Sword Of Promised Victory Novels & Stories

He said. "It seems like the best idea right now but I know my brother, he isn't trustworthy." "From what I know and have heard about Blade, i'm pretty sure that he is a man of his word. If he makes an oath, I'm sure he wouldn't break it." "I know that, Harry and i've even tried to make him swear on it but he now claims to be Christian and sees swearing as 'ungodly'." Harrison's mouth quivered for some seconds and after he burst out into laughter. "You've got to be kidding! If Blade Ferguson is Christian, then I'm the pope."

On the pavilion floor lay a sword carved with a dragon, and standing on it was the man who had shouted. He stooped slightly, breath ragged; his eyes were bloodshot, bulging as if they might pop from their sockets. Through gritted teeth he thought, 'Xiu Jian is a damned wretch! I can’t even burn his sword!' Indeed, the trembling, furious man was Huang Fu, and the blade beneath his boot was the Sacred Dragon Sword. He had tried to set the sword aflame—yet not only did the flames refuse to take, the fuel he poured seemed to be absorbed and vanished, drying as if swallowed by the metal itself.

I smiled and bowed at her before leaving the library. Born to a Royal family was not a cake walk. We're taught to abide by our elder's wishes. And here it was about the promise my late grandfather made to Queen Camellia. Or'bloem is a comparatively small monarchy than Falcovia. And the only way to get back the throne of Orbloem is to marry Rosaleigh. I am a Royalty and fulfilling my grandfather's promise is my duty. I'll fulfill a NOBLE PROMISE. ***

The memories of the borderlands, the hunts, the bloodshed—they all blurred into the background. Only the blade remained. Steel. Control. Focus. He spun the sword once and brought it down in a clean strike that would have split a skull from crown to jaw. The sound echoed softly across the courtyard. Then— “You train early.” The voice came from behind him. Deep. Smooth. Ancient. Adrian froze instantly. His instincts reacted before his thoughts did. He turned and dropped to one knee. “My king.” King Vaelreth stood near the entrance of the courtyard, his dark cloak stirring slightly in the cold morning wind.

Patient. Disciplined. Dangerous. I retreated another step. Then another. Behind me, the edge of the ridge waited. Exactly what he wanted. His next strike came overhead. Powerful. Committed. I raised my sword. Steel crashed together. My knees bent beneath the force. The ground crumbled under my heel. Pebbles rolled into the darkness below. One more step and I'd lose my footing. He saw it. Victory flashed across his face. Too soon. I released my grip with my left hand.

She looked like she was born for this, born with a sword in her hand. “Aurora is marvelous. She is born for this.” Shalom took a gulp of his water. “And you are getting acquainted with it.” Art grunted in response. To be honest, he still felt strange holding the gilded hilt of the sword. His sword shone in the moon light, pure power. Its hilt was carved with ancient words. It was beauty and strength molded to be one. It was as powerful a weapon, as it was an art. And Shalom said it was Isaiah’s, the one he had used in that battle where he had died. He had said that Théoden’s blood in them gave it more power, more glory.

Its formidable presence serves as a reminder of his role as a prince and protector. To Tritan's left, Finrir gracefully hovers, his pack adorned with a sheathed long Viking sword. If his lethality is needed, the sword becomes an extension of his skills, a weapon to be unsheathed with precision and deadly intent. Crafted with intricate engravings and a polished edge, the sword reflects the strength and resilience that Finrir embodies. It is a weapon that strikes fear into the hearts of their enemies, poised to be wielded when the situation demands it.

I stretched my hand, grabbed the sword, and swivelled my body in mid-air, making a perfect hero's skill. I landed on the ground, and I felt my muscles urging me to fight. I can feel my whole body aching for war, ready to shed blood. I am ready to show them what they just did to me, to get revenge and to teach them that no one messes with Rey Reed and goes Scot free. I unsheathed the sword from its housing, and I was awed by its sight. It was different from any other sword I had ever seen. It is glowing red, instead of the normal white.

Ram, Nand, and Vipula were locked in their own fierce battles. The masked man's followers swarmed them, but each team member stood resilient, their unique weapons turning the tide in their favor. Ram wielded a double-edged sword, its blade humming with energy. He moved with a ferocity that belied his calm demeanor, each swing of his sword sending enemies sprawling. His strikes were precise, each blow calculated to incapacitate rather than kill, reflecting his disciplined nature. As attackers closed in, he parried and countered with an almost supernatural speed, the sword's glow illuminating his path through the chaos.