The Gallery.
The situation was taut as a drawn bow.
Seven or eight men and women in costumes held the guests under their control, while the man in tails assigned each guest a price. Only a handful noticed Beckman, standing by the entrance, suddenly make a strange movement.
An easel slowly emerged from the pool of blood that had seeped out of nowhere at his feet.
Beckman calmly picked up a paintbrush and began painting, facing the guests. Sensing something, the man in tails suddenly glanced back at Beckman.
"Sir Oil-Paint, what are you doing?"
The man in tails asked.
"Oh, this scene has given me such inspiration."
Smiling, Beckman continued painting.
The man in tails stared at him for a few seconds, then shifted his eyes toward the costumed old man beside him. The old man immediately understood his leader's meaning. Carrying his bloodstained knife, he walked toward Beckman to see just what he was doing.
Beckman remained unmoved, seemingly unconcerned about the inspection. But when the costumed old man reached his side, he suddenly froze, his pupils contracting slightly.
For there, on the canvas, the old man saw his leader's back.
Beckman was painting a portrait specifically of his leader...
"Sir Oil-Paint, you...?"
The costumed old man spoke, about to demand an explanation.
Boom!!
The doors suddenly exploded inward from outside.
A black wave of light shot straight in. Its pitch-black color distorted the light and drew the eye, seemingly containing a supernatural power of death as well. The wave moved incredibly fast, striking the costumed old man in an instant and passing through him.
Hum!
The old man's expression froze as he stood rooted to the spot. His body showed no outward damage, but his soul had actually suffered a devastating blow.
"Cough-pfft!"
He spat out a