The Blade Itself Chapter Summary Novels & Stories

"You planned it all? Too bad your brain couldn't plan for this." Before he could blink, in one quick motion, the blade in the air left my fingers like a whisper of death. It sliced through the side of his cheek-clean, sharp, leaving a trail of blood like a red warning. He flinched, hands instinctively rising to his face before the knife embedded itself straight between the eyes of the guard behind him . The body dropped with a thud . The silence that followed was heavy. Deadly. I turned my back on him without fear. But Klaus's voice rang out immediately, sharp as gunfire.

Chapter 27: Blades in the Maelstrom The storm convulsed, swallowing cries, shattering stone, drowning steel in shadow-fire. Aria tried to rise. Her palms pressed into the ruined earth, her breath ragged, blood dripping warm down her side. Every movement tore fire through her ribs. Her blade lay beyond reach, glinting faint in the storm’s glow. She crawled toward it, every inch a war against her body. Her vision blurred, darkness threatening to take her. But she forced herself on. If I fall now… it’s over.

The obsidian blade goes through the grey Harvester’s plate as though the plate is warm wax, and the cut does not slow at the armor the way every law of the physical world says it should, because the engine is at full and full means the blade carries my entire frequency into the steel ahead of the edge, and the steel forgets, for one impossible instant, how to be solid.

“Awesome really awesome. Crimson blade is really great! You receive a great beat for a while ago and have wound everywhere, yet still have this strength left. But now, you were poisoned.” Zitrey replied monotonously, “Poison can’t kill me.” Slicer laughed, “Ah, I forgot you were a high ranker, just how great your body was. A perfect machine for those geezers indeed.” But in all honesty, Zitrey know her body was already on the limit, she needs to rush up things. She holds Slicer hands strongly and slowly move it towards his body. The point of the blade was facing towards him. Zitrey was planning to stab him with it.

A sharp breath left me. "The Godfather approaches." A ripple of movement. Chairs scraped back. Every single man in the hall stood in unison. They began chanting. “Honor to the blade. Death to the weak. Honor to the blade. Death to the weak.” I shot up from my chair, pulse thudding. The hall trembled with their voices as the doors at the far end opened. Mr. Blade entered, flanked by men in black suits, walking with the kind of presence that sucked the air from the room. His gaze was stone. Cold. Unreadable.

a voice whispers in the back of my mind, a faint echo of something I’ve heard before. My eyes dart to the ground, scanning for anything that might help. And then I see it, a blade, discarded and glinting faintly in the dim light. It’s coated in wolf’s poison, the only thing that could weaken someone like him. I don’t think. I move. Diving toward the blade, I roll as the Blade Alpha’s claws tear through the space where I was moments ago. My hand closes around the hilt, the cold metal biting into my palm.

Blood darkens his fur. He doesn’t make a sound. The cut doesn’t slow him. I duck under a snapping jaw and roll, coming up on one knee with my second blade already up. I strike again. Deeper. Cleaner. This is familiar. The burn in my arms. The narrowing of my vision. The way the rest of the world drops out when my body remembers what it’s for.

The glass of champagne I held spilled onto the figure’s body. Stumbling back and wincing, I looked up at the figure and froze at the sight before me. A tall, muscular man dressed in all black, with his collar open just enough for me to see the right amount of muscle stood in front of me. His jet black wavy hair hovered around his forehead, his jawline sharp, accentuated by his charming facial features. A sword tattoo was each at the sides of his neck. His presence was nothing but danger. With guilt laced on my face, I wiped his shirt with my hands. “Sorry about this," I apologised, averting my gaze to his shirt.

you unmade me. "The blade demands blood," a voice whispered beneath the agony—Cael’s voice. Guiding. Twisting. Smiling". My senses collapsed—numb, deadened—swallowed by the silence of submission. Yet again, I was not Henry. Not anymore. Just the Blade. Just ruin it in a man’s shape. It laughed through me—mad, broken, triumphant—as I watched from behind a prison of bone and blood, begging to be free, even as the monster and still, I raised my hands—because the Blade still wasn’t done. It wanted more destruction, more chaos, more blood.

working. I tried to resist but he started showing an unnatural amount of strength. Holding one of my paws messed up by balance, after all, I still wasn't used to this body. When he had a full grip on it, he pushed me to my surprise. I toppled over and lay flat on my back. It was going to be a struggle to get back on all fours again. Blade eventually gets up on both of his feet. He takes off his torn shirt which still has the claw marks on it. His chest is lean and defined with plump biceps and hard abs. The scratches I gave him earlier rested above his abs and they seemed to be healing themselves. As I struggled to get up, Blade came towards me and it seemed that with every step, his scars s