JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 30 (Patreon)

Through the Edge

Racing across the open field, Melindra urged her Emerald Drake to keep pace, struggling to close the gap with Jane. Behind them, the remnants of the forces of the Mandala of Power and Humility lay beyond sight, scattered in the distant battlefield. Jane hadn’t slowed since the first clash—driving forward like a storm given form. The sun dipped low behind them, casting the world in a molten orange glow.

“Jane!” Melindra called out, voice raised above the wind. “The horde is well clear of the battlefield—we must stop for the night!”

Still, Jane didn’t respond. Her gaze was locked ahead, distant yet burning with resolve, her posture taut with urgency.

“Jane!” Melindra shouted again, louder this time, firm and commanding.

No answer. Only the rhythmic pounding of the drake beneath her.

Frowning, Melindra invoked her skill—Toll of Destiny. In her right hand, a massive black bell materialized, heavy and foreboding. With a single sweeping motion, she rang it. The sound wasn’t one bell, but a hundred—deep, reverberating clangs that echoed across the fields like oppressive thunder.

“Jane!” her voice boomed across the dusk. “Stop this madness at once!”

The sound broke through. Jane finally reined her drake to a skidding halt. Around her, demons faltered mid-stride, glancing around in confusion.

Jane turned, eyes blazing with frustration. “We can’t stop now! This is enemy territory, and every second we waste gives them a chance to regroup and strike back! The Dirthian city of Integra is our only sanctuary—we have to reach it before they close in again!”

Melindra met her fury with steel. “Calm yourself!” she snapped. “You don’t even know how far Integra is—it could be weeks away! Look around you!”

Jane hesitated, her jaw tight. Only now did she seem to notice the state of her army. All around her, demons stood swaying with fatigue. Some trembled where they stood, their chests heaving, their weapons dragging behind them in the dirt.

“Yes, the stronger ones can keep going,” Melindra said, her voice low but sharp. “But what of the others? You’ll break their bodies before we even reach the next Mandala. That’s not leadership. That’s collapse.”

Jane’s arms slowly lowered, her expression tightening with guilt.

“We need rest. You need rest. And don’t forget—we still have prisoners to interrogate,” Melindra continued. “You want to know what’s ahead? Then let the Darkwing Skimmers do reconnaissance. Let us dig in for the night and learn what we can. A river, a canyon, another army—any of it could be lying in wait just over the next ridge. Charging blind only endangers lives.”

The fury in Jane’s expression slowly softened. She exhaled hard, shoulders slumping slightly as the adrenaline faded. Then she gave a nod—short and reluctant. “Okay. You’re right. Of course you’re right. I… may have gotten a little carried away.”

Melindra arched an eyebrow. “A little? I assume that skill with the spears and pillars was Voice of Truth—the same one you used on me in the Netherrealm?” She crossed her arms. “If they didn’t know their fears before, they certainly do now.”

Jane gave a sheepish smile, her cheeks coloring. “Yeah, well… it was a simple question. I figured they’d all be able to answer it eventually.” She turned toward Balostroze. “We’re stopping here for the night. Pass the word.”

“As you wish, mistress,” he replied with a nod.

Jane tapped a finger to her lips. “How many dragonkin did we end up capturing from those last battles?”

Balostroze closed his eyes briefly, concentrating. “Sixty-two in total. The highest levels are Ristharak at 245, and one named Sharik at 237.”

Jane’s gaze drifted across the wide landscape surrounding them—open farmland with trampled crops and the faint outline of a lone structure on the horizon, smoke curling lazily from its chimney.

“Alright, for now, just bring those two—Ristharak and Sharik. I want a look at them.” She paused, then added, “And find Boli and Yin, wherever they are. Probably a good idea for them to see who their so-called Masters really are.”

She turned back to Melindra, rubbing her stomach with a groan. “Come on, while that’s happening… let’s find something to eat. I’m starving.”

***

Tarik stood in stunned silence as the last of the demon army vanished into the southern horizon, a tidal wave of muscle, steel, and shadow the likes of which he had never witnessed—not in all his years of battle. Their numbers had seemed endless, their formation disciplined, their momentum unstoppable. And yet, after shattering the slaves’ collars with terrifying ease, they hadn’t even spared a glance at the freed masses. They simply moved on, a living storm tearing through the Mandala of Humility’s formidable ranks as if they were made of paper. The battlefield, once an arena of oppression, now lay eerily still—bereft of Masters, their steel palanquins toppled and abandoned like forgotten thrones.

Even the elite Bloodstrikers—the so-called champions of Power—stood bewildered in the aftermath. These weren’t men who fought for coin or cause; they fought for the thrill of combat itself, embracing the melody. But now, they wandered aimlessly, muttering curses, clutching fractured jaws or peeling warped armor from bruised skin. Whatever strange System law was in effect, it had turned the tide against them as decisively as any blade.

“Now what?” a voice said behind him, breaking the silence.

Tarik turned to see Karidor and Hosh approaching, their expressions grim but alert. A handful of other division leaders followed close behind, former slaves now unshackled, yet uncertain of what came next.

He exhaled slowly and set his hands on his hips. “What now indeed…”

His gaze drifted northward. There, just beyond the broken ridge, the rolling green mountains of the northern wilds caught the last orange rays of the setting sun. That had been his only dream—freedom. Escape from the Mandalas, from the endless cycle of brutality, from the constant weight of servitude. Freedom not just for himself, but for every soul who had bled and toiled beside him. That path was open now. 

And yet, something within him stirred.

A fire kindled in his chest—not new, but long-buried, waiting for the right spark. It surged now, hungry for something he couldn’t quite name. He turned back to the others, brushing past Karidor and Hosh without a word, striding toward the gathered ranks of freed men. Murmurs spread like ripples through water—pointing fingers, nods of recognition, cautious hope. Some saluted. Others simply stared.

Tarik raised a hand.

The whispers died instantly.

”Brothers,” he began, his voice steady but forceful, carrying over the hushed crowd, “we’ve fought and bled together. Every step we take now is a tribute to those who came before us—the ones who took the lash without complaint, who shared their last scrap of bread, who threw themselves on swords so that we might live instead of they.”

He paused, letting the weight of those words settle. “I don’t know what happened today. I don’t know why this strange law has silenced the battlefield, or who those demons are, or where in the dark corners of the world they came from. But I do know this—two of the Mandalas strongest armies were shattered before our eyes, and not a single Master remains to gloat or command. The chains are broken.”

He turned slowly, extending a hand toward the horizon where the northern wilds loomed under the dying light. “There lies our freedom. Untamed, unknown. Beyond those dark woods may be monsters, ancient beasts, horrors that defy understanding. You've all heard the stories. As soon as we cross into those lands, danger will stalk our every step. But beyond it all, there is freedom—unquestioned, unbound.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the ranks. Heads nodded. Shoulders squared. Tarik let the moment simmer before swinging his hand to the south.

“But to the south… lies something else. Vengeance. The demons—whoever they are—aren’t fighting for a Mandala, or for any Master. I don’t think they give a damn which melody carries on the wind. And yet they shattered the armies we feared most and left us alive. Not enslaved, not chained—they freed us. They chose to. That means something. It has to.”

His voice rose now, heat swelling in every word. “I’ve lost brothers. Blood. Family. We all have. And yes, we’re free now. But what does that freedom mean if we turn our backs on those still shackled? On those still crying out for help? Will we vanish into the wilderness and leave them to their fates? Or will we use this freedom as a blade to cut down the ones who bound us?”

He stepped forward, fire in his eyes. “I say we follow the demon army and offer our strength. Not as slaves, not as dogs begging for scraps—but as warriors. They broke our collars not to claim us, but to release us. They could have crushed us like insects. Instead, they walked away and left the path open.”

He raised his fist high. “I won’t fault any man who chooses the northern wilds and the chance for a better life. But the fire inside me won’t let me walk away. I intend to drown it in the blood of the Masters. Who among you will stand with me?”

A roar tore through the crowd like a storm breaking loose. Weapons were lifted, fists were raised, and the air vibrated with the raw power of hundreds of voices crying out in unison. Tarik let it wash over him, saying nothing, only turning south once more.

As a Rageblade, his strength came from passion—fury forged into power. And now, the fire within him raged brighter than ever.