Thirteen Ghosts Tattoo Novels & Stories

"Wait. I need to know. Why did, uhm, whatever, carelessly pick me?" "Go back." The woman wasn't paying her any attention. She kept on plucking cowries and attaching them to her head. "What is he? Oh, don't answer that one. He's a ghost. I know that. Why is he in that state? No, no, why can I see him? Why can l feel his touch, ghosts can't do that, can they? What does he need me for?" The old woman stopped her scaly hands from further movements and stared directly at Geneva through her foggy eyes that obviously saw clearly.

The possessive way he fucked me like he both hated and needed me. I forced a grin. “You’re crazy, man. You watch too many movies.” He stepped aside but whispered as I passed, “Run while you still can. He’ll ruin you.” Later that day, I overheard two employees gossiping near the cafeteria. “Did you hear about The Ghost? Some billionaire who shows up masked at underground parties. Pays good money, fucks like a demon, then vanishes. Nobody ever sees his face.” I laughed it off again. But deep inside of me, i was worried for myself.

He reached for his t-shirt and pulled it over his head in one pull, every thought in my head instantly vanished, his back was turned to me, showing me the tattoo that covered almost the entirety of his back, a few scars here and there but damn, seeing his muscles flex was enough to make me dripping wet. I stared at his lower back, his thin waist that spread into an angular shape to his shoulder blade. My hands moved towards his back before I thought otherwise. I trailed from down to the upper part, following the pattern of the dragon. He went still under my touch. “When did you get this?” I asked absentmindedly. “Sixteen.” He paused. “After my mother died.” My hands stopped moving. I looked

It was natural, but at the same time, it was also because the holy lightning and magic struck the original spirit of terror and chase, forcing Haunt Uncle to choose to run away. Boom boom... With the sound of drums buzzing, Ghost Scene Female General's two hidden pupils emerge with faint blood, like two red-violet rings of the full moon. Fierce yet magical, noble yet ferocious. With each drum beat, Tadhg Walter could feel his pulse boiling, his True Qi bloodline rushing wildly.

This feels lighter, automatic—like stepping where the ground has already been mapped. They call me Ghost. It simplifies things. Ghosts don’t leave witnesses. Or questions. Or pieces of themselves behind. Conversation thins as I pass. People shift their feet. I registered the looks without meeting them. Curiosity from the younger ones. Calculation from the handlers. And something closer to superstition from everyone else. I am twenty-two years old. I’ve been killing since I was fourteen. The numbers don’t settle into pride or shame. They sit like inventory. A medic steps aside as I pass. His eyes drop to the insignia stitched inside my collar—black thread on gray. Ghost-class comes without ra

Gideon stayed calm, swung the broken blade, and a white arc of energy shot upward. The black and white blades clashed and shattered on impact. Tristan's next move followed immediately. "The eighth style of the 13 Ghost Blades! Nether's Pass!" The strike carried a chilling gale. The sound of wailing ghosts and howling spirits echoed. As it neared, Gideon noticed countless skulls swirling in the wind. They were only shadows, but enough to make one's scalp crawl. They were clawing and snarling, like demons escaping from hell. "Those are party tricks. The heavenly flames will burn through all that flashy nonsense."

"How many tattoos do I have in total?" "Four." And he goes on to explain what they are. “The Crow tattoo on the back of your left shoulder, the tribal tattoo on your spine, the lotus flower on the back of your neck, and my mark, right here.” He gently caressed his mark on my left collarbone, and immediately, I felt the pull and comfort towards him. I nodded. “Okay, you're Ryan, okay.” He glared at me and I laughed. “Say my name again.”

Christopher and Zyter exchanged a fierce glance, their determination unshakeable. Suddenly, the tranquility shattered as the Blood Ghosts emerged from the darkness. They materialized before the hunters, their red eyes glowing with malice. The sight sent shivers down Christopher's spine, but he steadied himself, gripping his sword tightly. The Ghosts were relentless, their numbers seemingly endless.

Sasha blurted out. Aki shrugged. “Brown Slayers have full body tattoos, right? Well, it turns out Budo’s tattoos are non-tribal and resemble those of gangsters.” “What’s his spirit animal?” Sasha asked. “A hissing cockroach,” Aki replied. All three Slayers looked at each other and then burst out laughing.

He stood straight with a serious face as he began his explanation. "Ghosts are the souls of dead humans who... well, aren't ready to rest in peace. They don't have powers. All they can do is move from one place to another without being seen. Well, not by everyone though." "But... if you're a demon, why then are you in this form?" She couldn't help but ask.