The Cursed Portrait: Rose-Colored Shackles

Chapter 1: An Encounter on a Stormy Night

On an evening in November 1891, ominous clouds gathered over the woods of Hampstead Heath on the outskirts of London.
The soot and fog of the Industrial Revolution mingled, and the sky hung low and heavy, like lead.

Damn it, I've completely lost my way.

Edward, the third son of Viscount William Ashford, dismounted from his horse and muttered as he was pelted by the rain.
He had become separated from the others while chasing a stag during the Ashford family's annual hunt—a glamorous event attended by the luminaries of high society.

The storm was intensifying.
The raindrops soaked his fine Harris Tweed hunting suit without mercy, and the wind chilled him to the bone. When he saw a single warm light deep in the woods, beyond the bare trees tangled like spiderwebs, Edward thanked God.

As he approached, he saw it was an old mansion with a decaying iron gate.
The stone residence, which must have once been an elegant piece of Georgian architecture, was now covered in ivy, and many of its windows were boarded up. The family crest carved into the gatepost had been eroded by wind and rain, making it illegible.

Is anyone there!

When he struck the heavy brass knocker, the door opened after a while with a creaking sound.
The person who appeared was a thin old man of about seventy. His white hair was neatly groomed, but his tailcoat was old and frayed at the cuffs. However, what was most striking were his eyes. Deep within his sunken sockets, they emitted an unnaturally sharp light.

You have had a difficult time. To be alone on a stormy night.

The old man's voice carried the scent of refinement. It was elegant English with an Oxford accent, yet it had a somewhat hollow ring to it.

I am Sir Augustus Blackwood. I am the head of a fallen baronial family.

With a self-deprecating smile, the old man bowed politely.

The interior of the mansion was even more dilapidated than the exterior.
Spiderwebs clung to what must have once been a luxurious chandelier, and dust had piled up on the marble floor.
Yet, strangely, a fire was burning in the fireplace, and the candles in the candelabra cast a warm light.

This is my daughter, Beatrice.

Edward gasped at the girl who appeared halfway down the stairs. She must have been about nineteen.
Her flaxen hair was loosely tied up, and her blue eyes were as clear as a deep lake. Her skin was as white as porcelain, and her lips were rose-colored—she was the very picture of an ideal English lady's beauty.

However, something was decisively different. There was no expression whatsoever on that beautiful face, and there was no vitality in her eyes. It was as if an exquisite doll were walking.

Beatrice, show our guest to the dining room.

The girl nodded silently and guided Edward to the back of the hallway. Even her way of walking was somehow mechanical and unnatural.

What could have drained the life from her to such an extent?

Edward felt an inexplicable sense of unease deep in his chest.

Chapter 2: 'Anima Damnata'

The dining room was dim, with only the flames of a few candlesticks barely illuminating the interior.
The wallpaper was peeling from the dampness, and the furniture, which must have once been decorated with gold leaf, was covered in verdigris.
The tablecloth was clean but covered in patches, telling the story of the household's poverty.

However, Edward's gaze was fixed on a single point.

A portrait displayed above the fireplace.

It was a portrait of a man so beautiful it left one speechless.

He appeared to be around twenty-five years old. His jet-black hair was slightly wavy, and his deep emerald eyes emitted an intense radiance that seemed to pierce the soul of the viewer. His features were as perfect as a sculpture, and his lustrous lips were slightly parted in a smile, but that smile held an indescribable, dangerous charm.

The painter's technique was transcendent. The use of light and shadow, the expression of the skin's texture, the vitality dwelling in the eyes—it was a work that could truly be called the pinnacle of art. But most surprising of all was that the man in the painting looked as if he were alive. At times, one felt the illusion that those eyes were watching them.

And the signature carved in the bottom right corner. It was a unique style where the Latin 'Raphael' and Hebrew characters were intricately intertwined.

'Raphael da Morte... it can't be.'

Edward's heart hammered against his ribs.
There was no mistake. This was the work of the genius painter Raphael da Morte, who had vanished without a trace three years ago. And the title inscribed beneath the painting—'Anima Damnata' (The Damned Soul).

Da Morte's works were purchased by royalty and the ultra-wealthy for exorbitant sums, but this 'Anima Damnata' alone had been considered missing. In the art world, it was called the 'phantom masterpiece,' and there were even those who questioned its very existence.

'It is a magnificent painting, isn't it?'

A voice came from behind, and Edward turned around. Baron Blackwood appeared holding silver tableware, a cynical smile playing on his face.

'Is this... authentic?'

Edward asked, probing for an answer. If it were genuine, this single piece alone should be enough to resolve the Blackwood family's debts in an instant. Why would it be in such a dilapidated mansion?

'It is authentic.'

The old man's answer was concise.

Then, how on earth...

It was passed on to me by an old acquaintance.

Baron Blackwood's eyes darkened for a fleeting moment.

Raphael da Morte... He visited this mansion three years ago.

It was also three years ago that Raphael da Morte went missing.

An ominous premonition raced through Edward's mind.

How much would you be willing to sell it for?

Although he was the third son of the Ashford family, he possessed a fair amount of wealth. If he could acquire this painting, his status in high society and his father's estimation of him would change completely.

I am afraid that...

Baron Blackwood's expression suddenly turned grave.

This painting is not for sale. No, I cannot sell it.

And what do you mean by that?

This painting... is cursed.

The old man's voice trembled. The flame of the candlestick flickered, and the shadow of the man in the portrait danced waveringly. At that moment, he felt as if the man in the painting had looked at him and smiled.

Chapter 3: Beatrice's Memory

That night, the guest room provided to Edward was on the second floor of the mansion. The four-poster bed was old but clean, and firewood was piled in the fireplace. However, the storm outside the window was intensifying, and the thunder shook the entire mansion.

Even when he tried to sleep, that portrait would not leave his mind. Anima Damnata—the cursed soul. He felt the illusion that the overly beautiful man's face was seducing him.

If only he could get his hands on that painting...

Edward buried his face in his pillow. As the third son of the Ashford family, he had always lived in the shadows of his brothers. His eldest brother inherited the family estate, and his second brother made a name for himself as a soldier. And what about him? He was nothing more than an ordinary nobleman with no particular talent and no notable achievements.

But with that painting, it would be different. As an art collector and a man of cultural refinement, he would be able to attract attention in high society.

……Just as I was dreaming of a brilliant future, I heard footsteps in the hallway.

They had a light, strange, almost floating sound. Peering through the gap in the door, I saw Beatrice walking in her white nightgown.

The moonlight dyed her flaxen hair silver, but her gait was clearly abnormal. She swayed as she walked, as if she were a sleepwalker.

Driven by curiosity, Edward followed her.
The girl went down the stairs and headed toward the dining room. Then, she stopped in front of the portrait and began to stare at it intently.

“Beautiful… so beautiful…”

It was the first time I had heard Beatrice’s voice. But it was not the voice of the expressionless girl I had seen during the day. It had a more mature, somewhat bewitching tone.

“You are beautiful, too… just like me…”

She was speaking to the portrait, as if the man in the painting were alive.

“Beatrice?”

When Edward called out to her, the girl turned around. At that moment, Edward gasped.

Beatrice’s eyes had changed to the same deep emerald color as the man in the portrait.

“Oh… a guest.”

The girl’s voice had become low and somewhat masculine. And the smile that appeared on her lips was exactly that of the man in the portrait.

“Who might you be… no, excuse me. Who might you be?”

Her manner of speech had also changed slightly. It was as if someone else were using her body to speak.

“I am Edward Ashford. You are… Beatrice, aren’t you?”

“Beatrice…”

The girl tilted her head.

“Ah, that’s right. I am Beatrice Blackwood. But sometimes I forget. Who I am.”

Deep sadness welled up in her eyes. But the next moment, they changed back to emerald.

“But tonight, I remember. I am… I am…”

As she started to speak, Beatrice suddenly wore a pained expression. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead, and her body began to tremble slightly.

Help me... I am... who on earth am I?

Chapter 4: The Baron's Confession

When Edward appeared in the dining room the next morning, Beatrice looked completely different from the night before.
She had returned to her doll-like, expressionless state and seemed to have no memory of the previous night at all.

Please forgive my behavior last night.

Baron Blackwood apologized with an exhausted look on his face. Deep despair dwelled in his eyes.

Beatrice is... ill. She has been for three years.

The old man let out a heavy sigh.

Could it be since Raphael da Morte arrived?

At Edward's question, the Baron looked surprised.

You are very perceptive. That is correct.

And then, the old man opened his heavy mouth to speak.

Three years ago in the autumn, a painter appeared at the mansion.
Raphael da Morte—a genius painter who had already become a legendary figure at the time. He said he wanted to paint 'perfect beauty' and wished to use Beatrice as his model.

My daughter at that time... was completely different from how she is now.

The Baron's voice was a mixture of nostalgia and sorrow.

She was bright, intelligent, and overflowing with vitality. She possessed a beauty that was truly like a blooming rose.

Da Morte stayed at the mansion for a month and painted Beatrice's portrait.

But what was completed was not a portrait of Beatrice, but of an unknown man.

Naturally, I protested. I asked him how he could do this when it was not what we had agreed upon.

The baron's hands were trembling.

Then he said, 'Beauty transcends gender. This painting is the true beauty of your daughter.'

From that day on, Beatrice changed.
During the day, she became like a hollow doll, and at night, a different personality would emerge.
Sometimes she would speak in a masculine tone, and other times she would recount memories she had no way of knowing.

I called for doctors, but none of them could determine the cause. And then...

The baron looked up at the portrait.

Every time I try to dispose of that painting, my daughter's condition worsens. It is as if the painting and my daughter are connected by an invisible thread.

Chapter 5: The Painter's Truth

Edward was researching Raphael da Morte in the library. He had found materials on art history among the old books in the Blackwood family collection.

Da Morte is said to have been born in Italy around 1845, but his early life is shrouded in mystery.
He appeared in London around 1870 and began painting portraits of aristocrats and the wealthy. His works were described as supernaturally beautiful, capturing even the 'soul' of the model.

But strangely, the models of his portraits all shared a common fate.

All of them suffered mental abnormalities after the completion of their portraits. And in 1888, da Morte vanished into thin air. The last time he was seen was when he was purchasing an ancient grimoire on the 'transference of souls' at a certain second-hand bookstore.

Transference of souls...

Edward felt the blood drain from his face.
Could it be that da Morte is doing something through his paintings?

You are reading an interesting book.

A voice came from behind him, and Edward turned around.
Beatrice was standing there, but her expression was not the blank one she wore during the day. She was wearing an intelligent, somewhat cynical smile.

Are you... Beatrice?

That depends on the time and place.

The girl smiled elegantly. Her gestures were distinctly masculine.

"My name is Adrien de Venezia. I was a young nobleman in 16th-century Venice."

Edward stood up. This was clearly a different personality from last night.

"Then, what about Beatrice?"

"She is sleeping within me. A very deep sleep."

The entity calling itself Adrien approached Edward in Beatrice's body.

"You have realized it too, haven't you? The secret of that painting."

"The... secret of the painting?"

"Raphael da Morte is no mere painter. He is a practitioner who manipulates souls. And I... am his first work."

Adrien's confession was shocking.

He was a young nobleman who died of illness in Venice 400 years ago. But just before his death, his soul was sealed inside the painting by an alchemist.

"That alchemist is the man who later called himself Raphael da Morte. He seeks immortality and lives by feeding on the souls of others."

"Anima Damnata" was a "vessel of souls" that da Morte had spent 400 years perfecting.
It slowly drains the soul of anyone who gazes upon it, and in its place, it inserts the soul from within the painting—Adrien's soul.

"Beatrice is one of the victims. And... for you, too, that process has already begun."

Chapter 6: The Value of a Soul

My soul is being drained?

Edward stared at his own hands. They looked no different, but he felt that something was indeed different from yesterday. Was it fatigue? Or perhaps... a sense of emptiness?

"How much time do I have?"

"It depends on the strength of your will."

Adrien looked at Edward with a gaze filled with pity.

"The more greedy and weak-willed a person is, the sooner they are consumed. Conversely, those with pure and strong wills can resist for a long time. The reason Beatrice has held out for three years is because her soul is incredibly pure."

Edward was stunned.
He definitely fell into the former category.
A desire for fame, a thirst for beauty, and even now, deep in his heart, he still wanted to possess the painting.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I, too... am tired. Of maintaining my consciousness inside this painting for 400 years."

A deep weariness appeared on Adrien's face.

"And above all, I feel guilty for tormenting an innocent girl. She has done nothing wrong."

At that moment, Beatrice's body began to tremble violently. Her face twisted in pain, and she clutched her head with both hands.

"Again... someone is coming again..."

Her voice had returned to that of a young girl. The original Beatrice was trying to surface.

"Please... help me... I am... who am I?"

Edward instinctively hugged her. From her trembling little body, a deep sense of despair and terror was transmitted to him.

"It's alright. There must be a way."

But deep down, he felt keenly aware of his own helplessness. How could he break this curse?

Chapter 7: The Baron's Past

The next day, Edward had the opportunity to speak with Baron Blackwood alone.
The old man was reluctant at first, but eventually, he opened his heavy heart.

"Actually... I have something I have been hiding as well."

The Baron's confession was far beyond what Edward had anticipated.

Baron Blackwood was not originally a resident of this mansion.
Thirty years ago, he was a young art dealer. And by chance, while overseeing the sale of a certain old estate, he discovered 'Anima Damnata'.

"I was... foolish at that time."

The baron's voice was steeped in deep regret.

"Blinded by the value of the painting, I took it without following proper procedures. In other words, I stole it."

However, from the night he brought the painting home, strange things began to happen. A beautiful man appeared in his dreams and began talking about a "contract."

"At first, I thought it was just a nightmare. But gradually, the boundary between dreams and reality began to blur."

The terms of the contract were clear: in exchange for the right to own the painting, he had to surrender a part of his soul. And eventually, he would have to surrender his soul completely.

"I... accepted. Blinded by youth and desire."

As a result, the baron reached a state close to immortality.
For thirty years, he barely aged and never fell ill.
But as the price, he lost most of his emotions and could no longer feel human joy or sorrow.

"And twenty years ago, when my beloved wife fell ill, I tried to save her with the power of the painting."

Tears, the first in thirty years, welled up in the baron's eyes.

"I tried to transfer my wife's soul into the painting. But... I failed. My wife died, and what was born was Beatrice."

Beatrice is... the reincarnation of the late baroness?

Edward was confused.

"To be precise... she is a being born from the fragments of my wife's soul mixed with other souls that were lurking within the painting. That is why she sometimes shows a different personality."

Inside Beatrice, besides her mother's soul, reside many souls that were victims of the painting in the past. That was the cause of her suffering.

"I do not want to let my daughter... no, I have no right to call her my daughter. I do not want to let this pitiful existence I created suffer any longer."

The baron stared at Edward.

"That is why... I have a request for you."

Chapter 8: Time of Choice

"A request?"

"Please destroy this painting."

Edward was surprised by the Baron's words.

"But, if I do that..."

"I will vanish. Beatrice, and all the souls within it, will as well."

The Baron's voice was quiet, but filled with strong determination.

"But that is the only way to be free. There is no other way to break this chain of curses than to destroy the painting."

Edward hesitated. It was true that the curse might be broken. However, it would also mean Beatrice's death. And he, too, would lose that beautiful painting forever.

"Why ask me? You should be able to do it yourself..."

"I cannot."

The Baron shook his head.

"My soul is already bound to the painting. Every time I try to destroy it, my body becomes unable to move. It is impossible unless done by a third party."

That night, Edward pondered alone.

There were two choices.

One was to grant the Baron's wish and destroy the painting. That would free Beatrice from her suffering, but it would also take her life. And he would lose that beautiful painting.

The other was to take the painting home as it was. The Baron no longer had the strength to resist. It would be possible to take it by force.

If he did that, he could gain status in high society and his father's approval.

Beatrice's suffering? That had nothing to do with him.

Is this the true nature of humanity?

Edward was aghast at the ugliness of his own heart. He was prioritizing his own ambition over the suffering of an innocent girl.

But... that painting is truly beautiful. And its value is immeasurable.

In the middle of the night, Edward headed to the dining room. The portrait was still hanging above the fireplace, and the beautiful man was smiling down at him.

"You are hesitating."

Beatrice's voice came from behind him. When he turned around, it seemed as though a different personality had emerged. Her expression was filled with compassion and a certain maternal warmth.

"Who are you..."

"I am Margaret. This child's mother."

The mother's soul, borrowing Beatrice's body, smiled at Edward.

"I can see the conflict in your heart as if it were my own. You are wavering between a longing for beautiful things and a conscience that wants to do what is right."

Edward was speechless. Deep love and sorrow resided within this woman's soul.

"Saving us will bring you no benefit. In fact, it will be a great loss."

Margaret looked up at the painting.

"But please know this: true beauty is not about possessing, but about loving. And love, at times, also means letting go."

"But Beatrice will die."

"This child is already dead. She has been for three years."

The mother's soul smiled sadly.

"What is moving this body now is merely a fragment of us ghosts. The true Beatrice was trapped inside that painting long ago."

At that moment, Beatrice's body began to tremble again. Another personality was about to emerge.

"There is no time."

Margaret's voice is fading away.

"It is time to choose, Edward Ashford. As a human, what will you choose?"

Chapter 9: The Ugliness of Humanity

Morning has come.

Edward could not sleep a wink.

Beatrice appeared in the dining room, having returned to her doll-like, expressionless state. However, deep within her blue eyes, one could see something faintly stirring. Multiple souls were intermingled and suffering.

"Have you made up your mind?"

Baron Blackwood appeared. His face wore a complex expression, a mixture of resignation and hope.

After a long silence, Edward opened his mouth.

"I am sorry, but I must decline."

The Baron's face twisted in despair.

"As for this painting... I will take it home with me."

Edward's mind was already made up. The desire to possess something beautiful had outweighed his conscience.

"I feel for Beatrice, but that is not my responsibility. It was your own meddling with the painting that caused this in the first place."

The cold words slipped from his lips. He was surprised by how calm he felt.

"I will pay you. As a fair transaction."

Edward took a stack of bills from his wallet. It must have been a large sum for the fallen baronial family.

"Lord Edward... please... I beg of you..."

The Baron fell to his knees and pleaded.

Please, save my daughter. No, save this poor soul...

I am sorry, but I have my own life to live.

Edward began to remove the portrait from the wall. At that moment, the eyes of the man in the painting glowed, and he felt as if the smile on the man's lips had deepened.

It is beautiful indeed... I can monopolize this beauty.

Just then, Beatrice stood up suddenly. Her eyes held a strong light he had never seen before.

Stop... please... stop...

It was a faint voice, but it was certainly the real Beatrice's voice. A desperate cry, as if squeezed from the depths of her soul.

Save me... save everyone...

But Edward did not turn back. He clutched the painting and tried to leave the mansion.

Edward!

The Baron's scream echoed behind him.

You will surely meet the same fate! The painting will devour your soul as well!

But Edward pretended not to hear. He strapped the painting to his horse and rode off toward London.

When he looked back, he saw Beatrice's pale face in the mansion's window. Even from a distance, he could see tears streaming down her cheeks.

Chapter 10: A New Victim

Three months later, at Edward's mansion in London.

The Anima Damnata was displayed in the most prominent place in the study.

The response from high society was as expected, and many aristocrats and cultural figures visited Edward's mansion.
His father's opinion of him had also changed completely, and he had come to be recognized as a son with artistic sense.

However, a strange change was occurring within Edward himself.

His fatigue increased day by day, and he could not maintain his concentration.
And most terrifying of all, his memory would sometimes become hazy.
The amount of time he could not remember what he had done the day before was increasing.

Worse yet, there were times when the face reflected in the mirror would change. For just a fleeting moment, someone else's face would appear. The face of a beautiful man.

"Lord Edward, you have a visitor."

The butler appeared.

"Who is it?"

"A Miss Beatrice Blackwood."

The blood drained from Edward's face. Why was she here?

Beatrice, who appeared in the drawing room, was just as beautiful as she had been three months ago. Yet, her eyes held an even greater emptiness than before.

"Why are you here?"

"I came to... thank you."

Beatrice's voice was flat.

"My father passed away last month. After that, he weakened rapidly."

Edward was at a loss for words.

"But he was at peace. In his final moments, he smiled and said, 'I am finally being set free.'"

Beatrice stared at Edward. For a brief moment, a deep emerald light flickered in her eyes.

"And I, too, shall soon vanish. With my father gone, there is nothing left to tether me to this world."

"Beatrice."

"But before I disappear, I wanted to warn you."

The girl's expression changed abruptly. Adrian's personality had surfaced.

"That painting has already consumed half of your soul. In a few more months, you will follow the same fate as I."

Edward trembled in terror.

"What do you mean?"

"Your soul will be transferred into the painting, and in its place, the soul within the painting will take over your body. And you will continue to suffer inside the painting for eternity."

Adrian's words were filled with terror.

"The same agony I have been tasting for 400 years."

Chapter 11: The Choice of Despair

That night, Edward sat slumped in front of the 'Anima Damnata'.

Adrian's warning was true.
He could already feel another personality beginning to dwell within him.
Memories of a beautiful man surfaced in his mind in fragments. The scenery of 16th-century Venice, a ball at a nobleman's mansion, and... the terror of the moment of death.

Is this the result of my choice?

Edward cursed his own ugliness. He could have saved Beatrice, but he prioritized his own desires. And now, he was about to follow the same fate.

"Do you regret it?"

When he turned around, Beatrice was standing there. But her form was already translucent, wavering like mist.

"Are you... the real Beatrice?"

"I am the last fragment of my soul."

The girl's voice was as frail as the wind.

"With my father's death, the last chain that bound me here has broken. I am... I am fading away now."

Beatrice shed tears. They were tears as red as blood.

"In the end, I was saved by no one, and I saved no one... I only suffered."

"Beatrice..."

"But please, tell me one last thing."

Deep despair dwelled in the girl's eyes.

"Was that painting... was my suffering... beautiful? Was it worth satisfying your desires?"

Edward lost his words. The cruelty of that question made his heart feel as if it were tearing apart.

"I, I... I just wanted something beautiful..."

"I see. So that is what it means to be human."

Beatrice smiled sadly.

"Our pain, our despair—it is all nothing more than fuel for your desire for 'beautiful things.'"

Then, her figure began to fade.

"Goodbye, Edward. You, too, shall soon taste the same suffering as us."

Beatrice vanished completely. Edward was left alone in front of the painting.

Chapter 12: The Inheritance of the Curse

Dawn was approaching. Edward stood before the fireplace, holding a poker in his hand.

"Anima Damnata" was right before his eyes. If he destroyed it, he might be able to break this chain of curses.

But...

Can the curse truly be broken?

A terrifying doubt surfaced in Edward's mind. What if, even if he destroyed the painting, the curse itself remained? What if it were to manifest in another form?

And above all, Beatrice and the Baron are already dead. Destroying the painting would not save them now.

In the end, I cannot change anything.

The poker fell from Edward's hand.

As if reacting to the sound, the eyes of the man in the painting glowed. Adrian's voice echoed.

"A wise decision, Edward."

The voice was already emanating from Edward's own mouth. His consciousness clouded, and he felt himself slipping away.

"Your soul was delicious. Especially the flavor of regret and despair."

Edward looked into the mirror. The face reflected there was his own, but his eyes had turned a deep emerald green.

"With this, I have gained a new body. Freedom for the first time in 400 years."

Adrian laughed using Edward's body.

"And you shall now taste the agony I have endured for 400 years, for all eternity."

Edward's consciousness was dragged into the painting. In the darkness, he heard countless screams. Beatrice, the Baron, and the victims of the past... all of them were still suffering.

Help me... someone, help me...

But no one comes. No one will save him.

Epilogue: The Eternal Curse

Ten years have passed since then.

Edward Ashford—or rather, Adrian, who now inhabits that body—has become the darling of London high society. He charms many with his beauty, education, and elegant demeanor.

"Anima Damnata" remains displayed in the study, continuing to captivate the guests who visit.

"What a magnificent painting."

Tonight, another young artist is gazing intently at the painting.

Where did you obtain this?

It was given to me by an old acquaintance.

Adrien smiled. It was the same beautiful, cruel smile that had not changed in 400 years.

If you like it... I would be willing to let you have it as a special favor.

The young artist's eyes shone with desire. At that moment, Edward, trapped inside the painting, screamed desperately.

Stop! Don't go near that painting!

But his voice did not reach them. The voices of the souls trapped within the painting could be heard by no one.

I would love that!

Another new victim was about to be born.

Inside the painting, Beatrice was weeping. The Baron was in despair. And countless souls were suffering.

Is this the true nature of humanity?

Edward understood. The curse was not in the painting. It was in the human heart. The insatiable desire for beautiful things, the indifference to the suffering of others, and the ugly nature that would do anything for one's own gain.

Anima Damnata merely exploits that.

And in the foggy night of London, a new tragedy was about to begin.

On the windowsill of the mansion, a single white rose was blooming. But its petals were already beginning to turn black. Even beauty that was once pure white is destined to be swallowed by darkness eventually.

As long as there are humans who seek beautiful things, this curse will continue forever.

And only the screams of the souls suffering within the painting continue to echo, heard by no one.

Afterword

Since then, 'Anima Damnata' continued to exist as it changed owners.
Art dealers, collectors, aristocrats.
They all met the same fate.

It is unknown where the painting is now. However, one thing is certain: even now, someone is being captivated by its beauty and becoming its next victim. And each time that happens, the suffering within the painting grows.

For eternity.