JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 48

Reckoning

Jane extended her arm, hesitating only for a breath. The dangling figure before her was just one more soul in the endless parade she had been tasked with judging. From one drifting cluster to the next, she moved relentlessly, delivering verdict after verdict. Human or dragonkin—she couldn’t tell, couldn’t afford to care. They all appeared as writhing silhouettes suspended in the sky, gray and featureless, their identities lost to the mist. She stepped through echoes of their lives—whoever they had been—glimpsing fleeting triumphs, bitter failures, moments of mercy, and cruelties so profound they would have emptied her stomach if anything remained inside it.

How long have I been doing this? She no longer knew, barely cared. Time had become meaningless. The Mandate of the Celestial Court—her perpetual timer—froze the moment she immersed herself in these memories. Her System log was a useless flood of notifications, a ceaseless stream of judgments rendered and experience gained. Sometimes, she cried out with her Voice of Truth, asking random, irrelevant questions—“What’s your favorite food? What do you hate? Where are you from?”—not because the answers mattered, but because they bought her just enough time to reach the next group of gray figures. The mist below made everything ephemeral; it was the activation of her Lashings of Penance that determined friend from foe. 

But… Does that even matter anymore?

She was a Judicator. It wasn’t her role to care who they were or what allegiances they claimed. Her duty was to weigh the past and render consequence. If they had lived rightly, she gave reward. If not, this was their reckoning—unseen, unprepared for, unavoidable. Let them face the reverberations of their choices. The hour of judgment had come. The arbiter of their fate stood before them. And now she asked that final, silent question: What lies within you? Does it gleam with the luster of gold—or rot with ruin?

So, it meant nothing to her to judge yet another indistinct figure, one more anonymous gray silhouette in a sea of blank, featureless faces.

Jane fixed her gaze on the one before her and focused, willing the tapestry of its life to unfold. At first, the scenes flickered like ghostly pantomimes—silent vignettes playing out in jerky motions. But as she concentrated, the veil between her and the memories thinned, until she was no longer just observing—she was there, immersed in a grayscale version of the life being weighed.

A child came first, darting through a labyrinth of narrow alleys, snatching food with trembling hands. An orphan, scavenging to survive—not the worst start, especially compared to those born in chains. The city flashed before her in glimpses: victories snatched from jaws of defeat, chases that ended in bruises and blood. It wasn’t enough to render a verdict. Not yet. She pressed on.

The child grew. Now Jane hung beside a younger adult—still impossible to say if it was a man or woman—blades in both hands, dancing through carnage. The figure moved with ruthless precision, cutting through enemies in alleyways, ambushes, duels. Other scenes flashed by. It slit the throat of a figure seated at a table mid-meal. Ended the life of one sleeping in a bed. Jane wrinkled her nose at the brutal acts. But she had seen worse. Far worse. Still, her fingers itched to deliver the punishment already and move on. Those who take life so easily should not be allowed to keep that power.

She continued, each new memory a crescendo of brutality. The killings grew more methodical, colder, stripped of cause or context. Her verdict had long since been made—this one won't walk away rewarded. Now, she merely waited for the visions to end, for the mist to return around her, for the story to close. Only at that point would she pass the sentence it had earned.

Then—something shifted.

The endless parade of bloodshed vanished, replaced by an elegant ballroom. The figure now danced amidst a crowd, the scene a jarring contrast to the savagery Jane had just witnessed. Music played—silent to her ears, yet present in every movement. One of the dancers stumbled, and the figure she watched knelt gracefully, helping them to their feet with surprising tenderness. Jane stilled, curiosity halting her judgment. What is this?

The vision flickered. A new setting. The figure appeared again, this time hoisting a limp body over one shoulder, leading a mass of indistinct gray forms through a tunnel without walls, ceiling, or floor. Just space—endless, featureless space. A strange familiarity prickled at her senses. Déjà vu? She shook it off. She’d seen countless lives. What was one more?

The scenery shifted again—now bizarre and unreal. Titanic gray pillars stretched impossibly high, vanishing into a formless sky. They went on forever, a field of impossibility, as if the world itself had glitched. The entire scene was drained of color and clarity, like a half-rendered memory or a simulation not meant for her eyes. Jane narrowed her gaze, scanning the surreal expanse, searching for her target. Where are you…?

Something moved.

A wave. No—a tide of motion. Soundless and swirling, it was a storm of teeth and limbs. It crashed through the pillars, a flood of countless gray creatures converging on the center of the vision. Jane forced herself forward, attempting to get a better look. At the heart of the chaos, she saw it: the figure she was charged with watching, staggering beneath the weight of a massive cross. Bound to it was another gray form—still, vulnerable, and exposed.

Her breath caught.

The tide arrived—the critch. Silent, insectile, and unmistakable. They surged forward in droves, skittering up the legs of the figure carrying the cross, ignoring them entirely as they tore into the one affixed to it. Claws raked. Flesh unraveled. The air—if it existed here—seemed to thrum with something ancient and terrible.

And Jane watched, frozen in place.

Is that… me?

Jane’s eyes snapped downward. The figure carrying the cross staggered, dropping to one knee beneath its weight. Around him, the critch died in bursts of silent gore, torn apart as they hurled themselves at the figure bound to the cross—only to be shredded mid-lunge. Slowly, painfully, the figure rose again, shoulders trembling as he hefted the heavy cross once more and pushed forward.

Dyle?!

Her heart pounded, a stuttering rhythm that echoed in her ears. It can't be. Dyle was a continent away. How could she be witnessing his life—this moment—here, inside the life of a random soldier from the southern Mandalas? Was it a glitch? A hallucination brought on by the flood of lives she’d judged, each one blurring into the next? Was her mind finally breaking?

But the vision didn’t end, didn’t give her a single moment to breathe or reflect further.

More critch appeared, streaming in relentless waves, and still the figure pressed onward. Jane watched helplessly, her breath catching each time he faltered, every labored step a blow to her chest. He fell again. The cross slammed to the earth. She reached out instinctively, tried to scream encouragement, to lend her Voice of Truth—but no sound came. The world remained hushed and ghostly. And yet—he rose, alone, unaided, and resumed his march.

She watched, unable to turn away. Unlike the fleeting scenes she saw before, jumping from one event to the next, this vision refused to fade. The System wanted her to see everything. Every agonizing step through the Great Woods. Every moment she herself had lived half-conscious, delirious with pain and hunger, now replayed with unbearable clarity. She saw herself refusing food, caught in fits of paranoia, shouting in maddening cycles like clockwork. And through it all, Dyle had continued forward—never stopping, never turning back.

Tears streamed down her cheeks without her realizing they were there.

Finally—mercifully—the towering pillars of the Great Woods gave way. The formless trees thinned. The gray brightened. Open space yawned before them.

Dyle collapsed. The cross fell from his shoulders. And she snapped forward to somewhere yet another vision.

Jane blinked—once, twice—trying to process what she had just witnessed. Even more memories followed, but they came too quickly, and she was too shellshocked. They flashed past in a blur she barely noticed. How? Why? Her thoughts spiraled.

Was that really Dyle? What's happening here? Is this a trick?

Doubt surged through her, sharp and disorienting. The stream of visions finally ceased, leaving her suspended in the stillness that preceded every judgment, the mist of the world around her gradually reforming. This was the moment she would normally raise her hand and deliver a verdict with Pinpoint Judgment. But now…

The world around her sharpened. Time remained frozen, the silence oppressive—it would only be moments before she had to move on. And yet her mind screamed with turmoil. If that truly was Dyle—if—then everything had changed. Where am I? Is this Arcadia? How… many have I judged? The enormity of it pressed down on her, threatening to crush the mechanical rhythm she had embraced in order to survive this endless trial. Her mission was simple: render judgment until every living soul on Alur was weighed, measured, and assigned its fate. That’s… why I’m here, isn’t it? Her arm trembled, aching to deliver the verdict and continue her mission of judgement.

No.

She flinched, her hand pulling back a step. I don’t judge friends. The thought came not as rebellion, but as a memory—a quiet promise she had made long ago, buried under the endless weight of obligation. A vow she’d never broken.

Jane swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe, to slow the spiraling momentum that had been driving her forward like a blade through cloth. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears as she fought to regain control, to halt the inexorable wheel of judgment before it crushed someone she cared about.

Then, like a mirror shattering under pressure, she shut everything down.

All at once, her skills deactivated, snapping free like kites cut loose in a gale. Light and color came rushing back, flooding the world with overwhelming sensation. Gravity reclaimed her body. She tumbled from the sky, a helpless weight spiraling through the fog, and hit the trampled field below with a wet, shuddering thud.

The silence that followed was real. And this time, it was hers.

For a moment, Jane lay still, breath shallow, as a wave of exhaustion threatened to pull her under. Her limbs felt leaden, her mind frayed. But she clenched her jaw and forced it back, planting her hands against the ground and slowly pushing herself to her knees. The air was thick—gray mist still coiled around her like a second skin.

Is my Drawn Veil still active?

Panic flickered in her chest. What if she couldn’t turn it off? What if she was trapped in the silence and haze forever? Her heart pounded, invisible walls of anxiety closing in around her—until, at last, through the swirling fog, something began to take shape. A silhouette. And then—sound. Real sound. The softest ripple at first, then unmistakable. A voice.

“…is that you? Jane?”

She froze. The voice was muffled, distant—yet achingly familiar. Then, from the mist, he stepped forward. Black hair tousled by the breeze, twin blades strapped at his sides, and those sharp, watchful eyes cutting through the haze like steel.

“Dyle?!”

Staggering upright on trembling legs, she lurched forward, her body remembering how to move one clumsy step at a time. She caught her foot on something half-buried in the dirt and pitched forward—but didn’t fall.

Strong arms caught her.

She looked up, eyes wide, disbelief still tumbling her thoughts.

“I don’t understand… How are you here? Why?”

Dyle held her gaze, steady and unshaken. “There you are,” he whispered.

Then he pulled her into a fierce embrace, arms wrapped tightly around her as if anchoring her to the world itself.

“I came for you, Jane. I came for you.”

***

Melindra strode through the shattered remnants of the battlefield as the mist thinned beneath the steady heat of the noonday sun. The Mandalas of Beauty and Courage had never stood a chance—not against a Legendary class holder, let alone the near-total might of the Netherrealm. The only question had been how long they’d last before finally breaking. The answer had proven: not long.

All around her, demons moved with grim efficiency, rounding up survivors and clearing the field. Even those who had been spared punishment—those deemed worthy—stood dazed, fingers probing at necks now bare, the collars of servitude shattered by the demons around them. Freed, but stunned.

To her right, Gral’gor walked in silence, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Every so often, he blinked out of existence, only to reappear a few paces ahead, barely interrupting his stride. Another mystery. An Epic class, gifted by a Legendary. She’d heard tales of Augustus the Lightbringer and Brand the Firelord bestowing powers on companions—but those were simply old legends, unreliable at best. Were any of their chosen reborn like Gral'gor?

She shook the thought aside and swept her gaze back across the horizon. No sign of Jane. Then she must finally be satisfied.

Watching the young Judicator flit across the battlefield like a dark siren had been its own quiet nightmare. Melindra had remained safely among the other demons, keeping her presence low. The last thing she wanted was to unintentionally draw Jane’s attention. Being caught in one of her judgments was a risk she had no intention of testing.

Now… where are we exactly?

She slipped a worn map from her satchel and unrolled it. Behind her, the jagged silhouette of a mountain pierced the sky—Wyrmspire, if the markings are accurate. She allowed herself a faint smile. The location where Jane’s ring was forged, if memory serves.

Her gaze drifted southward across the parchment. Then we’re just inside the Mandala of Courage’s northern borders. She traced the southern route with a finger.

Not much fight left here. Not anymore. The demons had battled dragonkin from both southern Mandalas, but there was no trace of the one Valrathian had spoken of—the Temptuous Beauty. Melindra shrugged it off. So long as the path remains clear, that is all that matters.

Her finger rested on a circled dot just beyond the Mandala’s border—Integra, the Dirthian capital. City of the dwarves. Even on the ancient maps salvaged from the Mandala of Fortitude’s ancient libraries, the name had been marked, stubborn against time and revision. She drew a slow breath, eyes sweeping over the devastation Jane had left in her wake.

Are the Dirthian tunnels truly an option? A way back to Arcadia beneath the Green Sea itself?

She had never heard of anyone using them—not Belgoth, not his old master, not even in whispered tavern tales or half-drunken boasts. No records. No rumors. Not even legends. And if those tunnels aren’t an option... what then? What will it mean for Jane?

A withered dragonkin limped past, his mask shattered, eyes hollow and unfocused. A Tormentor followed close behind, prodding him forward with cruel indifference. Melindra shivered. Aiding what amounted to a demonic invasion of Alur—this was never the path she’d imagined for herself. Belgoth… if only you could see me now. She shook her head. Was the old Storm Wizard still out there somewhere? Part of her longed for Jane to use her Luck to check. The other part—afraid of what the answer might be.

Beyond that, something deeper gnawed at her—a cold dread, hard to name but impossible to ignore. A presence absent. One that should absolutely not be absent.

Taltorius.

Since the opening clash in the northern Mandala of Power, the Mythic-class demon had vanished. Not once had she seen him—not amidst the incredible exodus south, not in the skies, not even in reports from the other demons. Has Jane noticed? If so, she hadn’t said a word. If anything, she appeared relieved to be free of his ceaseless banter.

But Melindra knew Taltorius for what he truly was.

A demon verging on level two thousand. A bound one who could nevertheless twist the Soul Binding to near irrelevance. A scourge on the Netherrealm itself for thousands of years, an ancient construct of might forged from the death of millions. Even diminished, even if his physical form had shrunk to a mere shadow of what it once was, his power dwarfed that of the Faceless Dark a hundredfold. For Melindra, his absence wasn’t relief—it was terror, wrapped in malignant silence.

She narrowed her eyes, scanning the shimmering horizon, the fading mist now replaced by the tide of Jane’s legions steadily pouring south.

Where are you, demon?