Tokyo Ghoul Banners Novels & Stories

“Glass breaks. I bend.” His lips twitched. “Noted.” We reached the square again just as Crowe stepped back up to the mic. Apparently, one performance wasn’t enough. This time, the Tribunal banner was flanked by two smaller standards: one with a stylized wolf head—Nightmoor’s crest. The other was older, more faded, and made my stomach clench. Dravenne colors. Calista stood closer to Crowe now, almost at his elbow. Her coat had a new pin at the lapel—a small silver symbol I didn’t recognize, but that looked very official.

The bright colored male is so far away I can't make out his features, but I know Mo can. "Welcome to the fourth Harvest Tournament where we unite our differences and celebrate the bravest warriors in the universe. The colors this Harvest will be Cok green, Gaimo red, Earth blue, Puelo white, Makskin gold, Glortinon orange, Shikaz yellow, Hassin purple, Bronkark brown, Frole silver, Vaals burgundy, and Kea black. We have flags and support banners available for scanning on your screens," the announcer says and the crowd goes wild.

the announcer says, and the Puelos emerge in white flowy dresses that compliment their blue skin. They make it across the field quickly due to their long strides and I move my attention back to the announcer. I am eager for this to be over. I want to see Modok again. I want to reassure myself he is indeed real, and I didn't make him up. "Now that the announcements have been read let me repeat the colors. Cok green, Gaimo red, Earth blue, Puelo white, Makskin gold, Glortinon orange, Shikaz yellow, Hassin purple, Bronkark brown, Frole silver, Vaals burgundy, and Kea black. We have flags and support banners available for scanning on the screens, and you can pick them up once the matches are set

The Dragon King’s Return A sudden gust of wind sliced across the courtyard like a sharpened blade, rattling the bronze chains that anchored the ceremonial banners overhead. Those banners—blood-red and phoenix-gold—snapped and twisted in the turbulent air, their sigils of rising flame dancing like live things against a sky bleached pale by the noon sun. Every torch guttered, every standard rippled; even the marble tiles beneath the nobles’ polished boots seemed to shiver at the omen scrolling across the heavens.

“My king…” Lucian joined him, Aurelia followed. And froze. Across the distant hills, illuminated by moonlight and fire, banners were rising. One after another. Dozens of them. Alpha crests from every corner of the territories. Fenrir. Duskbane. Raventhorn. Ironclaw. Stormfang. The banners stretched endlessly across the horizon like a tide of war. Aurelia’s breath hitched. Lucian’s expression became carved stone. “They’re moving faster than our scouts predicted.”

It’s not also her attitude to fight against someone too weak for her. “Fuck.” she cursed when she’s almost out of breath. She stopped and catch her breath. She turned to Varagons warriors. Most of them have well-built bodies. They were wearing a beige tunic and pants. They were wearing a brown jacket, an arm patch is affixed to their right arms, it has their logo. Their logo was a standing lion with a wide mouth opened and there was an arrow towards the lion’s mouth. There was another logo but it was affixed in the jacket. The logo was capital letter B, it has an arrow in it and it was wrapped with flowers which is Peony. Their uniform has a black belt with a silver buckle.

Above us, the sky was a hard blue, banners from three packs snapping in the high breeze: Mooncrest’s silver crescent, Nightveil’s black raven, Bloodthorn’s red thorns without the snarling wolf’s head that had once glared from their standard. We stood at the center of it all. Alden at my right, wearing Mooncrest blue and silver, his expression composed but eyes bright. On his other side, Kael and Rian in Nightveil’s greens and blacks, shoulders straight, their presence quiet but unmistakably powerful.

The city rises from the last of the dusk like a fortress built from old bone and bad dreams. The walls are the color of cured leather, the gate towers blackened from a recent siege. At the outermost checkpoint, we are met by a row of guards in livery faded to a muddy ochre, their boots and blades dusted with the same ash that has trailed us since the Wound. Above them, banners hang in limp festoons: some in mourning black, others in the garish gold and blue of victory. They clash against each other, visually and ideologically—a city that cannot decide whether to grieve or to gloat.

The Council awaited. The great clearing was packed. Wolves from every territory filled the natural amphitheater, their pelts a sea of brown and grey and white and black. The standing torches had been lit, their flames flickering in the morning breeze. At the center, a raised platform of flat stones had been arranged for the speakers, surrounded by the banners of the attending packs: Ironmaw's iron fist, the western pact's silver tree, the eastern enclave's crescent moon, the southern refugees' simple circle of interlocking paws. Even the northern observers had brought a banner — a stark white field with a single blue stripe.

I am busy wiping sugar off my lips when something catches my eye. While we move through the crowd, my eyes drift up toward the track fence near the starting line. A massive tarp hangs there, stretched tight across the metal railings. The thing is huge, like it is trying to shout over the noise of the people and the music. The print says VULTRA ENERGY in bold letters with a logo shaped like a lightning bolt swallowing a sun. “Wow. They really wanted everyone on the island to know they exist. That banner probably blocks the sun from reaching the next island.”