Novelas y relatos de Bloody Painter X The Puppeteer

The blood energy on his body surged up in the next instant, and all three thousand wraith puppets roared one after another, twisting and joining to form a giant wraith puppet at least five meters high. Moreover, this puppet was different from the previous ones. It was a physical manifestation. There was no need for the spiritual eye. Even ordinary people could see it with their naked eyes. “Roar!” The gigantic wraith puppet roared. Its mouth opened wide, black air surging forward. “Ahhhh—” “What the hell is that?!” “It… I-It looks like a demon, Blood Devourer, from the Blood Cult!” It was Travis, who was more knowledgeable on this matter, who called out.

I open my eyes but I'm no longer in the office. I see flashes of an old house... Basement... And...And... A girl.... Blood... there's blood on her.... Eyes... Black eyes are watching me while white fangs sink into her neck. I scream in horror. Please stop!!! The scene changes again. I'm on my back. The black eyed man is saying something then he disappears... A wave of fire engulfs my body... I scream in agony as loud as my lungs will allow. Seb Pov

I exited the video and went through my gallery. I zoomed in the photo I screencaped. There I saw a grinning umbra behind the dead tree. What we saw was just for a show. The lady in red dress and Beatrice were part of the umbra. They were stringed puppets molded to resemble Beatrice and the murder. “It’s not Beatrice Rendon’s time. Not just yet,” I stated locking my eyes on the screen.

She had killed two men but they were still trying to rise, she had the sense to rip through their spines, making them immobile. I tore the one in front of me into two, if they weren’t real wolves then there was no need to hold back. The next one that came for me landed a cut at my back but I ripped his head clean off, his broken fingers still clutched at my hand. “These are puppets, is this necromancy?” Mara gasped, her chest heaving. And then as we killed off another set, my eyes noted the dealer coming out of the warehouse. There was something about him, and I didn’t think he was a dealer at all.

“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.

“Nightmare again?” I nodded, still trying to breathe. “Yeah.” Rhea crawled right into bed beside me without hesitation. “God, I thought we were past this phase. Please tell me it wasn’t blood again.” My throat tightened. “It was worse.” She blinked. “Define worse.” “I was painting.” That silenced her. Even Elias, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, went still. “Shit,” Rhea whispered, drawing her knees up under the blanket. “Like real painting? The creepy, possessed-style stuff? Full-on creepy gallery girl mode?”

Inside the secret room, the floating coffin, wrapped in a web of mysterious threads, became transparent, as if the threads had a life of their own, sucking the essence of the coffin into nothingness. While still binding Lynette to the coffin, as if trying to make her become one with it. As the coffin seemed to fade before one's eyes. In the darkness, one couldn't pinpoint what entity resided inside the coffin, yet from the lone shining red light of the blood thread, one could discern that a human being lay within. This was what Butler Thomas walked into when he entered the room. “This… this…” he couldn’t help but stammer in shock. “Master…” “The prophecy… it was true.”

Now he was my only support who could show me the light out of this hideous place. "W-w-who are you?" I stuttered, looking at him. "I'm the last person alive in this place, Anderson Parkmerg. Except for me, she killed all of them in her heart-wrenching game." With that clever glance, he smirked at me and asked. "Aren't you curious to know about this place?" I stayed quiet, but he started telling the story with a grin.

I liked them immediately. I was standing there, head tilted, trying to figure out what emotion the artist had been trying to strangle onto the canvas, when I felt it. That prickle on the back of my neck. I turned. And there he was. Leather jacket guy. He was standing near the doorway, half in shadow, arms crossed, watching the room like he was waiting for someone to do something stupid so he could end them. Same sharp jaw, same messy dark hair, same eyes that seemed to cut straight through people.

Four large paintings hung on the main wall, each one lit perfectly so it seemed to breathe on its own. Her eyes moved across them slowly… and then she saw something that caught her attention immediately. Paintings. And one of the paintings was hers. It was a piece she had finished months ago — a woman standing by a window, half in shadow, half in light. The brushwork showed all the quiet pain and hope she had felt when she painted it. Seeing it here, among the other strong works, made her chest tighten. “Quentin…” she whispered. He stood close behind her, tall and steady. “They selected four paintings this year. Yours was one of them.”