JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 38

Honor

Eyes closed, Jane barely registered the subtle sway of the palanquin beneath her. She sat cross-legged, posture rigid and precise, the black Crown of Dominance resting like a coiled serpent on her brow. Her mind wasn’t here—it was scattered across hundreds of eyes, riding the senses of demons spread across the skies. Even the slightest movement could ripple chaos through the horde. She didn’t dare move a muscle.

There. We’ve broken through, she thought, a faint smile curling on her lips. Ripping through the minefield on the border of the Mandala of Wisdom had been slow, tedius—and oddly peaceful. Since her last assault, no new siege attacks had come from the west. That left her nothing but time, watching from afar as the ranged demons carved a path forward, one explosive crater at a time.

And now, through the keen vision of her Darkwing Skimmers, she saw open farmland unfurling like a green quilt beyond the last blasted stretch. Far in the west, a singular mountain loomed hazy on the horizon. And there—just barely—she glimpsed a sprawling mass of tents clustered in the fields, swarming with distant figures.

An army? Her breath hitched. It was too far to confirm, but instinct whispered yes.

Her eyes snapped open.

Veralaktus was already moving. With a practiced motion, she removed the Crown from Jane's head and stepped back, her expression unreadable.

“Order the Darkwing Skimmers to get a closer look at that force to the south,” Jane said, exhaling slowly. Still can’t issue commands directly, she mused, annoyed. The Dominance stat from her crown was powerful, but very tricky to get a hang of.

“As you wish,” Veralaktus replied.

“And have Sharik brought up, along with that other dragonkin, the Mandala of Power one.” She gestured vaguely. “Let’s see if either of them can shed some light on what we’re about to walk into.”

She rose smoothly, hopping off the palanquin with practiced grace. As she passed one of the Hellguards, she gave its muscular arm a quick pat of thanks, then pushed deeper into the horde.

The front lines were already alive with activity. Tia’moth the Epic Firecaster stood at the forefront, flanked by a row of Energy Weavers, their movements precise and near-ritualistic as they continued clearing the last of the minefield. Underfoot, the ground was scorched black—an ugly, crater-pocked trail that almost resembled a road, if a road had been paved with fire and fury.

Jane paused to watch Tia’moth at work. The Firecaster launched a sphere of flame the size of a small house, its surface pulsing like molten glass. A wave of heat briefly washed over her as the fireball glided slowly forward, devouring anything in its path. Mines triggered—only to be swallowed whole by the living inferno.

To her right, she spotted Melindra deep in conversation with Balostroze and one of the Velnatari. Without waiting, Jane angled her stride toward them.

“Hey, guys,” Jane called as she approached. “Looks like we’ve finally broken through. But there’s something out there in the south—something big.”

Balostroze gave a slow nod. “Indeed. I was just informing the Velnatari. It appears fortune has graced us with another battle.”

Beside him, Melindra folded her arms, crimson robes rippling in the wind. “From what Balostroze reports, the force ahead rivals—if not exceeds—the one we just crashed through in the Mandala of Power. But this time, there’s no battle in progress, no disarray. They’re not distracted. They’re waiting.”

Jane let out a slow breath, planting her hands on her hips. “Right. No element of surprise this time.”

Tactics spun through her mind like a storm. She could punch through, same as before—enact Minor Law to create a temporary no-combat zone and drive straight into their heart. Or she could try and dive in alone, find the leaders, judge them all at once. But the Drawn Veil complicated things—she couldn’t identify anyone while it was active, couldn’t even distinguish commanders from foot soldiers.

In the Netherrealm, she mused, the Lashings of Penance ignored Soul Bound demons. I could just charge in and identify the boss by whoever got snagged. That wouldn’t work here. Using Pinpoint Judgement was another option, but she shuddered at the thought of how long that would take.

“This could get messy,” she muttered.

She had options. Too many, really. Ways to flatten an army, yes—but most were unpredictable, brute-force solutions. After what had just happened with her Gavel of Repentance, she wasn’t eager to discover what kind of collateral damage would result again. This time, she wanted precision. Caution. The enemy wasn’t moving, which gave her one rare commodity: time.

She turned, eyes scanning the advancing rear of the horde—until she spotted Sharik’s glittering form, floating forward in statue form, carried by two Tormentors. Behind her strode Gral’gor, nudging Ristharak forward with the usual lack of subtlety.

“You two,” Jane called, waving them over. “We’ve passed through the Mandala of Wisdom. What can you tell me about the next ones?”

She motioned toward the horizon, where rows of vibrant banners fluttered above orderly camps—colorful, calculated, and quiet.

Sharik responded first, her metallic voice laced with supplication. “To the west lies the Mandala of Honor, ruled by Valrathian and the Seven Wanderers. I’ve never met him. To the east is the Mandala of Chance, held by Joracky—an insufferable fool who treats life like one long joke. Everything to him is a game.”

“Chance?” Jane echoed, rubbing her chin. “I wonder…”

She turned to Ristharak, who was doing his best to avoid her gaze. “What about you? Anything to add?”

Ristharak closed his eyes with a grimace, as if searching for the least painful answer. Gral’gor shoved him forward, and he relented.

“I know little of Joracky. But Valrathian…” He opened his eyes, locking onto Jane with something between defiance and warning. “You seem fond of collecting slaves, so you’ll be disappointed to know you won’t find any in the Mandala of Honor. Every Cull in Valrathian’s army fights willingly. Freely.”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “No slaves?” She glanced out over the ranks of the enemy army, a sea of tents and banners stretching along the horizon. The news gave her pause. Did it change anything?

She wasn’t sure.

For a moment, the truth pressed in with uncomfortable clarity: We’re the invaders here. Her horde was tearing through one Mandala after another, smashing past defenses with complete abandon. Her demons were charging across foreign lands—completely disregarding any and all political tact.

Like a bowling ball through a kindergarten class.

The dark humor flickered and died as another memory surfaced—sharp, vivid, and unexpected.

Traveling from Dawnskeep to Grandia, Jane listened on as Mint prodded the old wizard about his travels. “And across the Green Seas? What lies across the waters, Belgoth?” 

 He laughed. “Ah yes, well that is far less a mystery than what lay beyond the deserts! There is a large continent across the waters, and a myriad of kingdoms far more fractured than here in Arcadia…” 

Up until now, Jane had made a lot of assumptions about the Mandalas—assuming each one was just an obstacle, a fleeting battlefield, a hurdle to be overcome. But watching the orderly camps in the distance and hearing of the Mandala of Honor’s lack of slaves, something shifted. Maybe they’re not all the same. Even if the dragonkin are pulling strings behind the scenes, that doesn’t mean every Mandala is inherently evil.

No slaves was a good start. Maybe—just maybe—she could negotiate this time.

A deep, metallic gong rang out across the field, unnaturally loud, almost reverberating in her chest. Jane’s head snapped toward the front lines. A beat of war drums followed, steady and thunderous. She tensed instinctively, expecting a charge—but none came. Instead, a lone rider emerged from the enemy line and advanced at a steady pace, stopping at the midpoint between the two armies.

Ristharak scoffed, shaking his head. “Unbelievable…”

“What? Who is that? Are they trying to talk?” Jane perked up at the thought.

Snorting, Ristharak rolled his eyes. “No. Not unless you count the clash of blades as conversation.”

Then a voice echoed across the valley, amplified by some unseen force—deep, steady, and unmistakably theatrical.

“If there is any honor among you, send forth your champion. Let us settle this with single combat. To the victor go the spoils. There is no need to waste the lives of any soldier except those that lead them.”

Jane blinked. “Single combat? Is he serious?”

“Valrathian always does this,” Ristharak muttered. “It’s his preferred ritual. He offers to resolve conflict through a duel. It’s more for show, though. He’s dangerous. The bordering Mandalas never engage him.”

Jane narrowed her eyes, studying the lone figure at the center of the field. A duel to decide the outcome? It was surreal—like something ripped straight from a movie.

“Mistress!” Balostroze stepped forward and slammed a conjured black spear into the ground, his voice ringing with zeal. “Allow me the honor of representing you in this test of prowess!”

Test of prowess, Jane repeated silently. Her fingers twitched. She could just zip down there and judge the guy with The Gray Inquisition, or whip him into flailing helplessness with Lashings of Penance. Mantle of Retribution would crush his spirit after his first returned blow. But would that be seen as cheating? Probably piss them off at least. It could break whatever unspoken code was being invoked here and ruin any chance of peaceful passage.

A proper duel, on the other hand… that might actually work. If this ritual holds any weight, she thought, we might win our way through without unnecessary bloodshed. And if not? Well—we’ll do it the hard way.

Her gaze swept across her command circle. Yiw’drog was patrolling the north, securing supply lines. That left Balostroze and Gral’gor as her two strongest. Gral’gor, however, looked disinterested—his attention fixed firmly on Ristharak, eyes narrowed in silent warning.

Jane sighed. “Okay. Sure. Why not?”

She gave Balostroze a thumbs up, flashing a smile.

“Go kick his butt.”

*** 

Balostroze galloped down the slope, hooves thundering against the charred earth as he raced toward the solitary figure waiting at the battlefield’s center. A surge of pride pulsed through him—this was his moment. His chance to cement his place above the others.

Veralaktus was growing closer to Jane day by day, her quiet counsel always seeming to arrive at just the right moment. And Gral’gor, though silent, had earned her respect through sheer brutal loyalty. But this—this was different. A duel. A trial by combat. If he emerged victorious, if he conquered the champion of the Mandala of Honor before both armies, that was something tangible. He would demonstrate his right to stand at Jane’s side.

Second in command once more. A true right hand.

But he pushed the ambition down. Now wasn’t the time. The trial ahead demanded his full focus. There would be no second chance.

His eyes locked on the figure ahead: tall and radiant atop a massive, sinewy beast whose scales shimmered with heat-haze. The rider’s armor blazed, glittering and refracting the sun with every movement, each plate etched with intricate patterns. His face was hidden behind a golden mask, its human resemblance masking any emotion.

So this is Valrathian, Balostroze thought. Speaks of honor, yet afraid to show his face. The hypocrisy was stunning.

Still, the time for judgments was yet to come. In battle, there was nothing to hide behind, an opponent's skill and strength was all that mattered.

He focused his mind and activated Crushing Vision. System information appeared, and he took measure of the opponent before him.

Valrathian (Level 283)

Strength: 254

Agility: 399

Constitution: 392

The warrior before him was the highest-level opponent Balostroze had encountered since arriving on Alur—but still, notably lower than himself. Finally, he thought, a battle that might prove worthy.

Fleeting images of past glories—those relentless wars against the Voidwalkers—flashed through his mind. Since then, no one had offered more than a passing thrill. Most fell before they could even register surprise.

“So the stories were true,” the warrior called out, voice resonating unnaturally across the field. “Our Ancient Enemy walks Alur once more.” He laughed—a deep, full sound that echoed across both armies. “And with power that does not disappoint.”

He brought his sword to his chest in a salute. “That you’ve come to face me in single combat does you credit.” He shook his head. “Can you even understand me, demon? No matter. Let us speak in the language of blood!”

Balostroze smirked. At last, something we agree on. Words were masks—weak things that twisted truth. But the blade never lied. The blade spoke in clarity.

With practiced ease, he hefted his spear, dark energy crackling down its shaft. One throw—that was all it would take. He launched it like a thunderbolt, the weapon streaking toward the glittering rider with impossible speed.

But just before impact, Valrathian split—fracturing into ten perfect copies. The center one vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving only swirling dust behind.

Impressive.

Before Balostroze could reposition, all ten riders bore down on him at once, swords flashing in a coordinated assault. Each strike came from a different angle, Arcanite singing as they passed, testing his reflexes all at once.

He braced himself.

Finally, he thought, blood quickening. A real fight.

You have received slashing damage!

-150 HP

Balostroze smiled, blood trickling down his side—invigorated. Only one of the blades had connected. The rest were nothing but phantoms. Illusions, he confirmed.

Crossing his arms tightly over his chest, he drew in a breath and invoked Needles of Oblivion. Tiny void-holes opened across his skin, pulsing like dark stars. A moment later, they erupted—releasing a storm of needle-thin spears in every direction.

The illusions shattered instantly, each one blinking out of existence the moment a dart passed through it.

Only one remained, and he did not falter.

Valrathian raised his shield mid-gallop, deflecting the oncoming needles with a flick of his wrist. The dart ricocheted off his shield with a high-pitched whine. In the same motion, he leapt from his steed, casting aside his sword and shield. Reaching behind his back, he drew a wicked two-handed blade—gleaming, serrated, and almost too large for his frame.

“Respectable,” he called out, voice echoing with glee. “But you’ll need more than that!”

He surged forward, a glittering blur, closing the distance with unnatural speed.

Balostroze planted his six legs and raised his re-formed spear, meeting the first strike with a powerful deflection. Sparks flew. The force rattled his arms—but he held fast.

What followed was a frenzy of attacks and counterattacks. Blow after blow, rapid and unrelenting, echoed through the winds of the noonday sky. Valrathian was half Balostroze’s size, but he moved like lightning—fluid, precise, unpredictable. Each swing pressed him, tested him, danced just at the edge of truly hurting him.

Balostroze narrowed his eyes, struggling to read the flow. Is this sheer skill? Or is he weaving skills beneath the surface? Whatever the case, the dragonkin was no fraud. He was a storm given form.

And Balostroze, for the first time in a great many years, took a step backward.

You have received slashing damage!

-305 HP

Grunting, Balostroze stumbled in the aftershock of the blow. How long had it been since someone actually wounded me? The ache was almost pleasant. Such an attack would have cleaved a Hellguard—no, even a Tormentor in two. But with over seven thousand Health—and Bloodrush Regeneration pulsing through his veins—it wasn’t enough to slow him, let alone do serious harm. A part of him longed to draw this out, to press the dragonkin further, to see what limits could be pushed. 

But the mistress was waiting—and her thirst to push southward was unrelenting. There was no time to savor the elegance of battle. This needed to end.

He invoked Beacon of Threat, the aura flaring around him like a pulse of heat, forcing the warrior to focus his undivided attention on him. At the same time, Balostroze sent the subtle mental call upward—to his Companions, still circling, unnoticed, high in the skies. The dragonkin no doubt believed the storm of spears was finished.

He would learn otherwise.

Valrathian charged forward again, his great blade arcing downward like a falling star. Balostroze met him head-on with a thunderous crash, bracing his spear and locking eyes with the masked warrior.

“You’ve made a respectable accounting of yourself, dragonkin,” Balostroze growled. “But this battle was over the moment it began.”

“Bold words, demon,” Valrathian snapped, forcing his blade forward. “It’s only just beg—”

The words died as a sharp whine filled the air.

From behind, a swarm of sleek, glimmering needles streaked in—his Companions, returning like vultures to a fresh kill. The needles struck with precision, seeking the gaps and joints in the warrior’s arcanite armor—ligaments, underarms, spine. No plate could cover everything, and the small wriggling darts were alive with hunger, wriggling through every crevice.

Valrathian jerked, stiffened, and fell to his knees. A shocked gurgle escaped his throat before he collapsed forward, unmoving.

Balostroze exhaled, eyes fluttering shut as the last of the needle-like Companions returned to their void-ports, disappearing into the holes across his body as if they had never existed. An ominous silence hung over the battlefield for a moment, accented only by the rustling wind.

Then, two booming gongs echoed across the field.

Balostroze looked up to see three riders approaching from the enemy line. He tightened his grip on his spear—if they were hoping to retaliate, they would learn the meaning of the class: Dreadpiercer.

Hmm… two dragonkin, one human. He narrowed his eyes. All three were strong—over level one hundred—but none approached Valrathian’s own. He waited, unconcerned.

One of the dragonkin raised a hand in greeting. “Hail, demon—” his voice was carefully neutral. “We congratulate you on your victory. May we recover the remains of our fallen—?”

He trailed off as he caught sight of Valrathian’s unmoving body. “...He still lives?”

The human dismounted before the words had fully left the dragonkin’s mouth. Rushing past Balostroze without so much as a glance, he knelt by the fallen champion.

Balostroze grunted. “You may attend him. But this dragonkin will accompany me to my mistress. Jane King will have words with him.”

“Jane King?” The three exchanged confused glances.

“You’re not the leader of this horde?”

Balostroze didn’t answer. He simply turned away, the wind blowing past him.

“Come,” he said, not bothering to check if they followed. “Bring your fallen comrade. He fought with honor… even if his efforts were in vain.”