The Lich of Glory Knight Spirit: Moving towards Krimasha!
Chapter 50 - 35: The Troubles of the Blood Clan (3) (Second Update)_2

Chapter 50: Chapter 35: The Troubles of the Blood Clan (3) (Second Update)_2

As for Jones...

He thought today might be better, but no, reality had other plans—it was worse than yesterday!

The good news? It’s Sunday, so they went to the church for service, which meant no more wearing armor and baking under the sun.

The bad news? In its infinite wisdom to showcase "divine glory," the church had generously installed massive floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows. The lighting was so good it felt no different from being outdoors. Oh, and the statues—especially the centerpiece one with that sleazy little smirk!

It felt as though the statue was saying, "Child, I see right through you. You’re from the Blood Clan, aren’t you? No worries, come bask in the purity of the Holy Spirit and feel the warmth of love!"

This world is truly insane; even the divine seems sleazy.

Gray and the Black Cat were busy chattering away. Technically, members of the Blood Clan are half-undead and can’t fully understand feline speech, but meows? Those they can definitely hear. After all, even Shelley could hear them, couldn’t she?

But Jones was far too miserable to care about cat noises. His entire body ached with chills, cold sweat dripped down his back, and he was as weak as a wilted flower. He didn’t even have the strength to spare a thought.

In a low voice, he turned to Gray and murmured, "I’m not feeling well. I want to go back."

"Not feeling well?" Gray glanced toward Shelley.

"I’ll go get a doctor to take a look at him."

"No! I’m fine! Nothing’s wrong with me at all!" Jones blurted in a panic.

A doctor? That would be the end of him!

Great, now he couldn’t even escape. He’d have to keep pretending nothing was wrong.

Jones was already on the verge of a breakdown.

Oh no, correction—he might already be broken.

On their way out, the Priest pulled Gray aside and whispered, "Baron Gray, my respect for you is second only to my veneration for the Holy Spirit. I once thought you were just a brave knight, but it turns out you’re also a devout one. A knight as pious as you truly deserves recognition from the Church."

"Are you saying you’re going to nominate me for the Silver-Cross Insignia?" Gray’s eyes sparkled with excitement at the thought of adorning his badge with a new symbol. He had been fretting that his insignia was far too dull.

"Yes, that’s more or less what I mean. However, I hope you’ll visit the church more often, perhaps volunteer occasionally. As you know, true believers are scarce these days. We’re short on manpower and desperately need your help. Like today, for example—bringing all those children here helped plant seeds of faith for the Holy Spirit."

"Understood! I’ll show up every day from now on!"

"No, no, not every day. Once a week would suffice," the Priest replied with a smile.

Gray was overjoyed, while Jones desperately wanted to die.

...

Night fell, and two angels observed from a distance as Dora wobbled through the air, carrying three water jugs that seemed ready to drag her out of the sky at any moment.

"I’m telling you, he’s truly an idiot, a lunatic! He actually made me a weekly schedule, can you believe that? Sunday is church service, Monday is horseback lessons, Tuesday is sword practice, Wednesday is doing good deeds, Thursday is reading knightly romances. He seriously thinks he’s my dad!"

Jones viciously flung an empty water jug to the ground and shouted indignantly, "And that woman, there’s something wrong with her too! She said she wanted to experience raising a girl, so now I have to learn housekeeping on Fridays and dancing on Saturdays! But the worst part—she wants me to wear a dress! A dress! On Friday and Saturday, I’ll be doing chores in women’s clothing, after baking in armor from Sunday to Thursday under the sun... Humans these days have fallen this far? And no one’s stopping them?"

By the end of his rant, Jones had dissolved into tears.

He felt wronged, exhausted, humiliated, physically unwell, and on the brink of death.

Dora merely blinked at him in silence, quietly listening.

"I can’t take this anymore. They’re going to kill me... You! Get that old geezer King moving faster! I can’t wait any longer!"

"But didn’t Lord Jones himself say he wanted to act cautiously? What’s the point of rushing if the Duke’s throne remains unstable?"

"The situation has changed! Every day—you hear me? Every single day, they’re torturing me! If I die, what use is the Duke’s title?"

"Alright..." Dora reluctantly nodded.

...

The next morning, Yilin received an urgent letter from Lion King City. Baird VI had finally acted! He sent word to all his vassals, commanding them to muster their troops immediately and head to Lion King City at top speed. Yes, all of them.

"There’s no time left. Prepare for the final battle! The Gruglu family’s forces must reach the King before anyone else does!"

"Thank you, Uncle Gruglu!"

...

Under the starlit night.

The two angels watched from afar as Dora, now weighed down with five jugs of water, struggled her way to the estate. Mid-flight, one jug dropped, and she had to scramble to pick it up.

Jones was crying so hard he could barely breathe.

"Sob... This is cruel! He said horseback lessons, but there wasn’t even a horse! He made me ride ’human horses’ with a bunch of kids, playing ’knights and battles.’ And we had to take turns being the horse! Do you know how scorching the sun was? And even now, he won’t let me off! Is he even human? Get him to hurry up!"

"But the King has already issued the orders; we must wait for the others to gather."

"Gather for what? To collect my corpse? I meant **now**! Do you hear me?"

"Alright..." Dora had no choice but to comply.

...

Soon after, Yilin received another urgent letter. Baird VI, accompanied by his personal army, had departed directly. His orders for the nobles had been changed too: instead of stopping in Lion King City, they were now to march straight to the front lines—gathering at the border of the Beishier Duchy.

Yilin and Count Gruglu were both dumbfounded.

"What is he trying to do?"

...

"Faster! When will they finally arrive?"

"The King said the safer route will take half a month."

"What about the unsafe route? Didn’t he consider that? Did he not think of taking the unsafe route?"

"The unsafe route?"

...

"The King decided to lead his army through the swamps during the rainy season?" Yilin’s jaw dropped.

...

"I can’t hold on any longer... Really. Tell that old man to come collect my corpse, will you?"

"Dora... Tell him to hurry up!"

...

"The King’s troops even abandoned their supplies?" Yilin was utterly flabbergasted.

...

"Why did I come here myself, why?" Jones lay in Dora’s arms, tears streaming down his wooden face, filled with bitter regret: "Just let me die. This is divine punishment for me."

Dora was petrified.

...

Under the starlit night, in the distant marshlands north of the White City, an elderly man with snow-white hair trudged through the mud, leading his disheveled army southward with grim determination.

"Faster? Faster how?" He stared blankly at Dora, who fidgeted like an ant on a hot pan. He began to doubt whether he’d survive this ordeal long enough to achieve immortality.

After contemplating for a long while, he finally gritted his teeth and said, "Fine!"

...

"The King is marching day and night without rest... Is he insane?" Clutching the secret letter, Yilin could hardly believe her eyes.

Count Gruglu murmured to himself, "A new order every day. I think someone’s pressuring him. But who could it be? Could this be far more complex than we imagined? A secret puppeteer behind the scenes, perhaps?"

Yes, there was indeed someone—although not even the cunning Count Gruglu could possibly guess that this "puppeteer" was, at that moment, enduring stepmotherly care, wearing a dress, and washing clothes in an estate merely a hundred meters away from them.

At midnight: a pitiful, weak, and helpless figure drowning amidst a mountain of laundry. Tears trickled down as they washed, broken sobs escaping between their words: "Just... Just you wait. You’ll see... One day, I’ll make you all pay..."

The voice, trembling and fragmented.

Jones Dracula, a teenage vampire bearing a proud family name, might just go down as the most tragic "mastermind" in history.