Chapter 103: Imitation—A Painting in Constant Flux

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Behind this shadowy figure, it seemed there was never any chirping birds or fragrant blossoms—only rows upon rows of razor-sharp blades rising from the ground, each dripping with fresh blood. The entire scene evoked an overwhelming sense of eerie dread and suffocating oppression. Yet, to Locas, it was as if none of this had ever existed; the painting remained that exquisitely beautiful work, plunging Locas into madness.

“Again, once more! Again!” she repeated relentlessly, lifting her brush repeatedly to trace the white canvas. With growing skill, her strokes quickened until her hands, worn raw from clutching the brush too long, bled; the crimson droplets stained the canvas, dotting it with a small scarlet spot. Only then did she set the brush down.

“Perfect! Finally perfect!” A mad smile cracked across Locas’s once-human face, and she collapsed straight onto the floor.

The horror art exhibition commenced as scheduled.

This time, not just horror art enthusiasts attended, but also several renowned painters and their apprentices from the art festival.

“I want to see if this Swell can really produce that so-called cursed painting,” one man with a long, handlebar mustache grumbled in displeasure.

“His horror exhibition was already on the decline. Maybe he’s trying to ride this bizarre lie for one last surge. He’s just gambling!” another replied.

“Are you so sure he doesn’t have such a painting? I’m sure you’ve heard about what happened at Saint Mildo Academy, right? Since those paintings really do exist, I think it wouldn’t be surprising if Swell had one.” He then cast a provocative glance at the others: “I’m curious—if such a painting really exists, would you dare to look at it?”

His words immediately stirred dissatisfaction among the others as they each entered the exhibition hall.

The venue resembled a museum; one painting after another was sealed inside glass cases, each covered with a black cloth above the glass, as if afraid the artworks might be harmed by light.

“Hmph, all bluff and no substance,” the man with the handlebar mustache scoffed again.

Before anyone could respond, a familiar voice sounded.

“Thank you all for coming to appreciate true art. The paintings I’m about to show you might very well overturn your understanding of art, so…” He paused, a curve rising at the corner of his mouth. “If any of you want to back out now, it’s still not too late.”

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Hearing Swell’s words, no one could hold back their tension.

A few paintings that could overturn their entire concept of art? Ridiculous!

The handlebar mustache man stepped beside Swell and patted his shoulder. “Hahaha, overturn my understanding of art? You’ve got quite the sense of humor.”

He then moved to a glass case. “Is it this one? Or maybe this one?” he glanced at another case. “Or perhaps some other?”

Swell remained silent, lowering his head and laughing quietly—a laugh that was deeply unsettling.

That eerie laughter echoed throughout the horror exhibition, piercing the ears of everyone present so clearly they all stared at Swell as if he were insane, their eyes filled with confusion.

Was he truly mad?

Or was it that he didn’t have such a painting but had already boasted so much that now, unable to back down, he was feigning madness?

Before more thoughts could arise, Swell’s voice came again.

“What if I told you that every single painting here is one of those cursed paintings?”

For some reason, everyone felt cold sweat break out upon hearing this. They looked at Swell with disbelief, taking a long moment to grasp the meaning behind his claim.

The handlebar mustache man eyed Swell and then the glass case beneath him. Stroking his mustache, he laughed brazenly, “Every single one? Hahaha! It’s come to this—do you really think playing the fool will still work?”

But Swell, as if he hadn’t heard, slowly raised his head and extended a hand.

Snap.

With a sharp snap of his fingers, at that instant, all the lights in the horror exhibition went out, plunging the surroundings into utter darkness.

The next moment, a faint red glow rose from the floor, casting a dim light into the black void.

Bathed in this blood-red light, everything around seemed tinged with crimson—a sight both strange and unsettling.

“Swell! What exactly are you trying to do?”

Only then did they realize that Swell had vanished, likely slipping away the moment the darkness fell.

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“What is Swell really up to?”

When gripped by fear, people often mask it with anger to conceal their terror.

These artists certainly did not want their fear exposed, so they all began to cloak it with indignation, each appearing outraged.

At that moment, all the black cloths covering the glass cases slid simultaneously to the floor, revealing the paintings within.

Upon seeing the artworks, everyone fell silent, speechless—unsure whether they were stunned or terrified.

Time seemed to pause; everything around came to a standstill. This suspended moment lasted a long while until a piercing scream shattered the stillness.

“Ah!!!”

That scream seemed to be a rallying cry—once one person screamed, another immediately followed, until the entire horror exhibition was engulfed in a chorus of screams.

Outside the exhibition, two men in tight-fitting uniforms walked along the street.

“What rotten luck. What’s wrong with those two pilots from the Sunset Kingdom? Why did they fly their fuel-empty plane all the way here?”

“Hmph, that’s not all. The Sunset Kingdom’s royal family only keeps ordering us to find three people, but they never tell us who or what these three are, or what they’re doing. How are we supposed to find them?”

As they spoke, both suddenly turned their gaze toward one direction.

“Why is there such an intense aura of terror coming from there?”

“Probably some crowd watching horror films or something like that, but this terror aura is really too conspicuous.”

One of the men grit his teeth, impatiently scratching his head. “Let’s go warn those reckless fools. We don’t want to attract any strange creatures lurking nearby—that’d just bring us trouble.”

As official ghost hunters of the Painting Nation, protecting ordinary people was their duty. Ignoring the strong terror aura now might draw the attention of hidden malevolent entities, leading to a massacre.

To prevent greater trouble later, they decided to nip this risk in the bud.

But as they continued walking, they sensed something was off.

“Right, besides the terror aura, do you sense anything else?”

“I can still hear screams—those people keep screaming.”