In the dim corridor, Thales had a stiff face, put his hands on Morat's "wheelchair" covered with black veined vines (it took him a long time to finish the mental struggle, and reluctantly touched it), and followed the instructions.

The instructions of the Black Prophet reluctantly became the driving force for the other party, pushing him forward.

As if sensing his approach, the black-veined vines immediately began to squirm, and "politely" opened a space on the back of the chair to make way for a pair of hands.

This only made Thales feel more weird and hesitant.

"Don't worry, it doesn't bite."

Seemingly seeing the Duke's expression behind his back, the Black Prophet chuckled.

It only eats people.

The old intelligence chief muttered leisurely.

Thales curled his lips and continued to move forward.

It's not that he didn't think about refusing to shirk, but since a vulnerable (?) disabled old man in his dying years made such a request, he had no choice but to comply.

But, are all the people in the secret department dead?

The young man complained silently:

So much so that a new customer was asked to help...with chores.

Shouldn't this job be done by Raphael, who has a kind face but a dark heart and a sharp tongue?

The wheel covered with strange vines rolled onto the ground, but strangely made no sound.

Raphael's figure disappeared in the darkness ahead, and only the sound of footsteps could be heard faintly, barely guiding Thales in the direction.

They moved forward silently.

Facing the back of Morat's bald head that revealed the outline of his skull, Thales felt increasingly depressed and uncomfortable.

Even though he was wearing gloves, the inexplicable touch on his hands was still uncomfortable - the area covered by the vines was moist and warm, and had a weird sticky feeling.

But Thales still tried his best to find a gap in the back of the chair as a place for his hands to avoid touching - even though it was difficult - those disgusting black vines, which made his exertion even more inconvenient.

"Is it alive? Does it have its own consciousness?"

The Black Prophet never looked back:

"Are you alive?"

Thales frowned.

"Most people in the world are ignorant. There is no difference between living and dead." Morat didn't care, and his words were ethereal:

"Does it matter whether it is alive or not, whether it has its own consciousness?"

Thales sighed helplessly.

He also pushed a wheelchair for Grivet, a veteran of Longxiao City.

In fact, the night roads in the Shield District were full of potholes and bumps, with winding twists and turns making it difficult to navigate. The old lame man from Northland kept cursing and swearing, which left a deep impression on the young man who asked for help and suffered a lot.

But now, Thales would rather work hard, be beaten and scolded, and push Grieve in a wheelchair for another year than stay with Morat for even one second longer.

"What the hell is this thing?"

"Oh, Your Highness," Black Prophet shook his head and sneered silently:

"You've seen them."

More than once.

Thales took a long breath from his nose, as if he wanted to expel the other person's nagging words, as well as the anxiety in his heart.

"Raphael."

Thales twisted his head unnaturally, forcing himself not to look at the weird rustling vines on the wheelchair that were shrinking and rustling like breathing, and tried to find a topic to divert his attention:

"Six years ago, his palm was obviously cut open, but it was still intact. He could still communicate with you thousands of miles away."

"Facing the Burning Knight, his sleeves were set on fire by the Rising Sun Saber many times, and he always retreated in embarrassment."

"In the Palace of Heroes, my attendant mentioned doubtfully that he seemed to have seen his heart being pierced."

The back of Morat's head was fixed and no longer shook leisurely.

"As the secret troublemaker of Dragon Blood Night, he only behaves well and behaves in one place."

Thales' eyes focused:

"Haoyue Temple."

Their forward speed remains unchanged, and the road ahead remains dark.

The tone of Morat's reply changed slightly:

"so what?"

Thales' steps slowed down a bit.

"demon."

The vines on the wheelchair are still squirming, changing angles from time to time and wrapping around other parts of the wheelchair in another posture.

Duke Xinghu remembered what Sak'el had said and said in a daze:

"Flesh and blood are for food, and souls are for hunting."

"Apparently visible in fire, disillusioned before God."

Thales stared at the vines:

"This is the flesh and blood of demons."

Morat turned his head slightly and glanced at the prince from the corner of his eye.

Thales came back to his senses, remembered the identity of the other party, and became wary.

He quickly added:

"I heard about it when I was still in the North...as a hostage."

There was silence in the corridor for a while, except for the strange rustling of black-veined vines, sometimes like the crackling of flames, sometimes like the gurgling of running water.

"Oh, you can always find the answer yourself."

Morat turned his head and said with a smile:

"as always."

"So, demons and hell," Thales ignored the other person's sarcasm:

"They exist, right here, in the Secret Division."

"It was also developed by you, um," Thales glanced at Morat's disgusting wheelchair:

"Medical prosthesis?"

Seemingly aroused by Thales's words, Morat clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"It's not us, Your Highness, it's not us."

"We are just inheriting and imitating. We are far from the first group of people in the world who will use any means to covet the mysterious and taboo."

Use any means necessary to covet the mysterious and taboo.

Thales narrowed his eyes.

"magic."

The prince said silently, increasing his pace again to keep up with the faint footsteps ahead.

"It's another legacy left by the mage, isn't it?"

He sarcastically said:

"It seems that the Kingdom's Secret Department is the orthodox successor to the Magic Tower."

This time, Morat's words became cold:

"I thought Priest Megan had already reminded you, Your Highness."

Hearing the familiar name, Thales was slightly surprised:

“Megan Priest—you know her?”

Black Prophet snorted coldly and did not answer his question:

"Believe me, Your Highness, magic is far less magical, interesting and fascinating than it sounds - its gorgeous appearance is as great as the evil it causes."

"But you feel at ease inheriting the legacy of your predecessors," the prince looked at the living creature wrapped in the wheelchair, frowned and continued:

"Whether it's the Bone Prison, the magic lock outside, or...this."

Morat shook his head:

"You may not understand yet."

"But I say this: the secret science is like a lock, locking the door to the world's self-destruction."

He was slightly emotional:

“Like all obsessions in this world, going too far is never enough, and pursuing too deeply will eventually come back to bite you.”

The pursuit is too deep.

Backfire on itself.

Thales raised his eyebrows.

He suddenly remembered the three major covenants of the magician that the two teachers had mentioned to him:

Don’t delve into each other.

Be careful with yourself.

Thinking of this, he tentatively said:
To be continued...