JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 44

A House of Cards

A deep fog crept across the abandoned farmland, curling low over the empty rows like fingers searching for something lost. Jane guided her Emerald Drake forward, attempting to see through the heavy mist. The Darkwing Skimmers were faintly visible, circling in the air above and ahead, forming a wide net of aerial reconnaissance.

This should be the border of the Mandala of Honor, she thought. So where’s the southern resistance?

No word of incoming forces. No sightings. No challenges. That silence was more unnerving than any battle cry.

Something felt wrong.

She glanced over her shoulder. Still no word from Findarius since he’d departed to deliver the bodies. Meanwhile, the Mandala of Honor’s armies had kept their distance—close enough to be seen, far enough to avoid engagement. Are they escorting us out? Or waiting to strike when we’re exposed?

The not-knowing gnawed at her.

Melindra appeared beside her, her expression taut with unease. “We should be careful. This feels… wrong.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Jane muttered.

Melindra nodded grimly. “The order has gone down the line. Yiw’drog and the other demons hauling supplies from the valley are pulling back, along with the Infiltrators up north. Soon, the entire horde will be consolidated here. But—”

“But that also means we’re at the end of our supply chain,” Jane finished for her. She let out a breath through her teeth. “This is it. The last push. No turning back.”

She spurred her drake forward, its clawed feet clambering over rows of dead crops, pushing through thick fog like a wall. In this visibility only the towering silhouettes of Balostroze and Ixcaralith pierced the gloom, their shapes ghostly above the haze.

“Veralaktus,” she called out, voice edged with wariness, “any reports from the Darkwing Skimmers yet?”

Silence hung for a beat.

Jane tightened her grip on the reins, eyes narrowing into the mist.

Something’s coming. I can feel it.

“Nothing,” Veralaktus reported, appearing through the haze, her voice unnervingly calm. “But the mist blocks all visibility to the surface. I will alert you the moment—” She stopped mid-sentence, eyes flaring wide.

“It appears,” she said slowly, “the Mandala of Honor has chosen battle. They are falling upon our rear guard.”

“What?” Jane spun. “Right now? We’re under attack?”

Veralaktus nodded once. “That is so. It would seem the humans are all too eager to face their inevitable demise.”

Her head tilted slightly, like a predator sensing motion. “Also… several Darkwing Skimmers have vanished ahead. They are no longer connected to the horde.”

“No longer—” Jane looked skyward just as a bolt of flame cut through the fog like a flare. “Pull them back. Now!”

She closed her eyes, taking a breath to steady herself. So it’s come to this.

Attacked from the north by the Mandala of Honor, and now, from the south, likely by the forces of Courage and Beauty. A textbook pincer. She had expected it—feared it—but now that it was happening, the sheer scale of the moment pressed down on her.

And with the Resonance of Courage eking them on, she thought grimly, they’ll fight to the last. No fear or bluffing this time.

The southern armies weren’t just soldiers. Most were slaves—forced into service, dragged into this war by their gold-masked Masters. We can’t just butcher them… There has to be another way.

Her eyes narrowed as she ran through options. I’ve got Minor Law. Its area was roughly a mile—enough to affect one front. But not both. And the horde? Ready and willing to engage in bloodthirsty combat. To survive, they would have to fight—but casualties would be heavy. For the humans at least.

There’s one other way…

Even the thought of it sent a chill through her bones. The memory of those three endless days judging Lord Renthin’s army near Bolgrador still haunted her dreams. The monotony. The never-ending judgements. But she did it once. She could do it again—this time with The Drawn Veil.

Her eyes snapped open. She turned to Melindra.

“Take over for me,” she ordered. “I’m going skyborne. I’ll… I’ll see you when it’s over.”

Melindra caught her arm. “Jane? When it’s over? What do you mean by that?”

But Jane was already focused on putting her plan in motion.

She triggered The Drawn Veil, and shot into the sky—soaring until the land shrank beneath her, the mist becoming a mere smear across the earth.

From above, she could see it all. The northern army, ranks tight, formations deliberate. Mandala of Honor troops advancing directly into her rear lines—right into the ranks of the newly freed slaves who had tagged along with her horde. They would face the brunt of it.

That’s not good.

She veered toward the northern front. Judging Mandala of Honor forces outright wouldn’t help—they weren't slaves awaiting rescue, and could very well be the equivalent of noble heroes. She might be forced to reward them. After all, they were only defending their realm.

This was a battle she couldn’t allow to be fought.

She focused, tuning her mind to the parameters of Minor Law. Enacting it in the same way as before she decided on creating a mandatory cease-fire zone.

Raising a hand, she invoked the words. 

“JUSTICE CANNOT EXIST WITHOUT LAW TO ENFORCE.”

The air trembled. A deep, resounding bass pulsing outward like a heartbeat beneath the world itself. Beams of crimson light erupted in the northern plains, forming a vast ring across the battlefield—the zone where the law would take hold.

LAW ENACTED: No fighting

VIOLATION: Punch

DURATION: 24:00:00

AREA: 1 mi²

That’s the northern front handled—hope you rack up a ton of experience, Gral’gor, Jane thought grimly, casting one last glance behind her before turning her attention to the south.

The mist there was still thick, roiling like smoke in a forest fire. Bolts of magic and lances of light erupted upward from below, arcing toward the demon horde—but the enemy forces themselves remained hidden. From this altitude, she couldn’t make any of them out clearly.

What she could see was her own army.

The demons moved in perfect synchronicity, entire formations shifting with uncanny precision. Lines formed, flanks rotated, gaps filled—all with seamless timing. The Soul Binding made it effortless; commands didn’t need to be shouted. They felt them, and they moved.

It was mesmerizing.

Still, Jane’s gut churned. The coordinated assault, the timing, the silence—it all pointed to a larger strategy. The Mandalas are working together, she realized. Courage. Beauty. Honor. No way this was a coincidence.

But it didn’t matter now. Not really. Despite how it seemed, everything she was doing was for them. To prevent their total annihilation.

And she needed to act—fast. Every second that passed risked more death. The demons had orders to defend themselves at all costs. And most of those soldiers charging through the fog? Slaves. Forced into this fight against their will.

She clenched her fists.

No more bodies. Not if I can help it.

With a flicker of effort, she activated her Mantle of Retribution and Lashings of Penance, the powerful skills humming to life. Her breath slowed. Her vision sharpened.

I’ll judge them all, she thought, gaze steeled as she dove south into the mist.

Every last one of them.

***

Devri Opbra waited, tense and silent, for the telltale vibration of footsteps overhead. Buried beneath the ground, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with the other warriors of the Red Heart slave corps, he could hear nothing but the shallow, uneven breaths of the men beside him—some whispering prayers, others barely suppressing their whimpers. A flicker of nausea churned in his gut before he forced it down, steadying himself. Now, more than ever, he needed the melody of Courage to anchor his resolve.

The Masters had spoken of demons—nightmarish horrors made flesh—sweeping south across the land, butchering everything in their path. Devri bit down on his rising panic. Life as a slave was a grim gift, but still life, and he meant to keep it. But on the frontlines, hope was hard to grasp. At least the Mandalas of Courage and Beauty were united in this cause, and with word that even the Mandala of Honor had joined the fray—perhaps all was not lost.

He exhaled slowly and tried to convince himself this battle was no different than the rest. The Red Hearts have survived worse—haven’t we? Among slaves, death was always close; the only certainty was that deserters died first, cut down before they could even turn. In the Mandala of Courage, cowardice was a death sentence.

A deep tremor passed through the soil. “Won’t be long now,” someone hissed down the line. “Get ready.”

Devri clenched the hilt of his sword tighter. The element of surprise was their only edge, and he intended to wring every advantage from it. Peering through the narrow slats overhead, he saw the mist curling across the field, pale and lazy like drifting smoke. As soon as a shadow passes overhead, I’ll—

The thought shattered. In a single, violent motion, something yanked him skyward—through the slats, through the veil of mist, up into open air. His arms were pinned to his sides, caught in something unyielding. Panic surged. He struggled, heart pounding, but the coiling grip held firm. Around him, the other Red Hearts were rising too, snatched from the earth like dolls, suspended above the ground in eerie silence. Their eyes, wide with terror, mirrored his own growing horror. What is this? What’s happening to us?

And there—before him—floated a figure as impossible as the force that had ripped him from the ground. A woman, or something like one, clad in an armored robe that shimmered like polished steel. Twin wings of metal extended behind her, rigid and motionless, yet exuding a presence that made the air itself feel heavier. Her eyes were blindfolded, wrapped in layers of gray cloth, but somehow, impossibly, she stared straight at him. Devri’s stomach twisted. Time itself seemed to pause, stretched thin around the weight of that gaze.

Then, with the subtle grace of a puppet shifting on invisible strings, her head tilted and one arm rose—not toward him, but toward the man to his right. A beam of pure white light burst forth from it, swallowing the stunned soldier in a blinding radiance. Another twitch, sharper this time. Her head and arm snapped to a new angle—another man, another light, but black now. On and on she moved, faster with each breathless beat, blinking from one posture to the next, twitching like a hawk searching for prey. Just as Devri thought she couldn’t move any faster, the hand stopped—on him. A single second passed, gentle as the tick of fate.

Then, silence.

He was no longer on the battlefield. No screaming. No sky. Just… elsewhere.

He stood in a field between rows of crops. Before him was a collared boy, no older than seven, small and thin, his eyes scanning the horizon with furtive intent. Devri turned instinctively—and flinched. Behind him hovered the woman, her feet just inches above the earth, still blindfolded, still watching.

His head snapped back to the child. Something about the boy tugged at his memory. The shape of his jaw, the look in his eye. Is that… me?

The boy crept forward, slipping through a crack in an overgrown field wall, pushing aside brush to reveal a narrow hollow. He slipped inside, and in the next breath, Devri was there too, the world shifting around him. A girl lay nestled in the crevice, half-buried in leaves and dirt. Her face was drawn and gaunt, her collar shattered beside her, next to several sharp rocks. Her eyes, glassy and dim, barely managed to meet the boy’s.

Devri’s breath caught. Mari. Maker preserve me—Mari. He reached for his class skills, tried to trigger General Identification, but nothing happened. The System was silent.

The boy pulled a small chunk of stale bread from his pocket and carefully broke off a piece, pressing it to the girl’s lips. She looked even smaller than Devri remembered, her frame fragile, skeletal. He tried to speak—tried to call out to them—but his voice made no sound. Not even a whisper. Powerless, he watched as the girl took a final, rattling breath. Her chest stilled. The boy shook her gently, then harder, then began to scream—but no sound came from him either.

Devri stumbled back, heart thundering in his ears. His eyes searched wildly for anyone, anything. And then—she was there. The woman. Unmoving. Hovering. Her blank, covered eyes fixed on the grim sight.

Help her! he mouthed, his voice stolen, tears slipping freely down his cheeks.

But the woman said nothing.

And in the next instant, everything shifted again. He was somewhere else.

Above a battlefield. Devri flinched instinctively as a blade sliced cleanly through his neck, the steel singing through the air, only to pass through without resistance. He turned and saw the source: a younger version of himself, locked in a desperate, close-quarters struggle. Beside him fought another young man, their backs pressed together as they faced off against six armored spearmen of the Mandala of Honor. Devri tried to look away—he remembered this moment all too well—but his gaze refused to obey. He was trapped in the memory, reliving it in perfect clarity.

One of the spearmen lunged. The tip of the spear barely grazed his younger self’s stomach, a shallow cut, hardly a threat. But the young man fell as if struck by death itself, dropping to the earth and curling inward in mock death throes. His eyes clenched shut, he hadn’t seen what came next—not then. He only heard the screams. But this time, the vision didn’t spare him. Devri’s teeth clenched as he was forced to watch the six spearmen turn on his friend, their weapons rising and falling in savage rhythm, ending his  life in an instant.

It struck him then with cold finality. I’ve died.

Whatever battle he had just been part of was over, and this—this was his reckoning. Ripping through a torrent of memories, each moment unspooling with brutal honesty. There was no shielding his eyes, no lying to himself. Every choice, every failure, every sin and selfless act paraded before him like ghosts called to testify. Behind him, unseen but ever-present, he felt the silent weight of the woman, the arbiter, watching. Measuring.

A weary sigh escaped him. So… it’s finally over. A strange relief followed. The constant scrounging for scraps, the lash of a Master’s whip, the endless will to survive—all of it was behind him. And perhaps, if the Maker deemed him worthy, he would see Mari again. That thought alone warmed him, if only for a heartbeat.

The memories slowed. His life, it seemed, had finished playing its final notes. He turned to face her—to accept whatever judgment the harbinger would pass. Let the cards fall where they may, he thought with grim solidarity.

But there was no judgment, no deliverance.

Instead, a burst of blinding light. Power surged through him. He gasped and snapped his eyes open as the roar of battle slammed back into his ears. Chaos surrounded him—screams, metal, fire. His entire body was engulfed in a white radiance, and then, as quickly as it had come, it vanished. The blindfolded woman was gone.

He tumbled from the air, slamming into the ground with a thud, a spray of warm earth cushioning his fall. Dazed and aching, Devri groaned and pushed himself up onto shaking knees, heart pounding. What just happened?

Fumbling for answers, he brought up his logs.

Devri Opbra (Level 42) has gained +20 to Strength, Agility and Constitution!

Devri Opbra is Light Judged!

A strange pressure throbbed against his brow. Devri lifted a trembling hand and touched his forehead, feeling the outline of a shallow, circular indentation pressed into his skin. Something had happened—something profound—but what?

Around him, others from his division knelt or lay sprawled in the dirt, their expressions vacant. Some, like him, stared ahead in a daze. Others didn’t move at all. The battlefield had fallen into an eerie quiet, the mist curling low and thick across the broken farmlands. Then, from within that fog, shapes began to emerge—tall, hulking silhouettes cutting through the haze with impossible grace. The… demons? He blinked, his limbs still too leaden to rise, thoughts too fractured to piece together any semblance of resistance.

Am I alive… or dead?

He didn’t know. Everything felt dreamlike, suspended between one world and the next.

One of the hulking beasts strode past, its form towering and alien. Without pause, it reached down and grabbed Devri by the neck. He didn’t resist—couldn’t. A split second later, he heard the sharp crack of metal; his slave collar crumbling to ash against his skin. The demon moved on, offering no words, no glance, as if his liberation were an afterthought.

Devri collapsed to his knees, numb. The world spun slowly around him, unreal and ethereal. His thoughts were drawn again to the woman—the being that had floated above the battlefield, then walked with him through his memories, silent and watching. Who was she? What was she? Where had she gone?

His voice cracked as he shouted to the empty sky. “Did I pass the test? Was I worthy?”

No answer came. The mist rolled on. The battlefield remained silent, save for the distant echoes of steel and suffering. Whatever judgment had been passed, it had already come and gone, leaving him behind to wonder.