Swordmaster Novels & Stories

He lifted his right hand; a big black sword appeared firmly in his hand, accompanied by a crisp sound. The big black sword had a chilly aura, and it was a purple category weapon.

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.

The witches closed in, their laughter echoing like a chorus of nightmares. Something inside Aqua snapped. A surge of dark energy, unfamiliar and terrifying, welled up within her. She felt her pendant grow hot against her skin, the clear crystal turning black as smoke. The air around her crackled with raw power as she turned back towards the attackers, her fear morphing into a blinding rage.

Madam Amelia asked. “My plan was to render her powers useless.” I diplomatically said. Though, as I did, I felt the copper dagger I had bought with me. The one I was going to stab into her heart. The real answer, yes, I was going to kill her daughter. Madam Amelia seemed to know this as she nodded her head at me.

Ignoring the looks of horror right under him as he looked downward, Caleb raised the Guardian high up in the air and swung it downward again! World Burial Sword, Third Style—Skybreaker! Boom! The huge, bulky greatsword shone dazzlingly as it unleashed a shockwave that could destroy the world! The Alliance, Danmarch, and Nistral youths all felt as if a mountain was dropped on their heads, the terrible shockwave from the sword reducing their bodies to puffs of bloody mists instantly!

I need my sword. Reaching behind my back, I feel the cool, smooth texture of my marking shift beneath my fingers. There’s a brief moment where the ink pulses, almost as if it’s alive, before it solidifies into the hilt of my sword. I draw it out, feeling the familiar weight settle into my hand. The blade hums with energy, a glowing blue that pulses in time with my heartbeat. This sword is mine, a part of me, born of my blood and soul. Athena’s gift, forged from my very essence.

The familiar weight settled into his grip like an old companion. For a moment he stood perfectly still, letting the quiet settle around him. Then he began. The blade moved through the air in slow, controlled arcs. Steel cut through the morning mist. Again. Again. Again. Each motion was deliberate. Measured. His breathing fell naturally into rhythm with the movement of the sword. Training had always been the only place where Adrian’s mind truly quieted. The past faded. The memories of the borderlands, the hunts, the bloodshed—they all blurred into the background.

Porcelain hands, relentless, snapping another's wrist, tanto-drop, knee, gutting third windless. We fought synced lethal—his dominance blade my fury heel, bodies brushing mid-strike, sweat-slick, obsidian meeting hazel mid-bloodspray. Last rebel charged me knife-high; I sidestepped twist, palm-heel nose-shatter, Kenji's bokken finishing spine-crack. Dojo reeked slaughter, copper-thick, tatami slick crimson pools, our chests heaving thunder-sync, indigo hakamas spattered gore.

It smelled of damp stone, old hay, and solitude. Makil was already there, warming up with a series of fluid stretches that further betrayed his training. He wore similar clothes to yesterday, and two practice longswords were thrust into the ground at the center of the yard. Leigh arrived silently, a shadow detaching from the deeper shadows of the archway. She'd re-braided her hair tightly. She said nothing, simply walked to the center, pulled one sword from the earth, and tested its weight. "No rules," Makil said, pulling the other. "First to yield, or be disarmed."

She took the blade again and swiftly cut her wrist without showing even an ounce of pain on her face. The water began to color red and she lay there with her head on the edge, a serene smile played on her lips. One wondered is this how death feels? Like a happiness after ages? Like perfectly cold water after a long run? Like life was never meant to be? ***