Even in the world behind the door, a ghost as insane as the Painter was a rare sight.
He was different from other monsters — you couldn't judge him by good or evil standards. No one knew what he was thinking, and no one knew what he'd do the next second. But one thing was certain: this Red-clothed ghost was terrifying, and he would stop at nothing to achieve his goals.
He didn't care what others thought, and he had no moral constraints. Everything he did was purely because he felt he should do it.
A person like this was truly terrifying, and the man in the blood mist understood that well.
A wind carrying the stench of blood swept across the sky, and screams echoed throughout the campus, but neither Evil nor the Painter flinched.
Evil clamped down hard on the Painter's arm. Its belly swelled, black blood vessels surfaced on its pig-like face, and its body gradually became uncoordinated.
The Painter wasn't in great shape either — he was using his own body as a conduit, channeling all the sin accumulated across both the east and west campuses into Evil's mouth.
He wanted to burst Evil from the inside, and conveniently dispose of all the accumulated sin within the ghost school.
Good idea in theory, but the problem was that he was the one serving as the conduit — all the sin would flow through the Painter's body first before entering Evil's mouth.
This was a contest of willpower. Whoever broke first would meet a truly miserable end.
Black blood vessels surfaced across his face, as though venomous serpents were writhing beneath the skin, pulsing continuously, on the verge of rupturing at any moment.
Under these circumstances, the Painter turned his gaze toward the man in the blood mist.
Layer upon layer of thick mist stood between them. The man knew the Painter couldn't see him, yet he still felt a twinge of guilt — he deeply feared the Painter's abilities.
"Are all the filthy things in that city like you?" The Painter's expression was truly horrifying — the word 'grotesque' didn't even begin to describe it. "You can only hide in the fog, too cowardly to face your own desires?"
"You're talking more. That means you're getting weaker." The man in the blood mist couldn't have cared less about what the Painter said. He manipulated the blood mist to conceal his body. "I only need that door…"
"You'll never find that door. Even if it were right in front of your eyes, you wouldn't be able to see it." The Painter seemed to be speaking to keep himself sane. His face had already completely deformed and twisted — at this moment, he was more terrifying than any monster he'd ever painted.
Endless sin and negative emotions surged into his body. Every pain the ghost school students had ever endured replayed in his mind. In life, there were always things that could pierce the heart — maybe a single sentence, maybe one small event — they were like nails driven into the soul.
On the surface, he still wore a smile, but as long as his heart kept beating, the wound would be tugged at, and occasionally black blood would seep out.
Pulling the nails out of one's heart wasn't difficult, but even if you truly let go, once the nail was removed, it would still leave an ugly scar.
The deeper the nail pierced, the deeper the wound. The Painter couldn't heal every scar inside every heart, so he could only pull the nails out first and then erase the children's associated memories.
If you don't think about it, it won't hurt. The Painter had helped every child in both campuses, leaving only beautiful memories for them, while those nails that symbolized pain were dumped into the transfer station for refuse.
The more unbearable the memory, the deeper it was buried.
These nails wouldn't disappear just because their owners forgot — after all, they were also a part of memory. With pain and sorrow, life could be considered complete.
The Painter had never figured out how to deal with this "trash." And then Evil appeared.