JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 39

Passage

Watching the duel unfold from a distant rise, Jane clicked her tongue as Balostroze finished the dragonkin champion with ruthless efficiency. That was fast. She had to admit, she’d expected more of a challenge. The dragonkin of Alur were certainly stronger than the average human—faster, tougher, higher level—but still nowhere near the caliber of the more ancient demons from the Netherrealm.

Balostroze and Gral’gor had both seen nearly a thousand years of constant war. That kind of experience couldn’t be trained for, replicated, or reasoned with. No matter how noble or well-armored the dragonkin were, they simply weren’t built to match demons like them in raw combat.

The only real danger, she reminded herself, would be another Legendary class holder. But so far, there hadn’t been the slightest sign of one on this continent. No strange anomalies, no ominous signs, not even rumors. Unless one was deliberately in hiding, Legendary class skills weren't exactly subtle.

“Hope he had fun,” Jane muttered to no one in particular. Balostroze certainly enjoyed theatrics. But the real question now was: Would this trial by combat mean anything? Would it secure her army safe passage… or had it just been ceremonial posturing before the start of a grander battle?

In the distance, she spotted movement—Balostroze returning at a steady pace, accompanied by three mounted figures.

“Well,” she said, brushing back a loose strand of hair, “let’s see what the result of all of this is.”

A few minutes later, the group crested the ridge and approached. Two masked dragonkin rode at the front, with a human trailing just behind them. Slung over one of the horses was the unconscious—or perhaps merely incapacitated—form of the arcanite-armored champion. Valrathian—if Ristharak was to be believed.

Jane gave the newcomers a once-over, her eyes flaring briefly as she activated her Piercing Gaze. The two dragonkin clocked in around level one hundred fifty and Rare classes—nothing to scoff at, but nothing extraordinary either. Their Fun Facts were the usual blend of System-spewed sarcastic jabs about how they probably ironed their banners more often than their clothes and were more stuffy than a build-a-bear.

However, the human with them was another story.

Something about him pricked her interest—was he a servant? His bearing didn’t indicate it. 

And just who are you? she wondered before bringing up his System details.

Findarius (Level 132)

Human

Class: Doctor (Rare)

Strength: 31

Agility: 28

Constitution: 67

Intelligence: 301

Luck: 6

Health: 670/670

Fun Fact:

Findarius started life the way most humans in Kaldara do—under the lash. Then came an unexpected adventure. Like a cheesy ‘80s coming-of-age flick packed with corny one-liners and obligatory life lessons, he threw his hand onto the pile and joined eight others on a quest so long and outrageous, Hollywood would’ve had to recast halfway through. Now he’s part of something bigger—something that starts with a capital H!

Jane’s eyes lit up the moment she finished the details. A Doctor—finally! She had been quietly searching for one since they’d first arrived on Alur. Melindra’s skin still bore the marks of the Netherrealm—acid burns etched deep into her flesh, missing hair along the scalp. Jane had held onto hope that someone on this continent might be able to help. Maybe, just maybe, that hope had arrived.

First things first, though.

“Heyo,” she called out, stepping forward with an awkward wave. “You guys from the Mandala of Honor?”

The three newcomers exchanged puzzled glances before dismounting. One of the masked dragonkin stepped forward—a tall figure named Karavak, according to his details.

“Are… you the leader of these… demons?” he asked, with confusion.

Jane nodded. “Uh, yup. That’s me.” She scratched at her neck. “So… are you the guy I’m supposed to talk to, or is that the guy?” She gestured to the unconscious Valrathian, still draped over the back of a horse. “Balostroze knocked him out, so… is that it? Trial’s over? No more fighting?”

She glanced sideways at Melindra, suddenly very aware of how out of her depth she was. Diplomacy wasn’t really her strong suit—unless that diplomacy involved crushing the opposing party into submission with pure power.

Thankfully, Melindra stepped in like a blade through silk.

“Karavak,” the red sorceress said smoothly, striding forward, “I am Melindra. Our forces hail from beyond the Green Sea. We seek only to pass through your lands, not to conquer them. Whatever history exists between your kind and the demons of old—it has no bearing on our purpose here.”

Her voice was calm but firm.

“We wish to travel south, to the Dirthian city of Integra. That is our only goal. Are you open to negotiations?”

Karavak hesitated, lifting a gloved hand to his masked face. “South, you say? Then… you don’t intend to war with the Mandalas?”

His gaze shifted—past Jane, past Melindra—and landed on Ristharak standing quietly in the background. His voice dropped.

“Is that… Ristharak?! From the Mandala of Power?”

“Yes,” Melindra said without hesitation. “And understand this—our objective is imperative. If you choose to block our path, we will move forward. Any who stand in our way will meet the same fate as those from the Mandalas of Power and Humility. What you see here is but a fraction of Jane King’s legions.”

She stepped forward slightly. “So I ask again. Are you open to negotiation?”

Karavak looked momentarily shellshocked, but gathered himself quickly. “That is not a decision I can make alone,” he said. “However… you accepted Valrathian’s challenge—and that alone speaks volumes. The duel was never about winning or losing. It was a test of character and quality.”

He turned to his companions. “Let me consult with my comrades… and, if the Maker wills it—and Findarius’s skills are sufficient—with Valrathian himself.”

Melindra inclined her head, then turned to Jane.

“Oh, yeah. Right. Sure,” Jane said quickly. “Take whatever time you need.”

She waved a hand at Veralaktus. “Give them some room, would you?”

The demons shifted as one, parting to create a wide circle. Jane watched as the dragonkin gently lowered Valrathian to the ground. The human—Findarius—immediately knelt beside him and began his work.

Jane turned to Melindra with a sigh. “Thanks. I… don’t think I’m really cut out for this leadership stuff.”

Melindra gave a small, knowing smile. “It takes time. You are young. No one is born a leader—and even if they are, it does not mean they are a good one.”

Jane nodded slowly. “Well. I’ll probably need all the help you can give.”

“You will have it,” Melindra replied, her tone unwavering.

***

Jane paced restlessly, boots kicking up dust as she turned and retraced her steps again and again. Every part of her screamed to move—do something—to push the horde south and not waste another minute. She spun mid-step, clutching at her arms as names swirled through her mind: Mint, Eli’va, Gareth… Still alive. For now.

Her thoughts flicked to Dyle. His location still pinged somewhere to the south—but that was cold comfort, even more worrying. Maybe my Luck can’t track him when he’s using those Illusion Weaver skills, she thought, chewing her lip. Please let it be that—and not something worse. A stubborn part of her still clung to the hope that he was close, just one heartbeat away. So far, though, that hadn't been the case.

Forcing herself to refocus, she shifted her thoughts back to the present. If the Mandala of Honor allowed safe passage, it would be a monumental win. Not only would they avoid needless bloodshed, but their vital supply line—stretching all the way back through the northern wilds—would have a huge chunk of the path secured. No constant skirmishes. No attrition. Just forward movement.

She turned to Veralaktus, standing silent at her side. “Any word from Yiw’drog? Are they running into trouble back north?”

Veralaktus shook her head. “All proceeds as expected. Crakkis and the other Infiltrators have submitted scattered reports. Their efforts to redirect the attention of the Mandalas of Power and Humility appear to be meeting with modest success. For now.”

“Good, good,” Jane murmured, though her mind was already three steps ahead. The whole operation felt like spinning plates—too many moving pieces. She still had a new skill to test. The demon birthing pits had yet to be placed. She had to do something with the captured dragonkin. And there was the ever-growing trail of former slaves marching in the wake of her army, clinging to the hope that she—somehow—was their salvation.

Two more Mandalas stood between her and the end. And even then, the Dirthian city of Integra—her hope for a road back to Arcadia—remained a question mark.

She exhaled. It was all teetering, a house of cards trembling in the wind. And it felt like only her Luck was holding it together.

Finally, movement on the horizon broke her thoughts. The Mandala of Honor delegation was returning—and Valrathian was walking.

Barely. He limped visibly, but upright. Jane drew in a slow breath, straightened her shoulders, and strode out to meet them.

As she closed the distance, she activated Piercing Gaze and focused on Valrathian, letting the System give her a first look. If there was more to this dragonkin than gleaming armor and bold speeches, she was about to find out.

Valrathian (Level 251)

(Dragonkin)

Class: Phantom Striker (Epic)

Strength: 254

Agility: 399

Constitution: 392

Intelligence: 361

Harmony: 621

Resonance: Honor

Health: 561/3920

Fun Fact:

Forged in the crucible of necessity, Valrathian chose a perilous path and guided a dying people toward a brighter future. To awaken the soul’s true potential is no small feat—especially when it lies mired in a swamp of ancestral atrocities. Yet, as with the finest blades, strength is born through the trials of the forge, each blow casting out impurity until only the gleam of true purpose remains. Valrathian is such a blade—honed, tempered, and resolutely sharp.

Jane tilted her head, visibly impressed. The System didn’t hand out genuine Fun Facts lightly—when it did, it usually meant the subject was the real deal. Valrathian stood tall despite his injuries, flanked by the two other masked dragonkin and the human Doctor, Findarius.

“So,” Valrathian began, his voice calm and clear, “Karavak tells me you are the true master of this formidable army. I am Valrathian, and I place myself at your service.”

Jane blinked. “Oh. Uh—thanks. Nice to meet you. You’re… not bothered by the whole demon thing?”

He chuckled, the sound warm and surprisingly human. “I’ve heard the tales out of the Mandala of Fortitude—who hasn’t? And I admit, when those two youth passed through our Mandala I did not ignore them. But I prefer to make my own judgments. Judgments bound by honor. Your champion bested me fairly, but more importantly, he accepted the challenge at all. That speaks more than any victory. And the fact that I still live…” He inclined his head slightly. “It speaks even further to his strength of character.”

Jane felt her cheeks flush, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Well… good. I’m just glad to be speaking with someone who’s not enslaving every human they come across.”

Valrathian let out a sharp laugh. “Yes, well. I imagine your first impressions were… less than ideal. Rishalak and Sharik, I assume?”

His tone darkened.

“I am ashamed to admit that, outside the Mandalas of Honor and Fortitude, virtues like chivalry and duty have faded from our kind. Faded—or been willingly discarded.” He exchanged a glance with Findarius. “But that’s a conversation for another time. Perhaps you and the good Doctor can speak further, if you wish to understand the decay in our lineage.”

Jane nodded. Though the dragonkin remained masked, there was no mistaking the quiet understanding in Findarius’s eyes. He wasn’t in the dark about what lay beneath the golden mask.

Valrathian straightened, recovering some of the old weight behind his bearing. “Now. I’m told you seek passage through the Mandala of Honor. Is that truly all you desire? A force of your size must require substantial provisions.”

Jane held up a hand. “We have our own supply chains. All we need is safe, direct passage to the south. If you have intelligence about your neighbors—particularly the bordering Mandalas—that would be helpful. And I swear to you: so long as you speak true about not owning slaves, no harm will come to anyone under your banner.”

Valrathian nodded without hesitation. “Then we are agreed. Travel south as you please. The Mandala of Chance lies to the east, but they would not dare encroach on our domain. You will not encounter them.”

Jane exhaled, relief softening her posture. “One more thing,” she added, looking past the dragonkin to Findarius. “One of my friends is badly injured. Could you take a look before we move out?”

Findarius inclined his head. “It would be my honor.”

***

Tarik watched from the ridge, arms crossed, muscles tight with barely restrained fury. Below, the woman known as Jane King stood among the dragonkin Masters—laughing, talking, as if the past hadn’t happened. As if none of it mattered. His blood simmered, rage rising like a tide that threatened to drown him.

Has she betrayed us?

The demons moved freely among some of the most revolting Masters. Even Ristharak walked unshackled. And though the other dragonkin remained captive—they were still alive. And now? Smiles. Nods. Conversations.

He clenched his fists. Were the demons in league with the Masters all along?

A hand settled gently on his shoulder. “Easy there,” came a calm voice. “Charging in and getting yourself killed won’t change a thing.”

Tarik turned to see Karidor standing just behind him, eyes fixed on the same scene. The older man gave a half-shrug. “Following the demons hasn’t turned out quite like we hoped… but we’re still breathing. That’s something.”

Tarik didn’t answer at first. He couldn’t pull his gaze from the gathering below. “We fought every day to survive,” he said at last. “And now we know there’s more—something deeper. A price. One that every Master can pay... and will.”

“Maybe so,” Karidor said. “But we’re not ready to make them pay it. Not yet. We could leave—follow the demon supply line north, slip back into the wilds. Then again, demons have been freeing slaves as they go. Some of them even treat us like equals.”

Tarik shook his head, lips tightening. The contradiction gnawed at him. Slaves were being freed, and most had chosen to follow. Follow her. The so-called slave divisions from the Mandala of Power marched alongside the horde like loyal dogs.

Are we just bait? Following under a new master’s hand to convince the others to follow suit?

“No,” he said finally, voice low. “We’re not leaving. Not yet. Not until we find a way to make the Masters here pay for what they’ve done.”

The image of that strange man-demon—defending Ristharak, shielding him like a favored ally—flashed through his mind. That kind of power, that casual disregard for the powerless below… it wasn’t new. Tarik and every slave under his command had seen it before. They knew that look. They’d lived under it their entire lives.

“So we’ll bide our time,” he said. “We wait. We watch. But tell the others—stay sharp. The call to act could come at any moment.”

Karidor nodded solemnly. “Aye. That much I can do.”

***

“There, that’s about all I can do,” Findarius said at last, tying off the final strip of cloth around Melindra’s burned arm. The bandages crisscrossed her limbs and wrapped up the side of her head, concealing the worst of the damage. “There’s still going to be some scarring, no way around that. But it should be better than before.”

Jane remained nearby, arms crossed as she watched the red sorceress rest, her chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

“Have you heard of any Healer-class humans around?” she asked, a note of hope slipping into her voice. If Mint was anything to go by, a Healer would be able to restore Melindra to full Health lickety-split.

Findarius chuckled softly. “No, not unless you count the ones in bedtime stories.”

Jane frowned. “What about dragonkin? Do they have healing classes?” Demons didn’t—thanks to their natural regeneration—but elves had Rejuvenators. It only made sense the other races had something, too.

He gave a half-shrug. “Possibly. But I haven’t heard of any in the Mandala of Honor. The dragonkin numbers are far fewer than humans, and I wouldn’t call myself an expert on their classes by any means.”

Jane rubbed her arms, eyeing him. “You still know more than any other human I’ve met. Do all humans know about the dragonkin here? In the Mandala of Honor?”

Findarius shook his head, his expression going slightly guarded. “No. I’m… something of an oddity, I suppose. Valrathian and I have history, to say the least. My knowledge of the dragonkin comes from necessity, not curiosity—but I won't bore you with the details.”

Jane narrowed her eyes, then nodded toward the glittering figure of Sharik, frozen nearby like a statue caught mid-command. “Uh huh. And what’s the deal with those masks, anyway? Inspecting them doesn’t show much. How do they actually work?”

Findarius stepped over to the statue of Sharik, her glittering form catching the afternoon sun like a relic unearthed from a forgotten age. “That,” he said, resting a hand lightly against the cold arcanite, “is tied to a very old tale—one even most dragonkin have likely forgotten. Fortunately, I’ve always had an interest in history. By sheer chance or fate, I learned where those masks came from, and why they were made in the first place.”

He turned back to Jane, eyes thoughtful. “They only work on dragonkin, as you’ve probably guessed. A full trove of them was forged eons ago by a Legendary crafter. Since then, they’ve been handed down through the bloodlines, generation after generation. Their purpose? To make sure humans never truly grasp who’s truly in control on this continent. To keep the face of power… faceless.”

He chuckled softly, almost wistfully. “It’s not as sinister as it sounds. Or at least, it didn’t start that way. According to what I know, the dragonkin came south to save the humans—from a tyrant or despot, someone cruel enough to justify intervention. Though I doubt anyone remembers that ruler’s name now.”

His gaze drifted back to Sharik’s frozen eyes, as though trying to peer through time. “But good intentions rarely survive the passage of generations. And power—real power—is a difficult thing to relinquish. I imagine you’ve already felt the melody—the Resonances that each dragonkin carries within them.”

Jane gave a noncommittal shrug. “Sure. Headache and nausea. Not exactly the kind of thing I’d base a conquest on. Seems like a pretty weak form of control.”

Findarius nodded, the corner of his mouth tugging downward. “You’re not wrong. But imagine feeling that sickness every day. Not for a week, not a month—years. Imagine it being the backdrop of your entire life, until the only relief you ever find is when you finally surrender, when you align yourself with the melody. It’s subtle, but it’s real. That quiet push has kept humanity under dragonkin sway for longer than most would believe.”

Jane tilted her head, brows drawing together. “And that’s how it works here too? In the Mandala of Honor?”

He exhaled, long and quiet. “Partly. The melody here still exists, but its tone is different. Just as it can be used to suppress and control, it can also uplift and guide. In the Mandala of Honor, the Resonance nudges people toward more noble principles—cooperation, sacrifice, mutual support. Honor not in the service of dominance, but in defense of others. That shift… Valrathian made sure of it.”

Jane considered that in silence. She’d felt the resonance of Power empowering her horde, and the calm purpose that had filled the villages in the Mandala of Fortitude. There was something to what he said. “I guess. But it still feels dishonest if no one knows where that influence is coming from.”

“Maybe so,” Findarius said quietly. “But the dragonkin are few. If a full revolt broke out, humanity could easily overwhelm them. And perhaps they should. I’m not blind to the atrocities committed by the dragonkin—nor do I imagine you are.” He gave a small shrug, the weight of knowledge behind the gesture. “It’s something I struggle with, truthfully. But I’ve also seen what’s possible in the Mandala of Honor. Before passing judgment, I’d urge you to see it for yourself.”

Jane let out a slow sigh, rubbing her temple. “Yeah, maybe. But honestly, I don’t have the time to untangle every moral knot on this continent. I’m not here to interfere—as long as you’re not slaughtering people in droves or rounding up kids for slave pits, I won’t kick down your door. Still… thanks for the context. I didn’t want to believe all dragonkin were monsters. But until we got here, I hadn’t seen much evidence to the contrary.”

Findarius offered a faint smile. “It’s good you’re willing to keep an open mind. I’m sure Valrathian would be glad to speak with you as you pass through. He’s proud of what we’ve built here, even as the other Mandalas circle like wolves, eager to tear it all down.”

Jane extended her hand. “Thanks for helping my friend. I owe you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Findarius said, taking her hand slowly. “I’m a Doctor. This is what we do—we help people.”

“Right.” Jane forced a thin smile, trying not to think of the first Doctor she’d met—the one who poisoned a little girl just to squeeze her father for every last copper he had.