Chapter 102: The Extreme Painting

As the largest academy in the Kingdom of Painting, Saint Mildred Academy offered its students exceptionally luxurious living conditions. Each student was provided with a private dormitory to ensure they could focus quietly on their artistic creations.

After returning to her dorm, Lokaz felt increasingly unsettled. Why, with so many students at the school, had the headmaster singled her out—someone whose talent was hardly outstanding? Reflecting on it, she realized that earlier she had been too caught up in excitement to question it, but now, it made no sense at all.

If it were because of her efforts... even if she had worked hard, it was always in private. The headmaster was a figure rarely seen—how could he possibly know about her dedication? It was absurd. The only thing she could take pride in was her appearance.

Could it be... she immediately shook her head at the thought of any unwritten rules or hidden favors. That couldn’t be it; even if the headmaster wanted something from her, there was no reason to have her represent Saint Mildred Academy in such a grand art festival. There were far easier ways.

With so many possibilities ruled out, she was left wondering why. Lost in thought, she absentmindedly placed the painting the headmaster had given her on the desk. Staring at it, confusion crept back over her face.

In the headmaster’s office, she had guessed from his words that this was a painting unknown to anyone else. So if she simply replicated it at the competition, she would win. But now she realized it couldn’t be that simple.

If it were that straightforward, why was the headmaster so fearful of this painting that he instructed her to open it only after returning? Was it really because he didn’t want a third party to see it? That made little sense—who could possibly be spying on the headmaster’s office?

Suddenly, a chilling rumor came to mind—not just a rumor, but a recent incident at the school. Though it had been swiftly covered up, whispers had inevitably spread among those within the academy. Artists like them were generally indifferent to gossip, but some details had leaked.

They said the so-called “first genius” of their school was nothing but a fraud—he had sold his soul to a demon through a painting, transforming himself into a prodigy. Though it sounded like a legend, in the face of her current predicament, it was hard not to connect the two.

If that tale was true, and the painting could dramatically enhance one’s skill in a short time, then this painting might be cursed. But she had done nothing to offend the headmaster, so why would he want to harm her?

A shiver ran down her spine and cold sweat trickled down her neck. Why? Why was this happening? She covered her ears, as if trying to block out the thought, but she knew she could not escape reality that way.

So she began to deceive herself.

“That’s impossible. Such a ridiculous legend can’t be true. Besides, I’m representing Saint Mildred Academy at the art festival. Why would the headmaster want to harm me?”

Upon reconsideration, she convinced herself it was unlikely—that she was overthinking everything.

After a moment, her gaze returned to the painting. “It’s just a painting. What’s there to be afraid of?”

Though she said this aloud, her body betrayed her nerves; she hesitated to approach it for a long time. The internal struggle lasted nearly half an hour before she finally shuffled to the desk.

Placing her hand above the painting, she repeated in her mind, “It’s an ordinary painting, just an ordinary painting.”

Then, slowly, she unfurled the canvas.

As soon as the scroll opened just a crack, revealing the image beneath, she was entranced, almost possessed, and rapidly unfurled the entire painting.

It was a portrait of a person.

Though Lokaz wasn’t certain if it truly qualified as human, judging by its appearance it was. The figure was shrouded in deep red, feet seemingly suspended just above the ground, though it was difficult to tell. The body was slightly twisted, exuding an indescribable allure.

In the figure’s hands was a bouquet of fresh flowers.

The background was a vast sea of blossoms, bursting with colors and beauty, a breathtaking floral paradise.

How could this have anything to do with the terrifying legend? This was clearly an exquisitely beautiful garden scene!

At the moment she saw the painting, all her doubts vanished. She earnestly began to copy this stunning work, each brushstroke filled with care, determined to replicate it perfectly.

Hours later, having finished her version, she shook her head.

“Something’s just not right.”

Comparing the two, she saw that though they were identical in every detail, her copy lacked the essence of the original.

As someone who demanded the utmost quality in her work, Lokaz immediately decided to paint it again from scratch.

After a second careful attempt, she still felt a subtle unease—something intangible but undeniable, a lack of the original’s spirit.

“I refuse to believe it!” she declared, growing increasingly frustrated. Red veins crawled in her eyes as her brushstrokes quickened.

After producing a third version, she glanced at it briefly, then tore it to shreds. Then came the fourth, and fifth.

Outside, the blood-red moon in the sky waned and brightened again, marking the passage of an entire day.

Throughout this time, she ate nothing, drank nothing, not even took a break—immersed in a frenzy of copying the painting.

She had lost count of how many copies she had made. The dorm was littered with discarded sheets, paint scattered everywhere, and she looked a shadow of her former self.

Her hair hung loose, dark circles framed her eyes, which protruded slightly and were bloodshot—she resembled something out of a zombie film.

Yet even so, she clutched her brush and kept painting.

Meanwhile, the painting itself had changed. Gone were the birdsong and floral fragrances, the ethereal figure holding flowers vanished; in their place was a terrifying scene.

At some point, the original painting given by the headmaster and Lokaz’s copies began to transform simultaneously.

The once-illusory figure morphed into a dreadful demon.

Its gaze was bloodthirsty and fixed upon whoever looked at the painting—a single demon capable of scarring a person’s psyche for life.

But the worst was yet to come: the demon never held flowers. Instead, it gripped a dagger.

The blade’s tip was stained a vivid red, as if fresh blood dripped from it.