JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 49

Out of Time

Mint coughed harshly, another cloud of grit rising around him as the air in the narrow tunnel vibrated with every movement. His hand trembled while channeling healing energy, the glow barely steady as it seeped into his chest. That should hold—for now. Jeric staggered past, pale and gaunt, and Mint reached out, brushing his shoulder to invoke Mending Touch on the weary boy. The only illumination came from the ghostly green of Mint’s restorative skill and the flickering reddish-orange cast by the twin ember blades carving through the tunnel ahead—Eli’va and Nadine, ever driving them onward.

His eyelids drooped. Every muscle begged for release. Just a moment, he told himself. Just a few minutes. His body slackened, head tilting forward as exhaustion wrapped its arms around him.

A sudden jab to his shoulder jolted him upright. Mint’s eyes flew open to see Eli’va beside him, grunting once before resuming her relentless digging. He blinked hard, clearing the haze, and checked his Health—terrified at what it might reveal.

Health: 45/670

Swallowing hard, Mint immediately triggered Mending Touch, surging energy through his limbs and into the two demons nearby, restoring them all to full strength. They were dying. Locked in a perpetual Health decline from both asphyxiation and dehydration damage. He rose unsteadily, head spinning, and scanned the dim tunnel.

“Jeric? Are you there?” he called, voice thin in the spent air. No reply.

I saw him… just a second ago. Didn’t I? But the memory was slippery, already dissolving. Time had become fluid—moments bleeding together in the choking dust and heat. He stumbled forward, the tunnel too tight for anything but single-file movement. “I need to give you healing,” he called again, louder this time.

Then he saw it—a small figure sprawled across the dirt ahead, motionless. A half-filled bag of shattered rock and gravel had spilled beside him, its contents strewn haphazardly across the path.

“No…” Mint broke into a clumsy run, skidding to his knees beside the boy without checking if he was alive or dead. He invoked Mending Touch again with desperate urgency—and exhaled in relief as Jeric’s breathing steadied.

“Hey, wake up… come on…” he urged softly, shaking the boy’s shoulder. But Jeric didn’t stir. Fast asleep.

Mint sighed, shoulders sagging. Resigned, he leaned down with trembling hands and began scooping stones back into the bag, methodical despite the burning in his muscles. Once full, he hauled it farther down the passage—just far enough to keep it clear. The entrance to the globular chamber was completely lost behind them now.

He dropped to one knee, panting, trying to center himself as System messages streamed through his logs.

You have received asphyxiation damage!

-5 HP

-5 HP

-5 HP

A relentless reminder of the air’s thinness. For what felt like the hundredth time, he flicked open his status and checked his Renewal stat.

Renewal: 3982

At least that was holding steady. Healing himself cost nearly the same amount of Renewal as he gained from mending the others—a fragile equilibrium, but the only scrap of good fortune they’d had so far.

The tunnel angled upward, but the walls offered no clear signs of progress. Everything looked the same—tight, brittle stone that was hard to the touch. Are we even getting closer to escape? To anywhere? Whatever had dragged them from the surface had tunneled at tremendous speed through solid ground like it was sand; there was no telling how deep they really were. It’s getting harder to focus… Harder to stay awake. Can I really keep this up? He forced the thought away. The demons didn’t complain, and neither would he.

Then—a flicker. A shadow shifted where none should be. Mint’s stomach lurched. More critch? Have they come to finish us off? He staggered back instinctively, heart hammering as the faint crunch of stone echoed through the tunnel. A silhouette emerged—human in shape, but cloaked in the wavering gloom. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, unsure if it was real or a product of his oxygen-starved mind.

The figure resolved into a woman, short brown hair tousled, an easy, almost amused smile on her lips.

“J-Jane?” he whispered, breath caught in his throat. "It can’t be…"

And yet—there she was. Half-shadowed, but undeniably glowing with quiet certainty.

“Hey, buddy. How’s it going?” Jane’s voice was casual, her head tilting as she ducked beneath the low ceiling.

Mint turned in disbelief, glancing around for confirmation. Jeric lay sprawled on the ground just meters away, fast asleep. The demons had vanished from sight, their digging now distant and rhythmic.

“You… You can’t be real,” he breathed, voice cracking with uncertainty. “Right?”

“Who says I’m not?” Jane shot back with a playful smirk, raising a finger and pointing to his chest. “Don’t forget to heal yourself. You’ve got to stay focused, don’t you?”

Without thinking, Mint obeyed—hands pressed against his chest as he invoked Mending Touch. A familiar warmth surged through him, his Health ticking up to full. He lifted a hand to his face in relief—then paused. When did I get four hands? The image blurred. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head, and when he looked up again, Jane was standing above him, watching with that same casual confidence.

“You’ve been working so hard, haven’t you?” she said gently. “Kept everyone alive, just like I asked?”

The distant rumble in the tunnel beyond grew louder. Mint nodded, eyes stinging. “I did. I really did… but this time… I—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know if I can.”

His hands trembled, and he gripped his arms to stop them.

Jane just smiled and placed her hands on her hips. “That’s okay. You’ve done enough. I’ve come to lend a hand.”

Mint wiped his cheeks, breath hitching, and rose shakily to his feet. “You have?”

She laughed softly. “Of course. Why else would I be here? Everything’s going to be all right.”

And with those words, all the fear, the fatigue, the buried despair burst from him in a rush. He dashed forward, arms wide, tears falling freely. “Oh, Jane… I missed you so much. I knew you’d come back!”

He threw himself into the embrace—

And fell through empty air, hitting the tunnel floor with a heavy thud that knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Ahh—ow…” he gasped, coughing, ribs aching. He turned, heart sinking. The tunnel was empty. Jane was gone—if she’d ever been there at all.

A sob rose in his throat as a wave of hopelessness crashed down, dragging him into the depths. He clawed for air, but the aching tightness in his chest only grew. Just another hallucination… His lungs burned, a slow and piercing ache. Reality pressed in cold and sharp.

But still—her words lingered. Everything’s going to be all right.

They felt real. Real enough.

Mint pressed a trembling hand to the ground and pushed himself back to his knees. Maybe it was only a vision—but it had given him what he needed.

I’ll keep going. Even if escape is impossible… I’ll keep going until the very end.

Crack!

Like a thunderclap, the sound of splitting stone ripped through the tunnel. A sudden gale surged past him, blasting away the stale air with astonishing force. He gasped—a deep, ragged inhale—and staggered as fresh oxygen filled his lungs for the first time in what felt like days.

Air? Real air? His hand rose instinctively, fingers splayed as he felt the current rush between them. But something was wrong. The wind wasn’t coming from the front, where the demons had been digging—it was blowing from behind.

Frowning, he turned. “Hello?” he called uncertainly. “Jane? Is… is that you?”

But a prickling dread ran down his spine. No. Not Jane. Is it the critch? Have they come for us?

A blur shot from the shadows like an arrow. Mint flinched, throwing his arms up to shield his face, bracing for the impact.

Nothing.

Cautiously, he peeked through his fingers—and blinked in stunned disbelief.

Floating before him was a single, oversized eyeball, gently bobbing in the air. Veins pulsed faintly across its glossy surface. It stared directly at him.

“WHO ARE YOU?!” boomed a voice, impossibly loud for something so small.

Mint froze, stunned. “M-Me?” he stammered, unsure if he was hallucinating again. He waved a hand toward the thing, intending to dispel whatever strange vision his starved brain had conjured—only to strike the orb with a wet whap, knocking it a few feet sideways.

“HOW DARE YOU STRIKE THE MIGHTY TALTORIUS, PUNY HUMAN!”

Mint gasped, eyes widening. “You’re real!?” He stumbled back, glancing at his System logs. No asphyxiation messages. No health loss. His breathing was steady.

“PERHAPS YOU WOULD PREFER TO FACE KARATOL THE UNMAKER, BOUNDLESS ONE OF THE NETHER—”

But the bombastic threat was cut short.

Mint collapsed, knees buckling as his eyes fluttered shut, the exhaustion finally claiming him. Like a marionette with its strings cut, he slumped to the tunnel floor, unconscious before he hit the ground.

The last thing he heard was the indignant voice, still echoing through the dark.

***

Amidst the muted streets of Dawnskeep, Commander Tiberius Centallis of the Pathbound Army walked with measured purpose, hands clasped behind his back. A squadron of white-garbed soldiers trailed in disciplined silence, their boots striking the smooth paved stone in unison. Tiberius rubbed his chin thoughtfully, eyes sweeping across the rows of shops and uniform homes, nostrils flaring at the scent of baked bread, dust, and forge-smoke.

Not so different from Valtoris, he mused. Despite being deep in the heart of Arcadia, the rhythms of city life here felt… familiar. Pogg and the Arcadian lords had spent their time rallying the forces of this strange kingdom. Meanwhile, Tiberius’s own efforts were focused on managing the influx of soldiers, volunteers and supplicants surging in from the Providencia daily. Still, time near the capitol had given him ample exposure to these foreign lands. With the eastern shadow ever expanding, swallowing borders and cities alike, no one has the luxury of clinging to old divisions anymore.

He exhaled a slow, troubled breath. Pogg… No matter how strong the young man became, it didn’t feel like enough. The sheer magnitude of Lord Melkit’s power dwarfed anything Pogg yet possessed, even if his class was The Chosen One. No, the odds were not in their favor. And yet, Pogg remained their only hope. Fragile though it was, even a flickering candle in the dark was better than nothing at all.

From a nearby market stall, a farmer’s voice faltered mid-pitch as he spotted the uniformed soldiers. He clamped his mouth shut and stood stiffly, eyes wide. At that precise moment, the front wheel of his cart gave way with a sharp clunk, and a cascade of cabbages and carrots tumbled into the street, rolling underfoot and spreading across the path of the approaching squad.

Tiberius halted, raising a hand to signal the men behind him. “Careful. Watch your step,” he ordered.

Another mishap.

He frowned, watching the scattered vegetables roll across the road. Misfortune had become a constant undercurrent in this kingdom lately. Lord Tygal claimed it was Pogg’s abysmal Luck stat seeping outward, slowly tainting the land like a creeping rot. That would explain the uptick in accidents in the south, Tiberius mused. The nature of Luck was elusive at the best of times—especially its influence when kings and rulers came into play. The minor incidents that had begun appearing since Pogg’s rise were growing more frequent, more pronounced. Despite Lord Tygal taking the throne to counteract the effects with his own score of ten, Pogg’s rising influence couldn’t be denied. Perception is everything.

The farmer quickly gathered his scattered produce, head bowed low, mumbling apologies as he retreated to his now-lopsided cart.

Tiberius gave the signal to move on. His gaze fixed on a tavern at the far corner of the street—The Lucky Clover Inn. Outside, Rydor leaned against the stone wall, posture casual. But as soon as their eyes met, the Spymaster straightened.

“He’s inside?” Tiberius asked as he approached.

Rydor nodded. “He is. Been drifting from tavern to tavern since arriving in Dawnskeep. Never stays in the same place twice.”

Tiberius gave two sharp flicks of his fingers, and the soldiers fanned out wordlessly. “Cover the exits. If he runs, take him.”

Without another word, he pushed through the tavern door.

The interior was quiet—well-kept, with warm lamplight flickering against varnished wood. At the counter, a tavern keep and his wife stood in cautious conversation with a flamboyantly dressed man clutching a bulky sack to his chest with one arm, the other gesturing theatrically.

Tiberius narrowed his eyes and activated General Identification.

Fletcher Daring (Level 37)

Human

“…about this tall, name of Jane King. I heard she stayed here once. Do you know where she might be? It’s absolutely imperative I find her.”

The innkeeper scratched the back of his head, exchanging a glance with his wife. “Ah… the one from the king’s proclamation?” He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the door. “Well… yes, I suppose she did stay here. But only for a night or two. That was quite some time ago…”

His words trailed off as Tiberius approached from behind, laying a firm hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Fletcher Daring,” he said evenly. “I’ve heard you’re looking for someone named Jane King.”

Fletcher flinched, turning sharply. His eyes scanned Tiberius’s armor, his stature, then dropped to the insignia of the golden sun on his chest before rising again. He clutched his bulging bag tighter to his chest. “Ah—yes, that is, I am. You… wouldn’t happen to know where she is, would you?”

Tiberius didn’t answer right away. He simply motioned toward a round table in the far corner.

“Have a seat,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I do know where she is.”

Fletcher nearly collapsed into the chair, his relief palpable. “Oh, thank the Maker. It’s crucial that I see her—immediately. I don’t mean to sound dramatic, but I daresay the entire fate of Arcadia hinges on it.”

“Is that so?” Tiberius replied, voice calm, eyes narrowing as they dropped to the man’s tightly gripped satchel. “And why would that be?”

Fletcher stiffened. His eyes darted to the windows, to the innkeeper, to the door. “Why? Well, ah… that’s a rather long story. I wouldn’t want to bore you with the finer points. Now then, if you’d be so kind—where might I find the young woman? Time is of the essence.”

“We’ll get to that,” Tiberius said flatly. “First—what exactly do you have in that bag of yours?”

Fletcher’s gaze dropped involuntarily to the satchel. “This? Oh, err—nothing of consequence, I assure you. Just a few personal belongings…” He blinked rapidly, then added, “Forgive me, who are you again? Tiberius, was it? That’s not an Arcadian name. How exactly do you know Jane King?”

Tiberius made a curt gesture—two fingers raised toward the doorway. Rydor responded immediately. A moment later, soldiers filed in from the front and rear, sealing the tavern with practiced efficiency. The common room fell deathly silent.

Fletcher’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Oh… dear me.”

He looked around as armored figures encircled him, panic dancing behind his eyes. “This must be a mistake. I—I’m no one of importance. A humble messenger at best.”

Tiberius leaned in, resting his gloved hands on the table. “Right. A nobody, yet the fate of Arcadia rests on you finding Jane King. Let’s try again. Take whatever you’ve got in that bag… and put it on the table. Slowly.”

Fletcher’s head twitched toward the door, then the windows, as if willing an escape into existence. None came. He swallowed hard, the silence between heartbeats stretching out.

Finally, with a reluctant sigh, he undid the buckle of the bag. From within, he carefully lifted an ornate golden box, etched with sigils and prominent golden sun set in the center. He set it down in the center of the table with reverent care.

Tiberius raised a brow. Without a word, he activated General Identification. 

Nothing.

Fletcher raised both hands, palms out. “Now—please understand—it is critical this be delivered to Jane King.” His face reddened. “I hate to admit it, but… that dark cloud from the east? Entirely my fault.” He winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “If only I hadn’t lounged about in Grandia, enjoyed the luxuries of Chantel House, savored its delicacies…” His eyes went distant, then he blinked a few times. “Well, pah! No sense dwelling on it. What’s done is done. But this—” he gestured emphatically toward the box, “this is the answer. This is how the darkness can be ended.”

Tiberius gave a slow nod, eyes never leaving him, then reached out and drew the golden box across the table. A golden sun… curious. He tried the lid—no give. “It’s sealed. Is there a way to open it? A key?”

Fletcher shook his head quickly. “No key needed. Simply…” He hesitated, then extended a hand. “If I may…”

Tiberius allowed it with a slight nod.

Fletcher pressed his palm against the stylized sun at the center of the lid and rotated it with a series of careful clicks. A soft pop echoed as the mechanism disengaged.

“Ah,” Fletcher said, with something like reverence. “That should do it.”

Tiberius lifted the lid. Inside, nestled against a velvet lining, lay a gilded book—its cover smooth, hand-stitched, and marked with the same sun as the box itself. He tried using General Identification again. This time, it worked.

Reliquery of the Blood Reaper

A catalogue of information related to the Blood Reaper class, annotated by Victor Melkit.

Retrieving it carefully he began flipping through the pages, his brows furrowing as he skimmed detailed pages, notes, and elegant diagrams.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Lord Melkit?” Fletcher asked, tapping his fingers anxiously against the table. “From Grandia? No, no, I suppose not—if you’re from the south. Well then, allow me to assure you—he is not someone to trifle with.”

Tiberius said nothing, eyes still on the book.

“If he learns you have this, well…” Fletcher’s voice dropped. “Let’s just say I strongly advise either returning it to me or placing it in Jane King’s hands immediately. The man commands forces you wouldn’t believe—terrible, dark things that twist the boundaries of sanity, levels so high you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. If he suspects you’re involved…”

Tiberius let the man ramble, his attention fixed on the book’s contents. By Unity’s grace… Was this truly a comprehensive accounting of Lord Melkit’s abilities? Each skill listed in precise detail—functions, effects, and, most valuable of all, notes on their limitations. Marginalia scrawled in a distinct hand, sharp and analytical. Many notes were personal. 

How in Unity’s name did a man like this come to possess such a thing?

His heart pounded like a war drum beneath his armor, but outwardly he remained composed. Calm and controlled. The annotations left little doubt: Jane King had once been in direct contact with Lord Melkit himself. Possibly colluding from the start. But why? What purpose did this book serve, and why had it been meant for her?

Gareth never mentioned a book. Another piece to a puzzle I still don’t understand.

“…and how should I know how seriously he took his deliveries?” Fletcher huffed, still muttering beside him. “Have you ever tried sending a parcel from Grandia to Bolgrador? You’d be lucky if it got halfway! You’d think he could offer a touch of leniency!”

Tiberius closed the book gently, fingers lingering on the sun emblem set into the cover. He took a breath, steadying the storm in his chest. The details—the origin of the book, the timely arrival, the golden box and the sun crest—what did it mean? A message from Unity herself? Tiberius always tried to ground himself in the pragmatic realities of the world, but the System worked in mysterious ways, that much was undeniable. And with Jane King banished to the Netherrealm. Lord Melkit was the threat. The real threat. The dark undead abyss slowly swallowing the entire continent. And now, with this book, they might finally have the means to stand a chance.

Unity, grant me the strength to see this through.

He straightened, eyes steady, voice firm. “Thank you, Fletcher. This has been… most helpful.”