JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 35

Unbridled Power

Stumbling over uneven ground, Ristharak nearly fell, only to feel a firm hand catch and shove him forward. His stoic warden remained silent. Around them, the full might of the demonic legions surged in grim formation. Towering figures of shadow and steel marched on either side, but none spared him even a glance. If they recognized him or his race, they gave no sign.

Still, the shame burned in his veins. He wore no mask. Anyone could see what he was. His race laid bare. But they were just demons, after all. That, at least, made it tolerable. If he were to spot even one—

His thoughts shattered as the demons peeled away, revealing a sight that made his blood run cold: slaves. Dozens of them. No—hundreds. But not just any. These were his Culls—slaves once bound to the Mandala of Power. Their eyes found him immediately. Ristharak’s stomach turned as he scanned their faces. None of them wore chains.

No… no, it can’t be…

They weren’t captured. They had been freed.

“You fool!” he blurted, panic overtaking him. He tried to shield his face, as if it would erase what they’d already seen. “You’ve doomed me!”

But his minder gave no reply, simply pressed him forward with that same steady pressure.

Whispers spread like wildfire among the Culls. Ristharak could feel their eyes—wide with recognition, narrowed with fury. Fingers pointed. Teeth bared. Rage thickened the air like smoke. The whispers grew to snarls, then to shouts. Some of the Culls were armed.

Three men broke from the crowd, weapons flashing. At their head was a young man with a scar running down one cheek and fire in his eyes.

“You’ll pay for what you’ve done!” he roared, sprinting toward Ristharak with unnatural speed.

Before Ristharak could even flinch, his minder moved. With three sharp blows—delivered so fast they blurred—the attackers were flung back over twenty feet, crashing into their kin in a heap of limbs and steel.

“Do not touch the prisoner,” the man-demon intoned flatly.

Then, without a word, Ristharak was shoved forward once more, the furious mob left behind.

This was a disaster. No, worse—an unmitigated catastrophe. Recaptured. Unmasked. Identified. The Culls knew he wasn’t human. His fate was sealed. Unless…

Unless he killed them all.

His fingers strained against the bindings, wrists aching. No give. Not even a sliver of slack. He could try Ascension of Flame, gamble everything on one desperate burst—but his guard was too alert, the crowd too large. Too many had seen him. Some would undoubtedly survive. Not today.

Ahead, the ground shook with distant detonations—deep, rhythmic, unrelenting. Smoke and debris clouded the horizon, waves of heat and sound rolling through the air. Ristharak couldn’t begin to guess what was happening, only that it was violent.

Another push. His minder kept him at a steady pace, pushing past the demons marching on either side. But where were they going?

Then the crowd parted, and a strange scene unfolded.

A demon court had formed.

At its center stood a massive figure—impossibly tall, horned, and unmistakable. Balostroze. The same brute who had personally brought Ristharak to his knees. But another thought flickered, unbidden: Was he the true master? Or just another pawn to the quiet man-demon walking behind him?

Before he could finish the thought, another sight caught his eye—more bizarre still. A small wooden palanquin, borne aloft by four smaller demons, moved into view. Atop it sat a Cull woman, cross-legged and composed. Her black dress shimmered faintly in the haze, and atop her head rested a disturbingly grisly black spiked crown.

The demons stopped. A tall, slender demoness approached and, with eerie reverence, lifted the crown from the woman’s head.

The palanquin rotated slowly, the other demons stepping back in deference.

Ristharak’s instincts screamed in warning. He triggered Burning Eyes.

Jane King (Level 139)

Human

Agility: 275

Intelligence: 275

Jane King… The name the man-demon had spoken when capturing him. Ristharak had dismissed it at the time—just another human name, meaningless amidst the chaos. But now… could she be the leader of this horde? A human at the head of an army of demons?

Before he could process the thought, a voice sliced through the air like a blade wrapped in silk.

“Well, what do we have here?” she purred, every word steeped in predatory amusement.

Ristharak froze. A chill crawled down his spine. There was no mistaking it now—this wasn’t just any Cull. This was something else.

And she was dangerous.

***

Jane took a steadying breath, eyes fixed on the captured dragonkin as she momentarily collected herself from the mental strain of using the Crown of Dominance. She could wear it now without crippling the horde’s cohesion—so long as she didn’t actively attempt to exert its power. Merely observing was safe. Still, perceiving the world through hundreds of borrowed eyes was disorienting in its own right. If she didn’t focus, the views flickered between perspectives—Hellguards, Tormentors, Darkwing Skimmers and all the rest.

But among them, she did manage to spot one unique demon.

“So that’s where you were,” she called out, voice carrying across the clearing. “I was beginning to wonder.”

Gral’gor, her Voidwalker turned Executioner, stepped forward from the haze with his usual controlled grace. With a subtle bow, he inclined his head. “After you captured the dragonkin, I took the liberty of binding each of them with my Shackles of Judgment skill. Until they face your verdict, they will remain silently tethered. None can flee my reach.”

“Is that so?” Jane arched a brow, her voice cool, thoughtful. “Me and you are going to have to have a talk about that.”

Without another word, she turned her attention back to the captured dragonkin and activated Piercing Gaze.

Ristharak (Level 245)

Dragonkin

Class: Drakefire Champion (Epic)

Strength: 267

Agility: 254

Constitution: 338

Intelligence: 250

Harmony: 765

Wisdom: 87

Resonance: Power

Health: 3380/3380

Mana: 654/870

Fun Fact:

Blood and fire—two key ingredients in Ristharak’s favorite recipe: wholesale carnage. He’s not banned from bars for fighting, but because the bars no longer exist afterward. Step on his bad side, and you’ll wake up featured in a TikTok fail compilation called How Not to Approach a Walking Apocalypse.

First Epic dragonkin we’ve found… Jane bit the inside of her lip, eyes scanning the prisoner. Not sure I want to judge him just yet. It sounded like Gral’gor’s Shackles of Judgment meant he couldn’t escape until she passed sentence. Might be more useful to keep that leash intact. His Resonance of Power could even help bolster the demons during the march south. But still… this one is high-level. Potentially dangerous.

She leapt down from the palanquin, boots crunching against the scorched earth, and strode straight toward the dragonkin—tall, broad-shouldered, and brimming with silent defiance.

“So,” she said, stopping a few paces away, “you the boss of the Mandala of Power or something?”

The dragonkin sneered. “Who are you, human? How is it you walk freely among these… demons?”

Jane pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Yeah, no. I’m the one asking questions here.” She snapped her fingers. “Bring Sharik over. Maybe seeing her will—”

Before she could finish, Veralaktus leaned in close and whispered in her ear.

“The Darkwing Skimmers have spotted a sizeable force. They’re mobilizing large machines just beyond the western border.”

Jane’s eyes snapped to her. “What?! How far?”

Veralaktus’s voice was calm, but grim. “Very close.”

Without hesitation, Jane activated The Drawn Veil. The world dulled into shades of gray as reality itself seemed to still. Every head—demon, human, dragonkin—snapped toward her in mandatory focus, their gazes locked by the power of the skill. She didn’t care. Her horde was stranded in the heart of a minefield with no room to maneuver, and now siege weapons were being rolled into place.

So, this was your plan, was it? If the Mandala of Wisdom had designed this trap, then this was the kill zone—lure enemies into the field, wait for them to slow, then hammer them from afar. Just like Tarik had warned.

Not on my watch.

With a surge of power, Jane launched into the sky, the wind tearing at her dress as she soared upward for a better view. From above, the grim reality unfolded: the minefield stretched widest to the south, and her army was planted dead center. On the far interior edge of the Mandala, clustered behind low-set, sand-covered bunkers, sat the threat—siege weapons. Dozens of them. She counted at least thirty catapults and trebuchets, slow-moving but massive, arranged in staggered formations and surrounded by enemy troops.

Where did they come from? Were they lying in wait this whole time? It didn’t matter. Blasting their way south had slowed her army enough to give the defenders time to prepare.

Those machines are the real threat, she decided. They’re the only thing that can hurt us.

With a thought, she summoned her Gavel of Repentance, its form flashing into existence at full size—fifty feet of pure butt kicking power, its glyphs gleaming with terrible fury. Her eyes narrowed. Some of the machines were nearly loaded. How far can they fire? She didn’t know, and she wasn’t about to find out.

With Mantle of Retribution flaring and Lashings of Penance both activated and ready, Jane dove from the sky like a comet.

Her first strike landed with cataclysmic force, pulverizing a sixty-foot trebuchet in a thunderous explosion of splinters and shrapnel. Around her, faceless enemy soldiers were ensnared by the lashings, snatched out of the sky even as they flew backward from the concussive force of the blast. She didn’t slow.

She streaked toward the next siege weapon—another massive machine—and swung. Another explosion, another shattered wreck. Gray forms were flung like ragdolls, tumbling across the sand.

Adrenaline surged in her veins. System notifications pinged in the corners of her vision, but she ignored them. Her only focus was momentum. Destruction of all threats. The safety of those under her care.

From one siege engine to the next, she became a force of nature—an unstoppable juggernaut of legendary fury, her hammer leveling anything that dared to threaten her horde. When the last trebuchet crumbled, and the final catapult lay in smoking ruin, she hovered in the air, scanning the battlefield.

Silence.

Every eye was on her.

None dared move. Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t.

Satisfied, Jane turned and rocketed back toward her waiting legions. With the siege machines in ruins, any enemy hoping to strike would have to cross the minefield on foot—a suicidal prospect. And if it came to close combat, she had no doubt who’d come out on top.

Spotting the cleared space near Sharik’s Arcanite statue, Jane angled downward and touched down lightly, finally deactivating The Drawn Veil. Color and life flooded back into the world. The weight of her suffocating presence lifted from her army like a sudden exhale.

“Phew,” she muttered, brushing dust from her dress. “That takes care of that.” She turned to Veralaktus. “Keep me informed if anything else shows up along the border.”

“As you wish, Jane,” the demoness replied with a graceful nod.

Jane turned—and spotted Gral’gor standing nearby, Ristharak beside him. The dragonkin’s once-defiant expression had crumpled into something paler, hollowed. He looked like someone who had seen the sun for the first time and realized it burned.

Jane sighed. “That was exhausting. I really don’t have the energy to deal with this guy right now.” She gestured toward Ristharak without looking at him. “Gral’gor, keep an eye on him, would you? He’s still dangerous, even in chains. Last thing I need is some obscure dragonkin skill turning him into a ticking bomb.”

Gral’gor nodded silently and took the shaken prisoner by the arm, leading him away with quiet efficiency.

Jane rubbed her temples, the surge of fury fading into bone-deep fatigue. She climbed wearily back onto the wooden palanquin carried by the Hellguards, settling into her seat with a slow exhale. The world tilted gently beneath her as they resumed their march.

Did that just happen? The speed and ease with which she had dismantled the enemy siege line still echoed in her mind. Part of her felt triumphant. The other part… unsettled. That was too easy. 

Her eyes drifted downward, where a flurry of blinking System notifications waited patiently at the edge of her vision.

Here we go, she thought, reaching out to open them.

…

Oren Visnu has atoned!

15 Cycles!

Lieu has atoned!

21 Cycles!

Rashik Jas’Rathy has atoned!

45 Cycles!

You have gained 313000 experience!

889174/850712

Excess experience has been discarded.

Jane King is Level 140!

You have gained +2 to Strength, Agility, Constitution, and Intelligence!
You have gained +5 to Wisdom!

The color drained from Jane’s face.

Oh no…

She stared at the System log, heart sinking. In the heat of battle, she’d swung with everything she had—focused on destroying siege weapons, not collateral damage. And now? There were hundreds of names listed. She scanned through them—some were undoubtedly human, but there were a few dragonkin sounding ones as well.

Did I just make all those people live a bunch of lives?

The thought twisted her gut. That can’t be good. At the very least, it didn’t appear that she had unintentionally killed anyone. But forcing others to live countless lives? Was that any better?

Her eyes drifted lower, catching on a new line. One of her skills had evolved.

Tribunal Sentinels has evolved into Regional Arbiter!

Regional Arbiter (Epic)

Hope you’ve made your judgments wisely, because these little pipsqueaks have been watching like caffeinated hall monitors. Now it’s their turn to clock in. Afterall, in a world drowning in injustice, someone’s gotta clean house—and let’s face it, it’s way too messy a job for one man—err woman. So pick a spot, slap these suckers down like turbo-charged wind-up vigilantes, and let justice reign supreme!

What the heck is that?

Jane’s head was still spinning. The realization that she had just unintentionally judged people—a lot of people—was hitting her harder than the actual impact of her hammer on the siege weapons. But whether she liked it or or not, it was done.

Should I go back? Try to explain?

But no—she had only struck a portion of the enemy lines. The rest of the army was still out there, recovering. If she went back, what then? Would she have to judge all of them?

Jane bit her lip, forcing herself to breathe. No. Slow down. The immediate threat had been neutralized. The siege machines were gone. That was the priority. Gotta keep pushing forward. None of this matters once we reach the Dirthian city. Worry about the rest later.

Even as she told herself that, a cold, crawling anxiety crept up her spine. Something about this felt very wrong.