In the dim interrogation room, Tales leaned against the wall, unconscious and unaware, his face completely swallowed by darkness.
Black Prophet rubbed the armrest of his wheelchair, watching the black-veined vines writhing like breathing things on his knees without sparing the Prince a glance.
At that moment, they seemed to have reached a tacit understanding.
Only Raphael's voice continued to come from the other side of the glass:
"Our people have basically confirmed that this was merely an accident, but we still have to ensure that no one with ulterior motives spreads the news, exploits it, or guides public opinion."
"Hopefully, this is the only murder caused by this."
Murder.
Tales slowly raised his head.
Caused by this.
Because of his... dietary preferences.
Tales' expression was blank, his gaze frozen.
Of course, he could argue:
This had nothing to do with him at all.
The so-called Prince Loves to Eat Lettuce was merely the fuse. Ultimately, the whole affair was the result of a greedy man and an impulsive man bringing disaster upon themselves.
He should not be held responsible.
Including... the other things.
Tales' fist trembled slightly.
Right.
Many people—many people—would not be troubled by this.
Faced with the same matter, King Noon would certainly laugh it off, King Chaman would only sneer coldly, and King Kessel would remain securely seated on his throne, unmoved.
But...
They are a different species. Ordinary people live by food and air, while they live by power.
That was Putilai's reflection on the Weilan Snowfield.
You need a heart hard enough, cold enough, and unwavering enough... It would be best to get used to it as soon as possible, for your own sake.
That was the advice King Noon had once given him.
At the thought, bitterness welled up in Tales' heart.
"Of