Bloody Painter X Puppeteer Novels & Stories

He had been one of the most wanted serial killers in history, which alone was a significant title, judging by the lengths he had gone. "I need the image fast, Malcolm. I need to find whoever had done this..." I said as Malcolm nodded, sketching the man's image further. I sat down as some minutes passed by, with my eyes glancing around the paintings, knowing they were made with the victims' blood and were still the bestsellers on the market, with the buyers craving such paintings. "I'm done." A voice jolted me back as I watched Malcolm approach my side. "He seems really great for my taste, but it's sad that i can't have him, or can I, Dominic?" Malcolm questioned. But this man, whoever he was

"A dungeon with stone walls and torched on the walls. In the center, there’s a rack but not the traditional kind. This one is more like a chair, but gears designed to stretch the limbs." My hand moved unconsciously to my shoulder, where there was an everlasting scar from one of his punishments. "There's a young boy strapped into it. His wrists and ankles are cuffed to the device and his joints have been pulled apart.” The painter's pencil moved across his book, his lips pressed tightly in concentration. "His face..." I paused, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. "He's not screaming yet his mouth is open but no sound comes out. His eyes are... empty and empty.

He twisted the blade aside, off his throat. With a roar, Julian used Maya’s legs to kick the Hunter’s knee. CRACK. The Hunter crumpled onto one leg, but Julian didn’t stop. He lunged, locking onto the Hunter’s shoulders. They tumbled across the ground—lab coat and silver armor tangled together. “You’re me!” the Hunter shouted, bucking to throw Julian off. “Just a shadow! I’m the better version!” “You’re just a puppet!” Julian’s voice roared from Maya’s mouth, dark and solid, “And puppets don’t have hearts!”

Carolina knelt and offered the brush. “Yours if you want it,” she said. Penny dipped, chose purple, and drew a wide, wild arc over the wall. It was perfect. It turned into a mural, layer on layer, a record of every hand in the house. Eventually the other walls filled, wild with saltwater fish, stars, crows, broken crowns, weird animals, bright geometric shapes. Even after she scrubbed clean, the paint never left Xander’s hands. * On a half-melt day, with rumors of electricity returning to the grid fulltime, Xander took her on a walk. He claimed it was business, but the pack following them (Finch, Lyra, Morgan, and a tiny girl named Pip) proved it was a family thing.

I growled, the sound shook the glass of the chandeliers. The man’s face turned purple. Then he laughed a wet, gurgling sound. Blood spilled from the corners of his mouth, staining my fingers. Black veins crawled up his neck. And the bastard died smiling. I dropped the corpse. It hit the floor with a thud. Someone inside these walls had just declared war on the Luna. And I would paint the answers in their blood.

she said coldly, "I'll call the owner." I stood there, on the threshold of the room, my fingers anxiously wringing the shirt fabric. The silence was broken when the middle-aged man stepped out from behind the back door. There was a sharpness in his eyes, as if he could read the hesitation I held, even though his greeting was kept within the bounds of politeness. "Henry Brown," he said, introducing himself, then invited me to take the wooden chair provided. "Sebastian Allen," I replied with a voice I tried to ensure was stable. I sat down, looking straight at him. "I came because of that vacancy. However, I have to be frank—I don't have a formal diploma to show." Henry's gaze didn't waver in

“I told you, didn’t I? I will put an end to that problem of yours. I’m not toying you, Katherine. Let’s say, I want to play a game with you.” “What’s the difference, huh? You want to play with me, it’s all the same!” “Toying you is different from playing with you. Toying you means I’m just the one who’s receiving all the benefits, meanwhile, if I say playing with you, you can cooperate and have your fair share of benefits in our game.” “Well then, Mr. Supernatural, I don’t want to play a game with you.” “It’s Helion. My name is Helion.” “I don’t care about your name at all.”

"You should have used the yellow wolfsbane, works everytime." He gasped, struggling against my grip. I smirked at his pale face as it had lost all it's color. "No one needs a priest like you, in fact, I'm doing the world a favor. You should've confessed your sins when I gave you the chance to, maybe you could've been going to a better place or else…" I trailed off, digging my claws harder into his neck. "...see you in hell." Just then, I clawed at his stomach, causing blood to splash all over myself. His lifeless body dropped helplessly to the ground, a pool of blood quickly forming around him.

Seeing his face made the hate in my chest, mingled with confusion grow like molten lava waiting to erupt. Father offered me a bowl and the scent was so wholesome it had my mouth watering and fangs I didn't know I had elongated shocking me. I couldn't stop myself from snatching the bowl from him and draining the red liquid. I gasped in shock, staring at the bowl I held with trembling hand, the remnant of the liquid smeared at the corner of my lips. It was blood. The blood of a human to be precise. I stared up at my father and the sorcerer who watched me skeptically. I was a monster.

In an instant, a terrifying demonic energy erupted from within Xavier's body, forming eerie black patterns on his skin. The art of puppetry was a side skill that Ancestora had absorbed from Baldwin's memories. To a true immortal like Ancestora, this was merely a minor skill. Under his refining flames, Xavier's life force grew dimmer, replaced by a dreadful aura of chaos. Ancestora was delighted to see this transformation. He muttered to himself, "He's indeed a half-immortal who's just a step away from being a true immortal. As a puppet, he might even last a few rounds with a true immortal!"