air. Every beam of sword light meant the death of a saint-level mercenary. Although the saint-level mercenaries had gained the upper hand, six or seven of them died in an instant before they could react. The beams of silver sword light destroyed everything wherever they passed. Even the defense of the saint-level mercenaries was as fragile as a piece of paper in front of these beams. "Bang! Bang! Bang!" The saint-level mercenaries exploded like watermelons smashed by a giant hammer, and blood and bones fell from the sky.

Sir William, who was on the edge of the abyss, was staggering, and could scarcely have the strength to hold the shield, which slid across his chest, yet those on the edge cried out to be the same William of old again, and these words seemed to enchanted, coming from the throats of the comrades who wanted to see him again the same swordsman worthy of the knightly girdle, immediately the sharpest eye would have seen a murmur of encouragement floating on William's lips, and a fierce light in his eyes, which aimed his eyes d'Ampezzo who avoided their way. At the first touch of the swords, William retaliated briskly, and the spectators began to murmur quietly about the new champion, at the second

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.

"Let's find you a more worthy opponent this time. Sigurd!" The giant slowly made his way to stand in front of Brand, his great longsword held loosely in his massive hand. The newcomer took up his own blade and nodded once. Rather than striking immediately, the two large men circled each other taking each other's measure. Sigurd tired of the waiting first and struck a blow. Brand seemed to parry it easily, but from that moment, the fight was on.

I assured him. “Again, can’t wait.” He sarcastically said, but I could’ve sworn there was a glint of relief in his eyes. “Enough of this gushy talk, tell me, how do you feel?” “Normal.” “Ok, good start. Come smell me.” Max asked, sticking his neck up for me. I took a whiff, sandalwood, but this time I sneezed at the smell. “Perfect. You're cured for the time being. Now let me go find a way to get rid of these urges for the beast, but not the beast’s sister.” Max began walking out mumbling something along the lines of, “can’t live with um, especially when they don’t let you kill the one thing that could ruin our clan.”

the soldier said. Kharel, who had not yet closed his protective helmet, smiled at his opponent, "Don't worry! Give it your best shot!" "Yes, Your Royal Highness," the soldier said, who looked extremely happy to be the opponent of the future king. The main rule in sword fighting was that the attacker, Kharel Mackenzie, had the right to attack his opponent fully. Meanwhile, the opponent's role was to defend and was not allowed to attack. Therefore, the most difficult part was for the attacker to launch a full-scale attack to earn certain points.

And in the middle, on a stone bridge that spanned the torrent, stood Leigh’s father. Lord Valerius was a tall, lean man like a hardened sapling. He wore no armor, only a worn leather jerkin over a grey tunic. His hair was more silver than black, tied back. He held no weapon. He stood alone on the bridge, facing Gryffen’s army, a solitary figure of calm authority.

Lucy The clubhouse smelled of oil, coffee, and the faint tang of smoke when I stepped inside. The morning sun poured through the wide windows, lighting up the worn wood floors and the rows of motorcycles parked outside. The men were busy—cleaning bikes, checking engines, shouting over the roar of machinery. I stayed near the edge, hesitant, feeling like I’d stepped onto a stage without knowing the lines.

He had two knives in his hands now and before Slither could even blink, Jake stabbed each knife into his shoulders. “Any last words, Slither?” “Who the fuck are you?” Slither asked him with a grimace. “Wrath.” Jake pulled the knives from his shoulders and turned the blades, swiping them across Slither’s throat. Blood sprayed over Jake’s face, and when he turned around, his eyes looked lifeless. He walked past Weasel, back in the direction of where they left the van, and Weasel jogged to catch up with him. Neither man said a word and Jake climbed into the back of the van, leaned against the doorframe and closed his eyes.