JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 47

Ends of the Mist

Nyxor’s legs trembled as he stumbled through the fog, trailing behind the relentless Cull who led them forward. The mist clung to his robes, thick as wool and cold as his blood ran. Behind him, Fascia prodded him onward with silent insistence.

“This is surely far enough, isn’t it?” he muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear. “The Courage clan commanders said the battle is already underway—if that’s true, then we’ve reached the demons already.”

Dyle glanced back, just slightly. “Until I see demons, you’re coming with me.”

Nyxor shivered. Off to the left, barely visible through the haze, rows of Cull soldiers stretched into the fog like shadows made solid, their weapons and armor slick with moisture, catching faint glints of ghostly light. The Resonance of Courage pulsed invisibly around them—an ambient melody threading through the air, seductive and insistent, whispering to his instincts, drawing him toward its rhythm.

He shut his eyes tight and whispered a calming mantra, struggling to steady his breath and resist the call.

Way of quiet mind,

Fortitude in stillness grows,

Peaceful thoughts abide.

The Resonance of Fortitude within Nyxor solidified—crystalizing like a shield around his very being. It didn’t project outward to influence others, not in this focused state, but it dulled the pull of Courage to a distant, harmless whisper. He said a silent prayer to the Elders who had drilled the technique into him so thoroughly. The invasive melody could no longer touch him. 

Around him, however, the same could not be said. Many of the Cull soldiers were visibly struggling to attune. Nyxor saw several flinch, grimacing in discomfort, hands darting to their temples as the discordance dug into their minds.

It was a sad sight to see. Forcing someone to embrace a Resonance against their will was a cruel act—something he and Fascia had witnessed firsthand during their time travelling through the southern lands. It was a practice alien to the teachings of the Mandala of Fortitude, where acceptance was nurtured, not demanded.

“You there. What are you doing out of formation?”

A voice rang out, sharp and authoritative. A broad-shouldered Cull clad in burnished bronze armor stepped from the mist, blocking their path. His eyes locked on Dyle with suspicion. “What division are you with?”

Dyle gave a withering glance over his shoulder—just enough to signal his irritation—before Fascia stepped forward, robes swaying as she moved to intercept.

“Stand down,” she said coldly. “He has his orders.”

The moment the soldier saw her golden mask and ceremonial garb, his entire bearing changed. He snapped to attention, head bowed. “Apologies, Master. I… I didn’t see you in this blasted mist.”

They moved on without another word, disappearing deeper into the fog.

Ahead, flashes of eerie light danced through the gloom, and a piercing, unnatural shriek echoed across the field. Nyxor winced, teeth clenched. He fixed his gaze on Dyle’s silhouette and pressed forward, breath shallow, nerves tight.

If they truly found the demons… how much time would he and Fascia have to run?

***

Amidst the growing chaos of the supposed demonic invasion, Dyle scanned the mist, searching for any sure sign that the rumors were true. It sounded true—distant shrieks, the rhythmic pulse of battle—but he’d trust his own eyes before drawing conclusions. Whoever’s leading this invasion is doing a far better job than the Faceless Dark, he thought, shaking his head. Then again, this strange continent lacked the Great Barrier that had once held the tide at bay in Arcadia.

Nyxor and Fascia had mentioned a labyrinth in the north, some kind of ancient construct meant to contain the demons. Didn’t seem to have done them much good, he mused.

Behind him, the two dragonkin struggled to keep pace. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He could feel their fear—of him, even more so than the demons. Years of service under Lord Tygal had hardened his voice, honed his demeanor into something cold, commanding… lethal. That edge had only grown sharper the longer his search for Jane stretched on.

I’ll find you, he vowed silently, no matter where you’ve gone, no matter what needs to be done.

But even as he thought it, the goal seemed more distant than ever. He had searched Arcadia and the Providencia from end to end with no result. Not a trace of a Demonologist. His expedition into the continent of Kaldara had been worse: a strange land of alien customs, rituals, and chaos, where he’d learned a harsh truth. Demonologists no longer even existed. The class had vanished. He’d nearly abandoned hope altogether.

And then came word of the northern invasion.

To think I’d be grateful for a demon onslaught, he thought dryly. Absurd. But it had given him a direction. Still, he wouldn’t be fighting the demons. Not until he knew how they had come to Alur. And if they had arrived through a portal, he needed to find it—and whoever controlled it.

The ground trembled beneath his boots. The clash of steel and screams grew louder. He tensed, eyes narrowing into the haze. Shapes took form—slumped soldiers, twitching bodies, scattered gear soaked in dew and blood.

He looked down. A man lay at his feet, riddled with wounds—bloodless holes punched clean through his armor and flesh, as if by something too fast, too sharp, to be seen.

Hoy Tangrow (Level 33)

Human

By the Maker… still alive? Dyle recoiled, staring down at the ruined man before him. How is that even possible? The thought of putting him out of his misery flickered through his mind—briefly. But as his gaze swept across the field, he saw dozens more in the same state: mangled, pierced, trembling—alive, but only barely. This wasn’t a battlefield. It was a graveyard waiting for its final breath.

No. There's no time for mercy.

Whoever commanded this horde had turned slaughter into art. If he hoped to negotiate with such a being—if negotiation was even possible—it would demand every ounce of cunning, skill, and restraint he had left. And he could only pray it would be enough.

He took another step forward, eyes narrowing. Something was coming above the mist—the hairs on his arm pricked in warning. Instinct surged. He reached for Vanish, muscles coiled, ready to strike—

But he never got the chance.

A sudden force struck like a vice, wrenching him upward in an instant. The fog fell away beneath him, and light—brilliant, golden, almost divine—poured around the dark figure now hovering before him.

He gasped, eyes wide, breath stolen as a beam of light flashed across its face. Her face.

No… it can’t be…

The sun crowned the statuesque figure like a halo, casting her in shadow and brilliance all at once. His arms strained, bound tight by lashing coils of force. He blinked hard, trying to make sense of what he saw, but deep down he already knew.

Jane King (Level 144)

Human

It was her.

But… different.

She hovered in ominous silence, draped in shadow and light, yet changed in ways Dyle couldn’t fully grasp. Wings? When did she get wings? Sleek and metallic, they hung suspended behind her like blades forged from the smithy of a master craftsman. And there was something else—something colder. Icy and vast. Even through the blindfold veiling her eyes, he felt her gaze pierce him like a bolt of lightning.

No smile. No flicker of recognition. Just raw merciless judgment.

She moved.

Her arm flicked forward—so fast it blurred, faster than any bird’s wingbeat. From her fingertips, bolts of searing light arced past him, striking the dragonkin behind with unerring precision. Screams rose, then fell silent.

Then her hand turned toward him.

A crushing dread seized his chest. It wasn’t fear. It was certainty. The weight of an executioner’s verdict, already passed.

“Jane, wait!” he called out, desperate, pleading, struggling helplessly against the tightening lashes.

But there was no reply. No sign of recognition.

His search, and perhaps more than that, had reached its final chapter.