The Lich of Glory Knight Spirit: Moving towards Krimasha!

Another poisoned needle shot straight toward the Hydra, and in the blink of an eye, it was already in front of it. The speed was so blistering that the Hydra couldn't possibly dodge in time.

At that very moment, there was a crisp "ding" sound. The poisoned needle heading for the Hydra was sliced cleanly down the middle, splitting into two halves and falling to the ground.

Duke Clement's finger, which had been guiding the poisoned needle, froze mid-air.

Jones landed between the Hydra and Duke Clement—more precisely, in front of the Hydra.

In an instant, it felt as though the entire world had fallen silent. Everyone stared dazedly at Jones.

"Little bat…" The previously frenzied Hydra suddenly stopped moving. Tears welled up in its eyes and then began to stream down its face, as it burst into outright sobbing.

Do snakes cry? Well, the Hydra could.

Out of its nine heads, only three remained. The other six lay limp on the ground, utterly unresponsive, as if lifeless. Unable to fight back, it could only watch as its heads were systematically defeated one by one. The terror was so visceral—it was like being flayed alive, cut inch by inch.

Jones stood as a barrier between the Hydra and Duke Clement, gripping his sword and staring silently at the Duke.

Duke Clement turned his face slightly toward Count Dracula in the distance, releasing a helpless sigh. "You can't even control your own son… Do you need me to do it for you?"

Count Dracula had just started to step forward when a crowd of Blood Clan members swarmed him.

Forced, Count Dracula could only retreat a step. His face had grown dark and unsightly.

"Go, Jones! This is as far as I can help you! Kill him!" Adelle shouted from a high vantage point, waving a fist in encouragement.

Jones stood motionless, breathing heavily, his sword clenched tightly as he stared Duke Clement down.

The mountain night was utterly still.

The wind gently rustled, sweeping up fallen leaves from the ground.

"Looks like that's necessary." Duke Clement quietly withdrew his gaze and surveyed the scene around him.

The situation was bleak—for both sides.

The dwarves had nearly all fallen, barely two remained capable of fighting. Even Silverhammer had collapsed unconscious, leaving only a barrel of ale barely holding on.

Among the Deacon Council operatives, there were now fifteen who had completely lost the ability to fight. Of the other fifteen, most were injured, and their morale was utterly deflated. After all, to them, this was just another routine mission. There was no need to throw away their lives for it.

Winning didn't mean you had to go all-out.

In stark contrast, the Blood Clan members brought by Adelle, despite suffering heavy casualties, remained fiercely motivated by the promise of great rewards.

Strange, isn't it? On a broad scale, the Deacon Council had already lost. Battles aren't solely determined by raw strength. More often than not, victory hinges on morale, and the larger the scale, the more critical morale becomes. If one side has already lost its will to fight, then that side has no chance of winning—even if their opponents are weaker.

On a smaller scale, Jones was at the end of his rope, Adelle was practically negligible, and the Hydra, with six heads out of commission, had less than half its battle strength left.

As for their forces, Count Dracula and Count Messier were both entangled by the Blood Clan members under Adelle's command and couldn't break free. The only one who truly remained capable of action seemed to be Duke Clement himself.

Duke Clement took a deep breath and extended his right hand, gesturing lightly for retreat.

The Deacon Council operatives understood and began to retreat one after another. Count Dracula and Count Messier hesitated slightly but eventually followed suit.

In the center of the battlefield, only Duke Clement and Jones remained facing each other. Of course, Jones still had a Hydra behind him.

"What's this? Planning to withdraw?" Jones asked.

"Not at all. I simply see no need for further casualties," Duke Clement replied softly. "Surely, you don't wish for more injuries to your friends or your subordinates either, correct? There's no point in that."

Jones stared unflinchingly at Duke Clement.

"You're not bad at all—nothing like how your father described you. I'm even somewhat tempted to recruit you into the Deacon Council, though you're still a bit too young for that, aren't you?"

"What are you getting at? Can't you just be straightforward?"

"Here's my proposal: You and I—or rather, I against you and your Hydra—we fight. The losing side concedes, accepts punishment, and it's over. What do you say?"

"What kind of joke is that!? How old are you, challenging Jones to a duel? And you actually have the gall to—"

Before Adelle could finish her tirade, Jones raised a hand to silence him.

"This offer is highly favorable for you, isn't it?" Duke Clement continued. "If you can't defeat me, you'll never win this war. I'm giving you a chance to focus all your efforts on beating me. I'll even promise you, if you win, we'll stop harassing you after this. Everything will end here."

Count Dracula's eyes widened slightly in surprise as he turned to look at Duke Clement.

"I agree," Jones replied quietly.

"Jones!" Adelle roared from behind him. "Don't listen to him! There's no way he'd propose something that's good for us!"

"But we're almost at our limit!" Jones shouted back abruptly. "And aren't you about to go bankrupt, too?!"