JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 46

Tidal Wave of Wrath

Gral’gor moved steadily through the fog, the cool mist trailing across his smooth skin like the gentle touch of ghostly fingers. Each stride took him past rows of withered crops, their dead leaves crunching beneath his bare feet. Scattered among the furrows were the shattered forms of human soldiers, their limbs twisted in horror or disbelief. One man clutched at his own hands, frozen in shock at their shriveled state; another lay sprawled beside the broken shards of a slave collar, fingers clawing through the jagged remains as if unsure whether to believe it was real.

A piercing shriek sliced through the sky, and Gral’gor’s gaze lifted instinctively. Jane King—her Voice of Truth skill reverberating across the battlefield like a blade of sound. He did not pause. To his left, a group of Tormentors moved in lockstep, their bulky forms half-shrouded by the mist. The resistance so far had been laughably weak, barely a shadow compared to past battles he had fought.

Strange, he mused. Not long ago, in the days with Vexmor and Jane's other demons, he had been essential—central to every hard-won victory. But now? Now, he was a single thread woven into a far grander tapestry, no longer the keystone, but a refined piece in a machine that no longer needed him to shoulder the brunt.

Cardvas Jinpor (Level 43) has broken a law: No fighting

Violation: Punch

Will you enforce the judgement?

Around him, the world slowed to a near standstill as the Qurl’a Kai awaited his response. Time itself—bent and subdued beneath the synergy of Jane King’s Minor Law skill and his own Executioner class—hung suspended like a held breath. He had never heard of such an interaction, this strange alchemy between classes, let alone races, but he set the curiosity aside for now. One peculiar side effect: the perception of time within the skill’s effect dulled to the point of imperceptibility. Not quite frozen, but close enough. It gave him what he rarely had—moments to think. To contemplate. To meditate not only on the failures behind him but the formidable paths that lay ahead.

So, he had made a choice. With each judgment request from the Qurl’a Kai, he would take the equivalent of a day—an entire day in stillness and reflection—before rendering his decision. Given the weight of recent events, that pace felt not only appropriate, but necessary. So much had changed, so quickly, that even this illusion of slowness brought an odd sense of relief.

This time, his thoughts turned toward Jane King—an anomaly in every sense. Not born of Alur, but manifested here. A traveler from another world entirely, or so she claimed. But where is this other world, this realm without the Qurl’a Kai? He had always believed his kind—the demons—originated from the Netherrealm, a place of perpetual hardship. Now he knew the truth: the demons had been deliberately imprisoned there, and the Netherrealm itself was a physical location in this reality. It was tangible, visible, hanging eternally above them, the moon of Alur—shining with purple intensity nearly every single night. The implications had shaken him to the core. He had spent several days grappling with that realization alone. But now wasn’t the time for those musings. He forced his mind back to the matter at hand: Jane King.

She appeared in the Dying Desert, perhaps the only place more inhospitable than the Netherrealm itself. And there, against all logic, she was given the chance to assign her own stats. Unthinkable for demons and humans alike. Strength might have granted her the power to face its beasts. Agility could have offered a faster escape. Constitution—the stamina to endure starvation and thirst. Intelligence, the wit to devise a survival plan. But no—she chose Luck. Not partially, not hesitantly—but every single point, poured into that one intangible attribute.

And yet, absurd as it seems, that choice may have saved her life. Surviving an encounter with the Demon Lord Ur was beyond improbable. No freshly classed level-five human should have stood a chance, even with a Legendary class. But Luck—human Luck—scaled differently. It didn’t fight for her, didn’t shield her. It tilted the world itself. Made the impossible just barely possible.

So then, this sequence—her arrival, her location, the gift of stat assignment—can it be attributed to mere coincidence? The Qurl’a Kai had chosen her, placed her in the desert, given her freedom to define herself. And she had made decisions that unraveled the fate of demons, humans, elves, dragonkin and Alur itself. No, it is not random. It can't be. There is intention behind it. A force at work. A reason.

Yes, he thought, his gaze turning inward as the frozen world waited. A worthy matter for deep consideration indeed.

He settled into his ritual, letting thought flow without interruption. The message from the Qurl’a Kai remained suspended in the air before him, patient and still. With measured precision, he began his review—poking, prodding, testing each theory, chasing every thread of logic and intuition surrounding the enigma of Jane King and the mystery of her arrival in a world not her own.

***

With a thunderous crash, Boli Thunder Mallet brought his enormous hammer down, obliterating a catapult hidden behind a thicket of bound crops. Splinters of wood and iron shot outward in all directions, and the fog blanketing the field peeled back in a rippling wave from the force of the impact. He straightened, gaze sharpening as he surveyed the field. The battle had already passed through here—what remained was ruin. Twisted armor, mangled limbs, and the withered remnants of yet another squadron, just like all the others. Beside him, Yin offered a shrug and pressed forward without a word.

Then the shriek came.

It knifed through the air like a banshee’s wail, so raw and sharp that Boli flinched. Jane King. He couldn’t discern the words this time—only the sound, stretched thin by distance and wind, echoing through the fog. Somehow, that made it worse. More unnatural. This place already felt like something out of his nightmares, crawling with enraged demons, frantic slave warriors, and something far beyond what the word woman—let alone human—could begin to define.

“You really know how to pick ’em,” Boli muttered, trying to catch sight of Yin’s silhouette ahead. Then something gripped his ankle.

“Was I worthy? Did… did I make the right choices?”

His heart lurched. He looked down and found a gaunt, shriveled man sprawled in the dirt, skin sagging from a once-powerful frame, now wasted to bone and sinew. The man’s eyes locked onto his, hollow and desperate, searching for an answer Boli didn’t have. With a shudder, Boli yanked his leg free and moved on. Maker preserve me… He glanced at his hammer, its reassuring weight suddenly diminished in a battlefield warped by the power of Legendary-class skills.

Yin was now a flicker ahead, barely visible in the gloom. Boli quickened his pace. Red flashes pulsed through the mist, turning the world into a churning sea of violet and rose-tinted gray. Then came the cold—sharp and unnatural. Frost crept across the hairs on his forearms, the very air crystallizing into fine, hanging icicles.

“Yin?!” he called, though he already knew. Ice Weaver skills. Yin had unleashed them.

The fog thinned, swept into swirling crystal by the freezing aura, and through the veil, Boli spotted a golden-masked Master flanked by nearly a hundred armored soldiers. The Master’s head twitched as if caught in the grip of conflicting thoughts, then his arm shot forward, issuing silent commands with mechanical precision.

And there—at the center of it all—stood Yin. His face was lit with fury, arms raised in defiance like a storm given human shape. The battle he had longed for—the chance for vengeance finally here.

Here we go… Boli tightened his grip on the mallet and scanned the haze for signs of backup. But the fog clung tight, and what demon reinforcements might lie beyond were hidden, swallowed by the ever-churning gray. For now, they were alone.

The Master flicked a hand, and from the swirling fog behind him emerged a green-winged drake—sleek, sharp-scaled, and unlike anything Boli had seen before. It loosed a guttural roar and surged into the sky, wings cutting the air like blades. “Companion,” Boli muttered, snorting. He’d seen worse in the northern wilds.

As the beast dove toward Yin, Boli charged. He swung his mallet with the weight of a boulder, triggering Thunderous Impact. For a heartbeat, the weapon became impossibly heavy—he almost lost it. But only for a moment. The instant it connected, the force of the heavens crashed down with it. A resounding boom tore through the fog, and the drake was hurled sideways, vanishing into the mist with a shriek of protest.

Yin didn’t glance back. After so many battles, their rhythm was near instinct. As the soldiers advanced, the earth beneath them slicked into ice just as the air erupted—icicles launching in a deadly storm, skewering some, sending others sprawling. The formation faltered.

A path opened.

Yin raised his arm, and the moisture around him began to spiral inward, rings of frost forming in the air. In moments, they coalesced into a jagged icicle nearly twice his size, pulsing with lethal intent. The very air seemed to retreat, sucked dry as the weapon condensed into its final, gleaming form. For a silent moment, it hovered. Then, with a flick of his wrist, Yin unleashed it.

But it never struck.

Before the icy spear could reach its mark, the ground beneath the Master exploded. Nearly a hundred tentacles erupted in a writhing surge, lashing out like a kraken summoned from the depths. They seized the Master and his men in a single, horrifying motion—lifting them skyward, limbs flailing in silent panic.

Boli stumbled back, breath caught in his throat. His gaze turned upward. By the Maker… there she is.

Floating above the battlefield like a revenant torn from the tales of old, she hovered—Jane King. Her steel wings hung motionless, catching no wind. Her gray armored robe drifted softly around her, her eyes veiled, her face carved into a mask of distant judgment. Then her arm flicked—fast, nearly imperceptible—and streaks of red, black, and white tore through the air, lancing into the trapped soldiers like divine punishment.

A second later, the tentacles vanished.

And so did she—gone into the fog without a sound, without a trace.

Bodies crashed to the ground in her wake. Boli staggered forward, scanning the carnage, the groaning wreckage of men and steel. But of the Master, there was no sign. Only the golden mask remained, dislodged and half-buried in the ice, staring skyward like a relic from a war already lost.

***

Balostroze advanced on all six legs, each thunderous step crushing debris and flesh alike as he carved a brutal path through the battlefield. The devastation behind Jane King stretched in all directions—ruined formations, smoldering remnants, and soldiers too broken to stand. The order had been clear: avoid unnecessary deaths. A curious restraint, but one he honored. 

A spike of panic pulled at him, and his gaze whipped left. In a flash, he hurled a dark spear across the field. It spun through the air with a shriek, severing the leg of a bulky human who had nearly overpowered one of the struggling Hellguards. The demon fell back, spared by a margin. Balostroze extended a clawed hand, and with a shimmer of shadow, the spear blinked back into his grasp.

This resistance—whether human or dragonkin—was beneath him. Inconsequential, save for the discipline it demanded. Control. Precision. Restraint. Just as the Netherrealm had bent its knee to Jane King, so too would this land fall under her dominion. Some would simply require... firmer persuasion. Not that any foe here offered him much of a challenge. Still, it served a purpose. These skirmishes were another proving ground for the lower demons, a crucible in which they could hone the edges of their power.

He lifted his gaze to the sky.

There—soaring overhead in a streak of black smoke—was the young Voidwalker, Ur. The newly reborn version, fierce and agile, dove toward the fray with reckless energy that stirred a flicker of envy in Balostroze’s chest.

Old friend... if only you could see yourself now.

The former Demon Lord Ur’s dreams of demonkind’s conquest had, in a way, been realized—but not by his own hand. He had failed once more in the attempt. Balostroze hadn’t witnessed the moment the tide turned—the infamous duel between Jane King and Ur—but the aftermath was undeniable. She had crushed him, seized control of the horde, and in doing so, shattered the old hierarchy. In its place rose something far more terrifying. Far more effective.

Perhaps that was always meant to be the path. One aspirant falls, so that another more worthy might rise. And rise she had—unstoppable, unyielding, and utterly magnificent in her dominance. With every Mandala she crushed beneath her heel, every skill that reshaped the very fabric of existence, she proved herself worthy of the throne Ur had only dared imagine.

A piercing scream ripped through the fog, sharp and sudden, tearing Balostroze from his thoughts. It echoed across the battlefield like a warhorn from the depths. As if in answer, a surge of nearly a hundred humans erupted from the ground, their cries wild, their blades raised and ready.

Balostroze arched a brow, unimpressed. Through the Soul Binding, he sent the command to the Hellguards and Tormentors scattered across the field: Subdue. Do not kill.

As chaos unfolded, he stood motionless, watching from a rise in the terrain. Every strike, every clash of steel was a performance—and he was the evaluator. He judged each combatant with cold precision, marking those with potential for more refined tasks or deadlier campaigns ahead.

A flicker of movement drew his eye. To his left, Veralaktus the Energy Weaver emerged from the fog, her steps unnaturally smooth, robes gliding above the churned soil.

“Do not allow any of the mistress’s future minions to be destroyed,” she said without greeting, her tone clipped and practiced.

Balostroze grunted, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. Veralaktus had grown bolder ever since her strategy to clear the Mandala of Wisdom had earned Jane King’s approval. Now she was emboldened even further, intoxicated with her own rising influence.

“That is no concern of yours,” he replied coolly. “The horde is—and always will be—managed with the same care and control it has known—under my command.”

Veralaktus offered a delicate sniff, gaze drifting to the skirmish below. “The mistress demands perfection,” she said. “Whatever the former demon lord would have tolerated, she will not. If you are not up to the task, rest assured—Jane King will find someone who is. Perhaps she already has.”

Balostroze said nothing. He simply turned and moved forward, the mist parting around him like a living thing. Her words clung to him like frost. Up to the task…

Ahead, two gold-masked dragonkin stood near the edge of the battle, their gloved hands blazing with arcane fire as they launched arcing pillars of flame skyward—signals or defiance, he couldn’t be sure. He narrowed his eyes and extended a clawed hand, invoking Needles of Oblivion. Small holes appeared across his body and a swarm of his Companions exploded forth, streaking through the fog with bone-chilling silence.

They struck as one.

The dragonkin pair twitched and shuddered beneath a tide of deadly strikes, impaled a hundred times over in a blur. Balostroze watched and waited until the last of the needles finished their work and returned inside him. The command had been not to kill—and he had obeyed. Technically.

Jane King hadn’t said how much Health to leave them with.

A single point will do.