JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 28 (Patreon)

To Die a Slave

“This is it, isn’t it? Our last battle.”

Tarik didn’t answer right away. He glanced at the trembling young man beside him, steadying him with a firm hand. Sunlight flashed off the silver collar locked around the boy’s neck—Llaran. This would only be his second time in combat.

“Our last battle will come,” Tarik said finally, “but not today.” He jerked his chin toward a grizzled fighter nearby. “When Hosh gives the word, you break left and stay with him. Got it?”

Llaran nodded, his gaze fixed on the enemy massing in the distance. Tarik followed it—rows of soldiers marched with terrifying precision, palanquins swaying above a tide of chained slaves. Only when the gong sounded would they be released.

Blasted Humility. Of all the Mandalas, it had to be them. Fanatics to the bone, too eager to die.

To his right, Karidor and Sandolar wore the same bleak expression.

“Humility…” Karidor muttered. “We’re still doing this?”

Tarik cast a glance behind them—ranks of the Third through Seventh slave divisions, and further back, the crimson banners of the Bloodstrikers—the elite of the Mandala of Power. “We are,” he said. “Not like we have much of a choice.”

This wasn’t just some skirmish over a road or farm. It felt larger—ominous. This time, the slave divisions were arrayed to take the full impact of the charge, with no hope of pulling back. And when they broke? The Bloodstrikers would crash in from the flanks. Or just ride over them outright. Tarik’s gut twisted. The whole formation looked off—as if the real fight was expected to erupt in the north. They were completely exposed.

Karidor seemed to notice the same. “Feels like a trap,” he growled. “Lure Humility forward, let them chew through the slaves, then flank them hard. The Masters planned this, mark my words. Old Ristharak is no fool.”

Ristharak, the highest ranking Master in the Mandala of Power. Tarik had never even seen him. “Probably right,” he responded. “But why would Humility fall for it?”

Karidor shrugged. “Not our concern. This plan of yours… I suppose now’s the time we finally put it to the test.”

The plan. Five slave divisions breaking rank mid-battle and fleeing north. Madness on paper—but it was the only hope they had. Nearly a year of secret messages, smuggled blades, and blood-sworn oaths came down to this one moment.

Tarik’s gaze grew distant. Without moving, he brought up his stats.

Tarik (Level 64)

Human

Class: Rageblade (Epic)

Strength: 92

Agility: 61

Constitution: 81

Intelligence: 15

Luck: 10

Health: 805/810

Bloodlust: 0/100

Rageblade—his new class. Even now, a year later, he still found himself expecting to see the old title: Dragonkin Destroyer. When the System first presented it to him as a boy, he’d chosen it without hesitation—the only Epic-rarity option available. It had sounded powerful, mythical. But its usefulness had quickly proven illusory. No one knew what a dragonkin was. The skills were flashy but impractical without their highly-specific targets. Just another dead-end class propped up by inflated stats. The one time his perfect Luck stat had betrayed him.

He’d regretted the choice ever since.

Then came the incident. Mid-battle, without warning, the System had revoked his class—and his alone. A blaring notification stripped away his only edge. In the chaos, he had no time to question it. He chose the only other Epic class offered in the moment, blind to what it even did. Rageblade. Only afterward, when the blood dried and the battle ended, did he begin to understand what it truly meant. And today, that change—whatever force caused it—was the only reason their rebellion might succeed.

Defying the Masters was suicide—unless you had the strength to make them bleed. Just one Master brought down could send shockwaves through the entire battlefield. Tarik had heard of it happening only once before. Nearly an entire battalion was executed in the aftermath.

Well… we’re dead either way.

“Any word from the Fifth? Chinrock didn’t sound committed,” Tarik asked quietly.

Karidor gave a short nod. “He’ll stand with us. Still remembers what you did for him at Menrale. We all do.”

The deep clang of a gong silenced them both. Down the slope, the enemy surged forward in a rolling tide of steel and shouts. Whether the plan would succeed didn’t matter anymore. Death or freedom—it was time to flip the coin.

He glanced once more at his reformed class. Well, Rageblade, time to put you to the test. One man stood between his brothers and the slaughter to come.

And that man was him.

***

Jane squinted into the haze ahead. Dust rose in curling waves, and the air carried the clang of steel and distant shouts. “That’s… a lot of people,” she muttered. “Do they know we’re coming? I didn’t think we’d see resistance this soon.” Then her eyes narrowed. “Wait—are they fighting each other?”

To her right, Balostroze stood tall, one clawed hand wrapped around the shaft of his blackened spear. “We are close enough now that the Infiltrators can report directly through the Soul Binding,” he said. “Crakkis confirms there are two forces engaged—the nearer bears the banners of the Mandala of Power. The other, approaching from the south, flies those of the Mandala of Humility.”

He gestured with the tip of his spear toward the chaotic clash ahead. “It appears we have arrived at a critical moment. The Mandala of Humility struck from the rear just minutes ago. With both armies locked in combat, it will be a simple matter to crush them where they stand.”

Jane pursed her lips, considering. “Any sense of what they’re made of? Just humans—or are there dragonkin in the mix?”

“A number of dragonkin,” Balostroze confirmed. “But they remain well behind the battle lines. The front ranks are entirely human.”

Jane guided her Emerald Drake a few steps forward and looked back—only now could she fully appreciate the scale of the horde behind her. Demons stretched like a living tide, ranks packed so thick they nearly touched the base of the mountains. Massive didn’t begin to describe it.

Well, no need to worry about being subtle now. A war was already underway, and she had a continent to cross. Once they started the charge, it was all or nothing—a mad blitz through anything and everything to reach the Dirthian city of Integra in the south.

To her left, Gral’gor stood silently, arms folded, his presence as steady and unmoving as an obelisk.

Jane glanced at him. “Ready to test our work?”

He inclined his head, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips. “It seems a suitable time. I welcome the chance to fight beside you again.”

She turned forward, reins taut in her hands, her voice sharp with command. “Alright, Balostroze. Just like we planned. After Gral’gor and I finish, full charge—no stops except for what we talked about with the slaves and the dragonkin. Once they see us, the countdown begins. So we hit hard, we hit fast, and we keep going until we’re clear of the battle.”

***

Tarik wiped the grit from his eyes and triggered Flash of Rage, his body exploding forward in a blur of motion. Three Humility fanatics fell before they could react, their bodies cleaved apart in a spray of blood. It soaked the ground around him, hot and viscous—yet beneath the carnage, he felt it again. That cursed melody. Whispering inside him, coaxing surrender, tempting him to lay down his arms and embrace humility.

But not today. Today, he needed power. The competing song of war flowed through him, pulsing with strength and fueling his rage.

“The Fourth just connected with us!” Karidor bellowed through the din. “It’s now or never!”

That was the signal. The channel to Jarashax was open.

Tarik turned around, locking eyes with the distant pavilion where the golden-masked Master stood enthroned. No more waiting. He broke into a run. Around him, the slaves erupted into cheers, parting like a tide, clearing a path through the chaos. If he could strike down Jarashax, confusion would tear through the Mandala of Power ranks—and the escape north might actually work.

This was never the destiny he wanted. Never the path he chose. But in the madness of too many battles to count, soaked in blood and ash, he had become their last hope. The Masters still believed he held the same worthless class as before. They had no idea what the System had done—what he had become.

A flash of memory seared his thoughts—his mother’s final breath, the lash of the Master’s whip, her body crumpled and broken. Rage had always been with him, silent and patient. Now, he welcomed it. It didn’t just push him forward—it fueled him. Every enemy he felled, every beat of his heart, surged into his Bloodlust stat, feeding the storm inside.

Bloodlust: 100/100

Maker guide me, he prayed. Today, vengeance will be done—and freedom will be earned.

Atop the armored pavilion, clad in steel and studded spikes, Jarashax stood. The Master rose from his grotesque throne of broken blades as their eyes met.

Tarik activated Breaking Sight.

Jarashax (Level 121)

Strength: 64

Constitution: 87

Health: 870/870

With stats like those, whatever class Jarashax possessed, it likely wasn’t Epic—and despite the gap in levels, Tarik felt a surge of confidence. The Master had power, yes, but Tarik had become something else entirely.

Jarashax stepped forward to the edge of the pavilion, the structure swaying atop the backs of over fifty labor slaves. They stood motionless, their eyes glassy, dead to the chaos around them.

“Insolence,” Jarashax intoned, his voice smooth and venomous. “Return to the frontlines. Immediately.” His hand tightened around a black spiked whip at his side.

A wave of sheer force radiated from him—raw, oppressive. The very air seemed to bend under it.

But Tarik didn’t flinch. He was no stranger to the melody of power anymore. The notes thrumming within him rose in defiance, twisting Jarashax’s will into fuel for his own rage.

“You’ll pay for everything,” Tarik roared. “For the broken backs, the shattered lives—for all of it!”

Then, suddenly—his head jerked left, eyes snapping skyward.

Something was there.

High above the battlefield hovered a lone figure—slender, still, unmistakably female. She wore a black dress that rippled like smoke, and from her back jutted two immense wings of motionless steel. She didn’t flap. She didn’t drift. She simply floated, suspended like a blade held at the edge of a scream.

What is that? Tarik’s instincts shrieked danger, but his head refused to move. Around him, he sensed others were caught the same—paralyzed, transfixed in confusion.

The woman stopped midair. Slowly, deliberately, she raised one hand. The battlefield held its breath. 

“JUSTICE CANNOT EXIST WITHOUT LAW TO ENFORCE.”

The voice thundered outward, deep and commanding, echoing across the battlefield like the judgment of the Maker himself. In its wake, pillars of crimson light erupted from the ground, streaking skyward in a sudden blaze—an entire field igniting in a storm of cold red fire.

A pulse followed—a low, bone-rattling reverberation that seemed to come from beneath the ground itself. The earth trembled. Tarik staggered, his breath catching in his throat.

Then, without warning, the System forced a window into his vision. It blazed to life, unbidden and urgent, unlike anything he had ever seen. Symbols flickered erratically across its frame, and the borders shimmered with a red so bright it almost hurt to look at.

LAW ENACTED: No fighting

VIOLATION: Punch

DURATION: 12:00:00

AREA: 1 mi²

His eyes were still locked on the strange woman when she suddenly dropped from the sky like a stone—and just as abruptly, the compulsion to watch her vanished. Tarik staggered, sucking in a breath, momentarily disoriented. The System window still hovered in front of him, flashing red with bizarre information.

No fighting? It made no sense.

He glanced around. The other slaves wore the same stunned expression, glancing from System logs to the battlefield, frozen in disbelief.

Then his gaze snapped back to Jarashax, still poised on the platform like a smug deity untouched by the chaos. Is this another one of their tricks?

It didn’t matter. Nothing could stop him now. Freedom was within reach—just one battle away. Rage lit his eyes as he surged forward, sword in hand, ready to unleash Slash of Vengeance—

—and hit a wall.

He rebounded hard, crashing into the dirt. Dazed, he looked up—and realized it wasn’t a wall.

It was a man.

Hovering a foot above the ground, broad-shouldered and bare-chested, he stood like an immovable statue. Violet hair floated in the air around his head like wisps of flame, and in the center of his forehead, a red gem pulsed in rhythm with the fire burning behind his eyes.

He wasn’t armored. He didn’t need to be. He didn’t look like a warrior.

He looked like a reckoning.

Gral’gor (Level 400)

Demon

Strength: 367

Constitution: 521

Health: 5210/5210

Demon?! Tarik barely had time to glimpse the stats before the figure’s voice erupted like thunder.

“Violator.”

The word rang with absolute judgment.

Then, without warning, the man’s right hand lashed out—a vicious hook, fluid and devastating.

You have received crushing damage!

-50 HP

Tarik flew backward, crashing into a line of other slaves like a ragdoll kicked by a horse. His skull throbbed, the world ringing with the aftermath of the blow. He snapped his gaze upward—but the man who had struck him was gone. Vanished. Another cruel illusion from the Masters? Are they truly this powerful?

From the raised pavilion, the gold-masked Jarashax leapt down with predatory grace, a spiked whip slithering loose from his belt like a serpent. With a flick of his arm, the weapon lashed forward. But before it struck, the same man—no, demon—from before materialized out of thin air, facing the Master squarely. “Violator,” he said, his voice deep and resonant like stone crumbling. The fist shot forward with such speed Tarik didn’t even register the motion. Jarashax was flung back as if struck by the Maker himself, the golden mask spiraling through the air as his body slammed into the pavilion’s edge. And then, as swiftly as he had come, the violet-haired behemoth blinked out of existence.

Tarik staggered upright, his balance unsteady, vision swimming. He turned toward the battlefield and froze. Chaos had erupted. The same figure was flashing in and out of sight, appearing across the field like a living bolt of lightning, delivering devastating blows to both the Mandala of Humility and Mandala of Power alike, sowing confusion and ruin in every direction.

Then came the flood—like a dam bursting, a strange army surged forth. Not marching, but running, crashing through the battlelines with feral momentum. Hulking figures cloaked in shadow and steel tore through the ranks, moving with savage purpose. Tarik’s gaze snapped back to Jarashax—somehow on his feet again, whip raised high. His eyes widened. By the Maker… That face—it’s not human! Tarik flinched back, bracing for the sting of the lash.

And then the terrible man was back again.

“Violator,” he declared once more, voice like a tolling funeral bell. But this time, his fist morphed mid-motion—its flesh melting into liquid metal, transforming into a massive steel block glowing faintly with heat. It slammed forward like a battering ram, striking Jarashax with such force that the Master flew twice as far, skidding across the dirt. He did not rise again.

Tarik stood paralyzed, his limbs locked in fear. All around him, monstrous, bestial warriors surged into the slave ranks, grabbing some, tossing others aside like refuse. One such brute—nearly ten feet tall, with jagged armor and a snarling visage—seized him by the neck and lifted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing.

Wrax’fel (Level 103)

Demon

Strength: 123

Constitution: 145

Health: 1450/1450

Tarik felt a sudden tug at his neck—the demon was attempting to tear his head off. He flailed helplessly. Then the collar shattered.

The towering demon tossed him aside without a second glance and moved on. One by one, the same happened to the others. Collars cracked, fell, and crumbled into the dust. Within moments, every slave stood free.

Staggering to his feet, Tarik turned in a slow circle, taking in the scene. No sign of Jarashax. Only the roar of battle and the relentless tide of demons pouring in from the north, sweeping through the chaos like a dark flood.

A hand settled on his shoulder. He turned to find Karidor standing beside him, bloodied but alive.

“Well,” Karidor said, scanning the field, “what do you make of that?”

Tarik rubbed his aching jaw, eyes still wide. He had no answer.

None of them did.