In the dim corridor, Tales stiffened his face and placed both hands on Morat's "wheelchair," which was wrapped in black-veined vines. (He had spent a great deal of effort overcoming his reluctance before finally forcing himself to touch it.) Following the Black Prophet's instructions, he unwillingly became the other man's means of transport and pushed him onward.
The black-veined vines seemed to sense his approach. They immediately rustled and writhed, "courteously" making room on the back of the chair—just enough space for a pair of hands.
This only made Tales feel even more unsettled and hesitant.
"Don't worry. It doesn't bite."
Apparently noticing the Duke's expression behind him, the Black Prophet let out a cackling laugh.
It only eats people.
The old Intelligence Chief muttered leisurely to himself.
Tales tugged at the corner of his mouth and continued forward.
It wasn't that he hadn't considered refusing or making excuses. But since a frail, disabled old man on the verge of death had made such a request, he had no choice but to comply.
But were all the people in the Secret Section dead?
The youth silently complained:
Did they really need a guest who had just arrived to help... push a wheelchair and do odd jobs?
Shouldn't this job belong to Raphael, that kind-faced yet black-hearted man with the sharp tongue?
The wheels covered in strange vines rolled over the floor, yet eerily made no sound.
Raphael's figure vanished into the dimness ahead. Only the faint sound of his footsteps remained, barely showing Tales the way.
They moved forward in silence.
Staring at the back of Morat's head, bald enough to reveal the contours of his skull, Tales felt increasingly oppressed and uncomfortable.
Although there were gloves between them, the inexplicable sensation in his hands still made him uneasy. The