fate: devil of art

**Chapter One: Journey Through the Mists of History**

𝙀𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙨 𝘾𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙙: "𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙗𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙙𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙, 𝙄 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙪𝙡𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙩 𝙂𝙤𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝘿𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡... 𝙄 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙄 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡."

(19th Century Britain, the aristocratic mansion of the Clifford family)

In the heart of a mansion that seemed to have emerged from the dark dreams of Goya, an old man in the guise of a mortal servant walked. The high walls were adorned with paintings that tore the boundary between reality and illusion like a thin silk veil. Some of the paintings were so immersed in celestial beauty that they filled the viewer with ecstasy, while others, with their twisted faces and demonic eyes, stole the breath from one's chest. The servant passed indifferently through this gallery of horror until he reached an ancient door. He tightened his white gloves around his trembling fingers and knocked three gentle taps on the door.

"Lord Elias..." His voice echoed in the heavy air of the hallway. A deathly silence responded. He slowly opened the door and stepped into an unknown realm. A vast room filled with unfinished canvases, brushes that lay on the ground like bloodied swords, and colors that seemed to have oozed from the dark corners of the artist's soul. On a bed of black silk, a young, angelic man with hair as dark as starless nights lay in an endless sleep. The servant cautiously approached the bed and, with a trembling voice, called out, "Good morning, young master... it's time to wake up."

The young man opened his eyes—vivid green eyes. His gaze cast the weight of centuries onto the servant's shoulders. The old man bent over, cold sweat dripping from his forehead onto the silk carpet. Elias rose, his sculpted body shining like a marble statue beneath his silk nightgown. Even after years, the servant could not resist the radiant aura of this man. He was not only the heir to the aristocratic title of the Clifford family but also a living legend in the world of art—a genius whose brush shattered the boundaries of existence. Known as the Devil of Art, his masterpieces were mirrors of a troubled soul; works that drove European royalty into a frenzy of desire to possess them.

"William... you may leave." Elias, with a regal gesture, leaned back on the chair by his unfinished canvas. The servant bowed deeply and closed the door behind him. The golden light of dawn poured through the stained glass windows, playing on Elias's black hair that cascaded down to his waist. He stared at his unfinished painting—a fallen angel with tattered wings burning in the flames of hell. But something was missing... as if the painting did not breathe.

Memories involuntarily drifted to distant pasts. Elias was not of this world—a wandering soul reincarnated in the form of an aristocrat. The memories of his previous life were hazy, but he never sought to solve this mystery. In this life, everything seemed meaningless until he discovered painting. Until that day when the whispers of the world reached his ears: *"Paint..."* And he painted—line by line, color by color—until he realized that his brush was a weapon to conquer reality. Now, he saw the world as an "unfinished canvas," its ugliness screaming to be recreated by his hand.

The beings of the world, in his eyes, were divided into three categories: **Angels**, with a beauty that compelled worship; **Deceptive Devils**, flawed yet mesmerizing, like a half-burnt painting that dragged the viewer into the depths of madness; and **Trash**—worthless entities that served only as tools for consumption. William, the loyal servant, belonged to the third category: a lifeless body devoid of the beauty Elias sought. He judged them not by appearance but by their nature and essence.

Elias's new world was not an ordinary one. It seemed to have emerged from the dark world of *Fate*—a place where human life was cheaper than autumn leaves, and the annihilation of humanity loomed at every moment. He had become acquainted with the secrets of this fantastical world through his ancestors; a family with traces of ancient magi blood flowing in their veins. Though he had not inherited the magical crown of his forebears, he possessed an extraordinary talent for magic, with circuits of both quantity and quality.

Suddenly, his fingers were drawn to the worktable. With a swift motion, he enclosed the room with a magical barrier. A thin, glowing sword—recreated from the memories of an ancient blade—appeared in the air. The blade flashed and silently cut off his left ear. Cherry-red blood dripped onto the floor, but he did not even flinch. He picked up a golden goblet and held it under the wound. The blood slowly collected in the golden cup. He dipped the brush into his own blood and struck the canvas.

Was this madness? No... Elias had been mad from the beginning—a madman who valued art above life itself. If creating a masterpiece required him to tear himself apart, he would undoubtedly do so. The initial sketch began to take shape: the image of a devil crucified in a ruined church. Each stroke of the brush drew a scream from the depths of his being. The blood in the cup ran out. This time, he dragged the blade across his abdomen...

If he were not a magus, he would have surely perished by now. After half an hour, his masterpiece was complete—a vision of suffering and glory that stole the breath from one's chest. Elias tumbled from the chair to the ground. Blood gushed from his ear and mouth. But even in those final moments, instead of fighting for life, he stared at the painting—until the light of life slowly faded from his eyes...

A young servant with golden hair knocked on the door. "Lord Elias... breakfast is ready." There was no response. When he opened the door, the stench of blood assaulted his senses. A nightmarish scene unfolded before his eyes: Elias's corpse on the floor, with rivers of blood reaching the walls. His intestines, like tangled snakes, were spread across the aristocratic carpet. The servant let out a silent scream and collapsed to the ground. His hands trembled, and the contents of his stomach spilled onto the floor.

But the painting glowed in the corner of the room—a devil on the cross, its face trembling in divine agony... as if Elias's final whispers still lived in the bloodied brushes.

***

𝙀𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙨 𝘾𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙙: "𝙄 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣... 𝙞𝙣 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙡𝙚, 𝙞𝙣 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝, 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙝𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙜𝙚𝙙: '𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢-𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙖𝙧𝙚, 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙛𝙡𝙖𝙬𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙧𝙮.'"

The death of Elias, the legendary painter, plunged the world into a mysterious mourning. Some whispered of murder, others spoke of hidden psychological wounds that devoured his soul from within, and some even murmured of a demonic possession that, with invisible claws, unraveled the threads of his life. But beyond all this, his death became a secret that even its shadow breathed in the Louvre Museum, where his final masterpiece, **"The Devil's Whisper,"** was hidden. This painting, created with Elias's own blood, was not just a work of art but a gateway to madness: every viewer either went insane or fell into an early grave. Legends say that the lines of the painting sometimes shift under the moonlight, as if Elias's soul is still trapped in its crimson hues...

The rest of his works were divided like sacred treasures among the powers of the world. The British royal family kept several paintings in the hidden chambers of their palaces, and even Hitler, before his downfall, held three paintings in his underground bunker—works whose whispers, it is said, infiltrated his dreams and foretold the chaos of the world.

***

**Fuyuki, 1994: The Dance of Blood and the Devil's Summoning**

The humble house on the outskirts of the city reeked of blood and fear. The dismembered bodies of two adults were scattered on the red carpet of the living room, like a painted waterfall of horror. In the corner, a child, bound with ropes around his thin wrists, trembled. His tears rolled like broken pearls down his dirt-streaked cheeks. In front of him stood **Ryuunosuke Uryuu**—a murderer with the title "Artist of Death"—with disheveled hair and gleaming eyes, drawing a circle with the blood of the child's parents. An ancient book was open in his hands, its pages filled with lines in a lost language that seemed to breathe.

"...If I do this, will I become the Devil's food? How... *fascinating*!" Ryuunosuke, with a smile that bordered on madness, stared at the child. It was as if he saw not the corpses, not the tears, but a living art that only he could perceive.

His haunting chant filled the room:

*"...Words of power carved into the seventh heaven...*

*Bound by the seal of the guardian of balance...*

*If you hear my voice, answer!"*

The bloody circle suddenly burst into flames—a cold, blue light that swallowed the shadows. An icy wind blew from nowhere, and black feathers rained down like death. Amid this chaos, a condensed light formed, and the figure of a young man appeared: silky black hair reaching his waist, a face chiseled like a Greek statue, and green eyes that seemed to hold forbidden forests within them. His black robe was woven from absolute darkness, and each step he took sounded like the earth's lament.

**Elias**—or **Caster**—spoke in a soft, melodic voice, "So you are my summoner... Hmm. You have an interesting essence. For now, I acknowledge you as my master. My name is Elias."

Ryuunosuke, contrary to expectations, was not afraid. His face flushed with excitement, like a demonic child who had found a new toy. "My name is Ryuunosuke Uryuu. Pleased to meet you... *Elias-chan*." He extended his hand toward the Devil, a gesture of respect.

Elias, while shaking the murderer's hand, delved into the depths of his being—a tainted essence of a second-rate demon, a mind twisted like a snake eating its own tail. This serial killer, this seeker of death, was more fascinating to Elias than any masterpiece he had painted in his past life. *I want to paint the moment of his death... the moment the light of life freezes in his eyes.*

"By the way, I left this gift for you." Ryuunosuke, with a theatrical gesture, pointed to the child. The child, whose breaths were growing faint, futilely clawed at the ropes.

Elias gazed at the child and saw his pitiful essence: no ideals, no beauty, not even genuine fear—just a living being growing like a poisonous mushroom. "Ugly..." he whispered. The shadows beneath them suddenly came to life, glossy black tentacle wrapping around the child's body and suspending him above a gaping mouth on the floor. The sound of breaking ribs, tearing flesh, and a scream that was abruptly cut off. The mouth closed with a satisfied *burp*, as if nothing had happened—except for the blood slowly seeping from the cracks in the ground.

Ryuunosuke raised his hands in admiration: "Wow, that was amazing! Just like a living work of art!"

Elias's eyes flashed. At that moment, the threads of his existence were remembered: after death, his fame had led him to the "Throne of Heroes"—a world beyond time, where the spirits of legends were woven into the fabric of humanity's ideals. He was now an embodiment of beauty and terror, a bridge between the world of the living and forgotten myths...

And this was only the beginning of their dance—a dance where the drops of Ryuunosuke's blood would become the strokes of Elias's masterpiece.