Bloody Painter Fanart Novels & Stories

One man dropped and another went down after Sergio’s return fire snapped through the hallway like thunder. Sergio looked back at her dubiously. "How come you are so comfortable with a gun and shooting people?" he asked her. Rosy shook her head uncertainly. "I don't understand it myself. My body is just responding to a command on its own." she replied and Sergio smirked. "Surely now you believe the De Luca's blood runs through your view now." "Doesn't prove anything." she muttered focusing on gaze on the men exchanging gunfire. Blood pooled across polished floors. Priceless artworks were torn to shreds. Smoke drifted toward the high ceilings like a prayer gone unanswered.

That was why I preferred seeing things myself rather than relying entirely on managers and supervisors. My gaze landed on the centerpiece of the exhibition, a colossal painting that occupied nearly an entire wall. It was known as The Crimson Ascension, a fictional depiction of an ancient vampire legend. The painting showed a blood red moon hanging above a black mountain while thousands of cloaked immortals knelt beneath it. Rivers of silver flowed through the valley below, reflecting the crimson light from the sky. At the summit stood a lone vampire king dressed in obsidian armor, his silver eyes glowing like stars while a crown of black thorns rested upon his head. Behind him stretched a ba

Someone else makes the old ward-sign against evil—thumb and forefinger crossed over the heart. Torren steps down from the crate. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t need to. He points to a rough table near the central fire where two soldiers are already at work. Parchment. Charcoal. Ink mixed from soot and spit. Wanted posters. The artist is no master—quick, crude strokes—but the likeness is unmistakable. Snow-white hair spilling from a hood. Sharp blue eyes that seem to pierce even on flat parchment. A child’s face, small and solemn, framed by the storm-gray cloak. Beneath the sketch, in block letters scratched deep:

His mouth opened up and a sound from the pit of his stomach came out. It's been a long time since I engaged in my hobby: painting. Painting the dying or the dead. I looked at his facial expression and began drawing lines on the canvas, my brush gliding across the plain canvas detailing all my mind's eye wanted to picture. “Fuck…you…” Stefan screamed when Hound twisted the weapon deeper as if scraping at his femur. His words died into a strangled howl. I cleaned my brush and dipped it into the maroon red and guided the brush against the canvas stealing glances at Stefan's state.

“I mean… second time in two days. Same city, same me. The odds are statistically suspicious.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “It’s a small island.” “New York? Small?” I laughed. “You’re joking.” He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes softened. Just a fraction. I tilted my head toward the paintings. “What do you think of these?” He glanced at the canvases like he was seeing them for the first time. “They’re loud.” “Loud,” I repeated, grinning. “That’s a good word for it. I think they’re screaming.”

The middle-aged man finished his painting and signed his name in one corner: Roland de Vaal. Satisfied, he passed the painting to Chayne. "This is my message to your enemy. Show him this, and he will stop. Or else." The painting was rather macabre. It depicted a man being tormented by what looked like black hounds emerging from hell. Regarding artistry, the painting sat neatly between masterful and average. Chayne, however, held it like it was a real piece of treasure.

PROLOGUE The chaos was just starting to worsen. The SODAIR kingdom, led by the Human King, King Gaber was getting endless challenges from the Viper King, King Morton from BESHADONNA kingdom. These two kings have been fighting a battle that their forefathers fought. Trying to survive, no one dared to negotiate since it only meant surrender. The viper kingdom is known to take humans captive to their territory. They are so cunning and clever, with the use of their belladonna flowers, they tend to take humans astray, promising Utopia but then giving them endless pain and suffering from slavery.

I was making it a reality. There’s this lame saying I never believed, but sadly, I did now. The saying about discovering the truth while playing. Well, fuck the saying. This wasn’t play. This was war. A war of possession, of dominance, and of reminding her who the artist was and who was merely the canvas. I grabbed every container of old paint I could find— red, blue, pink, and yellow. Pink was her favorite, so of course, I included it. That’s how generous I was with my baby sister. That’s how thoughtful I was and that’s how much I cared for her.

If you looked closely, you could see the faint outlines of the mansion’s floor plan woven into the briars. Blood: A violent, crimson abstract that captured the night of the gala and the biological war of the Trust. It was thick, textured, and moved like a living thing under the gallery lights. Sky: An open-concept masterpiece of blues, golds, and whites. It was the New Sanctuary. It was the moment Ethan called Zander “Dad.” It was the feeling of oxygen finally reaching lungs that had been drowning for years. “It’s haunting,” a critic whispered, not realizing I was standing behind him. “It’s as if she didn’t just paint it—she bled it.”

"Oh I see. Then watch how I destroy you and everything you love" " You.. wouldn't " I stammered. "Really" he laughed, "remember who I am-JG". " JG...you're the famous JG" I stuttered hardly believing my ears. "Flesh and Blood.So Freddie, do what's right or else this is going to turn out way more than you expected" he said as he turned and walked away leaving me stunned and confused as ever.