Bloody Painter X Puppeteer Novels & Stories

Sheila, having only seen a few photos, was not entirely certain. "Yes, it's him!" Alexander confirmed the identity, pocketing the photo. He gazed at Brody in the distance, lost in thought. Fate had finally led him to the person he sought in the vast sea of humanity. Alas, the person had become a War Puppet, and he did not know if there was any salvation left. At that moment, the War Puppet launched another attack, fearlessly charging toward Mister Xeno. "Good, come at me! Let me incapacitate you!" Mister Xeno, stronger even than a scorpion, remained undaunted.

In his grip, the bloody scrap of fabric from the bedroom upstairs was held tightly—the solitary proof that his wife had been trapped here. His thumb slowly traced the edge of the cloth, which was still slightly damp. He had seen oceans of blood on the battlefield, but it was this tiny stain that shook his soul to its very core. The Monster of the North fell silent for a fleeting moment, before etching a lethal vow deep within his heart: ‘Whoever made Roselyn bleed will regret ever drawing breath.’

I watched as it screamed in agony, its body convulsing as if it were being burned from the inside. The pressure on my shoulders lessened, and I seized the opportunity. With a swift movement, I grabbed my dagger and plunged it into the puppet’s heart. The puppet let out a final, piercing scream before going completely still. I pushed its lifeless body off me and lay there for a moment, gasping for breath. Relief flooded through me, but it was short-lived. As I sat up, I noticed something that made my blood run cold. The puppet's hair, now splayed out on the ground, was a familiar shade of auburn. My heart pounded as I leaned closer, my eyes widening in shock. I reached out with trembling fing

A low raspy laugh filled my ears adding horrific images to my paranoia. I quieted it was no use fighting the unknown. I had no choice but to hold on to Yulian’s promise; I would be okay. My breathing hitched, dampness brushed through my breast. The strong smell of paint covered my nostrils. Strokes were meticulously laid and I became a canvass of an obscure art. “She’s all done,” announced a man, I presumed the painter. He rounded me once more before patting my behind. “Yeah, she’s all good. What marvelous skin you have! A living porcelain doll!”

The declaration echoed in the studio, the conviction in my voice surprising even me. With powerful, decisive strokes, I suddenly added a shadowy figure to the painting—tall and imposing, reaching toward the bound figure. The silhouette was unmistakably Florian's, though I didn't say it aloud. Then, using the handle of my brush, I stamped the image of a silver knife onto the canvas. The knife appeared in the shadow's hand, cutting through the puppet strings one by one. Without explanation, I reached for Florian's hand. "What are you—" he began, but fell silent as I guided his hand to a pool of silvery-blue paint on my palette.

“They wrote the Blood Peace Treaty. Before the humans shattered it.” We kept walking. The deeper we went, the older the art became. Fire-dancers. Winged beings. Beast-men. Magic dripped from the walls, history bleeding like it was still alive. Then we reached it. The last painting. A man with obsidian eyes and raven-black hair. Beside him, a woman too stunning to look at. And between them, two boys. Twins. No older than seven. It’s Draven. I know him. Kelvin's dad.

Heavy footsteps thundered and ran down the corridor. Chaos truly erupted. Impact and groaning sounds echoed one after another. Gunshots boomed and ricocheted off the concrete walls. Paul saw flashes of light from gun muzzles. The stench of gunpowder filled the air. He heard a guard scream in pain, followed by the sickening sound of bones breaking. The atmosphere grew tense. The physical fight intensified when something changed. Paul could feel the vibrations—fabric tearing and low, inhuman growls. He saw several guards transform into wolves.

“Ah! Mommy, help! Daddy’s turning into a big monster and he’s gonna eat me!” Watching them wreak playful havoc, I couldn’t help but laugh. The sunlight streamed through the window, and the wind chimes tinkled melodiously. The last few comments drifted past my eyes. “The End!” “You two must be happy!” “This is the sweetest story I’ve ever witnessed! Henry truly carved gentleness into his bones.” “Farewell, the feral tattoo artist and his soft, adorable female lead.” Yes. Farewell, my audience. But I knew our story was far from over.

"Without looking over her shoulder for once." My phone vibrated in my pocket. Tiny's name flashed on the screen. "Report," I answered quietly, moving further from the bedroom. "Everything's clear, Alpha," my Beta's deep voice rumbled. "The painter has been vetted. Former art professor, human, no connections to any packs or supernatural factions." I stiffened. "What painter?" There was a pause on the line. "The one your Luna sat for yesterday. On the south beach. I assumed you knew."