JUDICATOR JANE 6 - CHAPTER 32 (Patreon)

Monsters in the Shadows

Ristharak landed hard in a flash of flame, the impact rippling through the earth beneath him as he drew a sharp breath of night air. His scaled hands curled into fists, trembling with barely suppressed fury. During his escape, he had glimpsed other dragonkin held captive within the sprawling camps of the demon horde—he hadn’t been the only one taken. So, the Ancient Enemy has truly returned. The thought still felt like a myth dredged from some fireside tale, but the monstrous horde he’d seen left no room for doubt. If there was any grace in this dark resurgence, it was that the demons seemed utterly unfamiliar with the terrain of Kaldara. Their forces bypassed the major cities and towns entirely, instead pouring into the borderlands between Mandalas like a tide, too dumb or too arrogant to navigate properly.

His mind churned. The time for isolation and past rivalries was over. The other clans would have to unite, no matter the grudges or the bitterness of old defeats. This wasn’t about Resonance anymore—this was about survival. He growled low in his throat. First, he’d return to Garontal and rally the Mandala of Power, redirect their war engines and defenses toward this new threat. Then—though he detested the thought—he would serve as emissary to the other Mandalas. No one else could do it faster, and no other voice would carry the weight his did. Ascension of Flame would get him there swiftly, and more importantly, he was the head of the clan of Power. In person, his presence alone would force the others to listen. Southward, to Wisdom, he would go first. Perhaps old Srathaki can finally prove that bulbous head of his holds more than just proverbs.

But first—where exactly have I landed?

He scanned the misty fields surrounding him. Some nameless farm east of Garontal, most likely. A thick fog blanketed the ground, and the first blush of dawn cast a pale sheen across the landscape. His Ascension of Flame skill needed time to recharge—an hour, at least—so he moved forward on foot, each step deliberate, his mind already racing ahead to war councils and battle plans.

Then, a shape in the fog caught his eye. He squinted. A lone figure trudged through the mist, and for an instant, Ristharak’s heart stuttered. The enemy? A demon? But no. Just another Cull. The plantation Masters worked them to the bone from dawn to dusk, most were just hollow-eyed, slack-jawed husks. His lips curled in disgust. The sudden interruption to his thoughts, combined with the sting of his own recent failures, boiled over. The Cull became a lightning rod for his fury, an ugly reminder of the battle he hadn’t won. Your Luck has failed you this time, Cull.

He strode forward, calling forth Blades of Ash. Two ember-etched swords hissed into existence, one in each hand, glowing faintly in the fog. Without ceremony, he unhooked his golden mask and tossed it aside, letting it fall with a dull thud.

“To look upon one of the Masters means death,” he said, voice hard as stone. “Do you know why?”

The Cull didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. He just kept walking, heavy step after heavy step, unaware or uncaring of his impending doom approaching. Ristharak rolled his eyes, irritation rising like bile. Enough. With a burst of speed, he launched forward, twin blades singing through the mist as he prepared to cleave the dim-witted man in half and bathe in his warm blood.

This Cull is meaty, he thought in that final moment, the thought oddly mundane as his ember blades raced forward.

Instead of the expected satisfaction of cleaved flesh, Ristharak felt the jarring resistance of solid impact—like striking a wall. What?! His eyes snapped to the Cull. One arm was raised, glowing red from the impact of his blow. But the heat faded quickly, revealing not scorched skin, but gleaming steel beneath.

With a snarl, Ristharak sprang back, then burst forward in a blur, triggering Flare Assault. His ember-forged blades ignited with blistering fire, lashing out in a flurry of strikes. Faster and faster he moved, intent on reducing the fool to cinders—but each blow was parried with impossible speed. The man’s arms moved with flickering precision, intercepting every strike just before it landed. No… not an ordinary man. This was something else entirely.

Ristharak roared in disbelief, intensifying his assault and launching into a blinding blitz of slashes. Then at its zenith, he vaulted into the air, summoning his most devastating power—Breath of the Dragon. A torrent of flame erupted from his lungs, cascading down in a storm of white-hot fire. The air rippled with heat as wave after wave poured forth, until the very earth glowed molten where the Cull had once stood.

He landed hard, eyes snapping upward, already pulling open his System logs. Nothing. No defeated message. No surge of experience. No sign of a corpse. Was it a mistake? 

Through the thick smoke and rising steam, he strained to see. Nothing should have survived that. Nothing could have.

Then—motion. A silhouette, slow and steady, emerging from the haze. Ristharak squinted, trying to trigger Burning Eyes, but the smoke mixed with the darkness made it impossible. Who is this blasted Cull? His grip tightened on the blades. “You’ve made a grave mistake, human.”

The figure kept walking, undisturbed. As the smoke peeled back, Ristharak saw the truth: beneath the man’s skin was polished, unmarred metal. Patches of flesh were slowly reforming over his limbs, but the muscle beneath gleamed like burnished armor. Embedded in his forehead, pulsing with ominous light, was a crimson gem.

“Who said I was human?” the figure replied, voice cold and even.

In an instant, he vanished—then reappeared directly in front of Ristharak. Two massive blades were in his hands. No, not held—they were his hands, shaped and extended into weapons. They flashed forward and Ristharak reacted on instinct, meeting the assault in a shower of sparks. He poured every ounce of his strength—all three hundred points—into the clash, but his attacker’s expression didn’t change. No strain. No anger. Just dead, emotionless focus.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the enemy’s blades liquefied, silvery metal flowing like mercury. They wrapped around Ristharak’s wrists, solidifying into thick manacles before he could retreat. He thrashed against them, flame erupting from his skin, his feet gouging the earth as he struggled—but the bonds didn’t budge. Panic bloomed in his chest.

He looked up—the metallic figure was standing before him, silent, watching dispassionately.

In desperation, Ristharak triggered Burning Eyes.

Gral’gor (Level 401)

Demon

Agility: 1532

Intelligence: 799

Blood drained from his face. They had come for him.

“Resistance is futile. You are Shackled—and until you stand before judgment, there is no corner of Alur you can flee to that I will not find,” the figure said at last, voice as cold and immovable as the metal binding him.

“Judgment?” Ristharak spat the word, his breath ragged. “What would demons know of justice?” He flinched, then forced a long, slow inhale to steady himself. There was still one skill—one desperate gambit—that might give him a chance. I’ll worry about the price later, if I can just—

But before the thought could fully form, the manacles clenched with brutal force. Bone cracked. Ristharak howled in agony as the pressure shattered both wrists. His ember-forged blades dropped from his hands and vanished into smoke, leaving only the pain behind.

“Dragonkin,” the voice intoned, now low and sharp with menace, “I have slain more of your kind than I care to count. One more is of little consequence to me.”

The metal figure pulled him closer, eyes narrowing with something like disdain.

“However… Jane King would have words with you. And so—you will come. Whether you do so with any bones intact is the only decision you have left to make.”

In a blink, he moved again, vanishing and reappearing behind Ristharak. The dragonkin’s arms were wrenched backward, wrists locked in place by unyielding steel. He struggled, breath heaving, blood dripping down his forearms.

Shoved forward, he took a stuttered step forward. No, his escape had only been an illusion.

***

A perpetual night loomed over the city of Grandia, the sky choked with drifting clouds that swallowed the starlight in uneven gulps. Now and then, a few stars pierced through the gloom, faint pinpricks of gold or silver defying the darkness. Varlik squinted upward, eyes scanning the heavens as he attempted to count each one—a pointless, meditative habit that calmed his thoughts.

His focus broke as a massive white shape lumbered into view, its hulking frame blotting out the stars. A low growl of irritation formed in his throat, but he swallowed it down. Instead, he narrowed his gaze and activated Tactical Insight.

Bleached Horror (Level 189)

An undead shock trooper.

Intelligence: 2

“Both your heads are looking more beautiful than ever, Bleached Horror,” Varlik called out, his metallic voice reverberating through the damp air like a distant bell. The creature turned toward him for a moment, twin faces locked in eternal, silent screams—then resumed its lumbering pace, shambling slowly into the fog-draped street.

If Varlik could have shaken his head, he would have. Whatever had befallen Grandia, he held no doubt as to the cause: Jane King. That damned witch.

Since his transformation into an Arcanite Statue, he’d passed the time offering compliments to Grandia’s residents. It was the only task left to him.

He opened his quest log and checked the remaining duration—something he had done too many times to count.

Live As a Friendly Statue

Quest: Offer genuine compliments to any adults who approach you. If children come your way, tell them a funny story.

Reward: Death

Failure Penalty: +1 Year Duration (Repeating)

Duration: 356 Years

Each time he failed to offer a compliment, another year was added to the duration. At first, Varlik ignored the clause—refusing to play the witch’s game. But as the years piled on and the soul-crushing monotony set in, fear began to gnaw at the edges of his mind, eroding his resistance. He finally gave in, and did as the quest asked. In fact, telling stories to the children had been more enjoyable than he thought—at least they listened, asked questions, laughed. But now? No children. No familiar faces. Just the twisted horrors that shuffled past on a loop he’d long since stopped trying to understand.

Yet the quest persisted—unbothered by whether the “adults” around him were human or not.

Then, voices.

He strained his senses, desperate for anything—news, conversation, something real.

“I see. So, she is on the move.”

Two figures walked past, just out of clear sight. One wore a crimson vest, sharp and stylish; the other, an aged demon cloaked in a regal purple robe.

“So it would seem,” the older one replied. “Vexmor reports she’s finally headed south—with a considerable host of demons no less. Even I can feel their presence. The number of Soul Bindings on Alur has increased dramatically.”

“Good. Then it’s only a matter of time. Once she returns, we can finally put this unpleasant chapter behind us. Have you informed the residents about the circumstances?”

“I have. The other Blood Bound are preparing now. Even should your Eternal Night swallow the city, both the demons and humans at the fortress should be safe.”

“Remind them it’s only temporary.”

“Naturally. As for the human kingdoms… well, you don’t have the numbers to shield them all. Nor would they welcome it to begin with.”

A sigh. “Indeed. Until Jane returns, there’s little that can be done. No matter. A few displaced citizens is hardly even worth the consideration. More importantly…”

Their voices faded, drowned beneath the clatter of skeletal feet echoing through the streets.

Varlik didn’t move. Not that he could anyway. He barely noticed the quest duration ticking upward, another few years added without ceremony.

Jane… It was her. He had always suspected it. Whatever ruin had befallen Grandia—whatever had warped the land, the skies, the people—it traced back to her.

His thoughts raced, assembling theories, testing scenarios. The undead and demons had to be connected—some shared command, some deeper link. The gears of his strategic mind whirred to life, plotting moves, countermoves, contingency upon contingency. His Warlord class was almost entirely useless now, but nonetheless it felt good to think again.

Yet despite how flawless the plan he crafted might be, there was just one problem.

He was just an Arcanite Statue, alone and unmoving, trapped in the middle of a ruined city.