JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 34

No Man’s Land

A bleak, desolate battlefield sprawled before Jane, a scarred expanse of scorched earth and cratered ground that stretched to the horizon almost reminiscent of the Netherrealm. Nothing grew here—not even the hardiest weeds—and the silence felt unnatural and oppressive. The contrast to the vibrant, fertile lands of the northern Mandalas was almost surreal. This place didn’t just feel ravaged—it felt dead.

Jane reined in her Emerald Drake, its scaled haunches shifting beneath her as she scanned the horizon with narrowed eyes. The wind carried dust and the faint stench of ash. Something wasn’t right.

“Veralaktus,” she said sharply, turning to her left. “Call a halt. There’s danger ahead—I can feel it. Bring Sharik to the front.”

The command rolled down the column like thunder, thousands of demons grinding to a synchronized stop. Dust drifted lazily in the morning air as Jane inhaled the acrid air deeply, focusing on the stillness. It was too quiet.

The memory of Sharik’s judgment still festered in Jane’s bones—like rot in decaying meat. Humans had never been more than playthings in Sharik’s eyes. And the things she did to them… Jane forced the images back down where they belonged, praying the horrific scenes would fade away in time. Turning Sharik into a statue had seemed the most prudent course—preventing her from ever hurting anyone again, while retaining access to her knowledge.

Sharik was a monster, but Jane was intent on making her a useful monster.

A night buried under the ground had broken her. Faced with darkness and confinement, Sharik had finally cracked, revealing what Jane suspected she’d been hiding. 

“Yes, yes, I’ll tell you everything!” she wailed, her voice ringing with metallic desperation. “Just don’t put me back in that darkness!”

It was then she began explaining the intricacies of the Harmony stat. “It is true. With enough practice,” she said, “dragonkin can control the radius of the melody. If we focus, we can retract it. If we let go, it expands—to the maximum our Harmony stat allows. Within our own Resonance, we’re safe and there is no need to spend effort managing it. But if we step into another’s sphere, it becomes a battle of wills. One side will eventually relent or retreat. If the other dragonkin cracks, then balance is restored and the victorious Resonance gains another member.”

Jane hadn’t liked relying on her, but Sharik remained the most informed source they had. The other captured dragonkin were unremarkable by comparison—no high ranks, no information other than details on their own respective Mandalas—and Jane didn’t have the time or the Mana reserves to judge them all anyway. Not when a battle could break out at any moment.

She rubbed her chin, eyes narrowing. Dragonkin society, it seemed, was built entirely around these Resonances—ideological virtues manifested as influence—and Harmony was its measure of power. The stronger the Harmony, the wider the reach, the deeper the control. Jane still wasn’t totally sure of the community mechanics revolving around it, but no other race had defenses against it. Grudgingly, Jane could see the logic at least. Why fight people if you can simply blanket them with your influence? Regardless, the dragonkin were far beyond a race war. If one had ever happened, the humans appeared to have lost, long ago.

Thankfully, the effects on her and the demons so far seemed limited to nausea, migraines, and general unease. Jane glanced back toward the demons marching behind her. If they were bothered by it, they didn’t show it. In fact, the Resonance of Power seemed to invigorate them—energizing her horde more than harming it. Perhaps, in a strange twist, they were just naturally attuned. For now she let the Power one go unchecked, but used Sharik as a warning to the other dragonkin of the Humility Mandala.

Melindra pulled her mount up alongside Jane, her gaze following Jane’s line of sight across the blasted terrain. “Why have we stopped?” she asked, but as her eyes swept over the desolate battlefield, realization dawned. “Ah. I see.”

“Something feels… off,” Jane muttered, her voice tight. She glanced back toward the line of demons, searching for the telltale glint of Arcanite. Sharik’s frozen figure caught the light, bobbing slightly as the dragonkin-turned-statue was ferried forward, lashed to a makeshift wooden palanquin borne by two Tormentors. “Let’s see what Sharik has to say about this. I had her brought up. There she is now.”

The demons set the palanquin down with a thud, stepping back in unison, waiting.

Jane dismounted and crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “Sharik. Do you know anything about this place? Why does it look like this?”

Silence hung for a breath too long. Then, in a voice laced with disdainful detachment, Sharik finally responded. “This is the Mandala of Wisdom. Srathaki reigns here. I do not know the full extent of his…defenses—our forces never met in battle. Our dealings were purely diplomatic. But he is… careful. Selective in his engagements.”

Jane exhaled sharply. “Not exactly helpful.” Beyond that, anything Sharik said had to be taken with a grain of salt.

She turned to Melindra, tone clipped. “Well, there’s only one way to find out. Wait here. I’m going ahead—see if anything happens.” With a flick of her wrist, her Mantle of Retribution flared to life, the steel-plated battlerobe settling around her shoulders. She layered on Lashings of Penance for good measure, then urged her drake forward, its claws crunching through scorched dirt and scattered debris.

The ground was uneven, as though hammered by relentless shelling. She guided her mount to the lip of a wide crater, its edges jagged and sunken. Beyond it, the land stretched out empty—no siege towers, no defensive lines, no visible threat. A few distant structures stood faintly in the haze, skeletal and still. Maybe I’m just imagining things. Maybe this is nothing more than an old battlefield.

She glanced down. Weapons and shattered armor lay buried half-exposed in the sandy dirt, like bones of some long-dead army. Yeah, probably just remnants of a forgotten war.

Turning in her saddle, she waved back and shouted, “Looks clear! Come on through!”

With a rumble like thunder, the horde began moving again. Balostroze charged forward at the head of the advance, black spear held high. Then the ground beneath him erupted in a blinding fireball.

Jane’s eyes widened as the explosion hurled the towering demon backward in a smoking arc, crashing down with a thunderous impact. Dust and fire bloomed in the air. Her heart leapt into her throat as she scanned the battlefield, but there were no siege engines, no army, nothing—just more empty, dead land.

“What the—?”

She kicked her drake into motion, racing back toward the blast site. “What was that? Are you alright?”

Balostroze was already rising, soot-covered and fuming, his massive head sweeping through the air as he searched for a foe. “I am fine, mistress,” he growled.

Behind him, several Hellguards and Tormentors lay in crumpled heaps, limbs twisted or shattered, dark blood soaking into the lifeless soil. Some tried to stand. Others could only groan.

Then came shouting from the side—a ragged cluster of the former slaves broke from the ranks, waving their arms, panic in their eyes. Jane strained to recall the leader’s name. Tamok? Tagdor? Something with a T.

“Wait! Stop!” the man shouted, breathless as he pushed forward. “Please—don’t go any farther!”

Jane triggered Piercing Gaze on him to remind herself.

Tarik (Level 65)

Human

Class: Rageblade (Epic)

Strength: 92

Agility: 61

Constitution: 81

Intelligence: 15

Luck: 10

Health: 805/810

Bloodlust: 0/100

Fun Fact:

Born into just about the worst life imaginable—like “your apartment is on fire and the landlord just raised rent” levels of bad—Tarik clawed his way up from rock bottom (and then found out there was a basement). He battled fate itself, which, frankly, seemed personally offended by his existence. Just when he was about to finally grasp glory with both calloused hands, bam! Someone swooped in and stole the spotlight like a photobombing older sibling at a fifth grade graduation. But hey, that’s fine. Tarik runs on spite and military-grade rage. Glory can wait—vengeance is what’s on the menu, and he’s already sharpening his cutlery.

Ah, right—Tarik. Jane angled her drake toward the frantic man sprinting her way. “What?” she called out.

“You can’t just walk in there!” he shouted, breathless, sweat streaking the dust on his face.

Jane frowned. “You know something about this place?”

Tarik bent over, panting. “That’s the Field of Destruction. It marks the border between the Mandalas of Wisdom and Power. The ground itself is your enemy—step wrong and you die. To walk within means certain doom.”

Jane exchanged a skeptical glance with Melindra. “The ground itself, huh? What, like a minefield?”

“I don’t know that word,” Tarik admitted, “but during the southern campaigns, I watched friends vanish with a single step. Every footfall must be deliberate. The traps are buried everywhere—just waiting for a chance to claim an unsuspecting life.”

Jane turned and surveyed the terrain anew. The lifeless sprawl of craters and shattered stone suddenly seemed far more purposeful. Of course. That explained the desolate field. “So, a minefield,” she muttered.

She dismounted and approached the still-smoldering crater where Balostroze had been thrown. Kneeling at the edge, she examined the ground—sand and dirt fused into jagged glass from the blast’s heat. Her eyes narrowed. Why didn’t any traps trigger when I rode through?

Then she scoffed quietly. Of course. My Luck. Of all the things to forget.

With a sigh, she rose and returned to the group. “Well, we still need to move south,” she said, eyes sweeping the horizon. The malignant battlefield stretched endlessly, a wasteland of ruin and hidden death. “Balostroze, what do the Darkwing Skimmers report? How far does this stupid field extend?”

The demon straightened, his voice low but steady. “They’ve seen no break in it to the south or west. But to the east, it seems to end—blocked by…” He paused, grasping for the right term. “A stretch of flowing liquid.”

“That would be the Tareen River,” Tarik answered, stepping forward. “It runs along the border between Mandalas. As far as I know, its wide and there’s no way across.”

Jane clenched her jaw, eyes narrowing as they landed on Sharik. The dragonkin offered nothing—no warnings, no insight—but at least she was keeping her Resonance of Humility reined in, for now.

So, what to do. Jane tapped her fingers against her chin, mind racing. She could use her Gavel of Repentance—smash a path through the deadly minefield, blast the traps apart one crater at a time. But carving a safe trail like that would reduce their travel speed to a crawl. And if she used The Drawn Veil to fly during the process, the entire army would be further restricted, unable to move until it ended.

She considered her Luck. Maybe everyone can simply follow in my footsteps. But no—she could be missing the buried traps by mere inches, and a single misstep from those behind her would be catastrophic. Following in single file wouldn’t be any faster than hammering the path herself. The brutal logistics of moving an entire army—no, an entire race—across an active warzone were beginning to reveal just how complicated it could be.

She turned to Melindra. “Any thoughts? Ever seen anything like this before?”

The red sorceress folded her arms, brow furrowed. “Some Pyromancer classes can condense and delay their skills, even trap them beneath the surface. In theory, it could be done in such a manner. But on this scale… it might be something else entirely. Could just as easily be a dragonkin skill we’ve never encountered.”

Tarik, still tense, spoke up. “They trigger on pressure. There’s no way to know which step is your last.” He clenched his fists. “We were forced to run across one at a time—sacrificed like cattle—to carve a bloody path forward. I watched an entire division of my brothers die just to open a corridor into the Mandala of Wisdom. Even then, it wasn’t enough. We were repelled halfway through, hammered by siege weaponry from afar.”

Jane sighed, stepping forward to place a firm hand on his shoulder. “Well, we’re not sacrificing anybody,” she said quietly.

Closing her eyes, she tried to think. A freakin’ minefield. That was the last thing she expected to find out here. They could skirt east, try their luck with the Tareen River, but that brought its own problems—a wide river with no bridge was equally impassable. Every delay gave the enemy time to prepare. The element of surprise was slipping through her fingers like dry sand.

Veralaktus stepped forward, her voice calm but resolute. “Jane. If I may… why not simply destroy the traps from a distance and proceed?”

Jane shook her head. “I already thought of that. I can do it—but using the hammer all the way would take forever.”

“That is not what I meant,” the demoness replied smoothly. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

She raised a hand, focusing. A crimson spark flared in the air, then, far ahead—two hundred feet out—a bolt of red light streaked down from the sky. A moment later, a thunderous explosion tore through the landscape. The ground shook violently; Jane staggered, throwing up an arm against the shockwave. Dust and fire bloomed skyward, then settled to reveal a fresh, smoldering crater etched into the earth.

Holy cow…

Jane stared at the still-smoking crater, the aftermath of Veralaktus’s strike. The blast radius alone would have leveled a small fortress.

Veralaktus gave a small, satisfied nod. “That was a skill—Kinetic Obliteration—one of the many ranged abilities available to high level members of the Energy Weaver class.”

Jane turned to her demoness aide, genuinely impressed. Energy Weaver—that was the same class Vexmor had. But all she’d ever had him do was roast Sargor meat with his laser fingers. Was this what they were capable of all along? Had she been underutilizing one of her most versatile assets without even realizing it?

“You have many such Energy Weavers in your horde,” Veralaktus continued, her tone matter-of-fact, “though few are as high-level as I. However, beyond that, you command Tia’moth—an Epic-class Firecaster. His destructive capacity is almost certainly greater than my own. If we cycle our casters and account for Mana reserves, it should be a simple matter to clear a path through these traps.”

Jane rubbed her chin, gears turning. The sheer force of Kinetic Obliteration left little doubt—any hidden mines in that blast zone had been reduced to slag. Just like Balostroze and the beefy demon crew had torn their way through the dense forests of the northern wilds, the ranged demons could now do the same here—cut a line of devastation straight through the minefield.

“Alright. Why not. Good idea.” She turned to Melindra. “What do you think?”

Melindra pursed her lips, considering. “It’s viable. But the horde will be funneled tightly through the blast-cleared path. Movement will be limited. If an ambush comes during the crossing, we’ll be vulnerable.”

Jane nodded. “Good point.” She looked to Balostroze. “Keep the Darkwing Skimmers overhead and circling. I want eyes on everything. If anyone even thinks about springing something on us, I want to know the second it happens.”

Finally, she turned to Veralaktus. “Do it. Cut us a path of destruction—wide, clean, and fast.”

The demoness closed her eyes, issuing the mental command to the myriad of casters in the legions behind.

Jane, meanwhile, scanned the horde. “By the way…” she muttered, frowning. “Where the heck is Gral’gor?”