When he had taught the redhead tracking and other hunting basics during their time together, Jorfr hadn’t expected him to use the disturbance in environmental monads to trace his prey. He still sucked at it at the start, but it nonetheless felt strange that some people could simply see the spiritual side of the world, even if those eyes came from merging with an ancient and powerful ancestor. He had been worried that Victor might become arrogant or that his fortune might be lost on him, but he had also quickly learned that his worries were unfounded. Victor’s meteoric growth in recent months had only caused his sense for threats to develop such that he took precautions even against relative weaklings like these bandits.
Jorfr sent another message: “Ping the frequency sixteen increments above this one and follow the only trace. Your target is our pink lightning user; escort her. Do not reveal yourself unless it seems as though the target is about to be killed, captured, or wounded to a severe degree. Watch out for archers or other hidden reinforcements.”
The redhead turned to Jorfr and gave a nod, grinning. His staff’s jade rings jangling, he rode off towards the treeline upon his bony steed. Dawnwolf’s flames dimmed down to near nothing and its movement slowed as it entered, while Victor simply willed his staff’s smaller rings to remain still. That servitor was downright unsettlingly stealthy when it needed to be.
Several dozen people had gathered behind Jorfr by now; mostly civilians, but a few fighters and even a handful of cultivators. By the looks and auras of them, two of the Fort 57 cultivators were not new, but rather ones who had come out of hiding recently. Such cases weren’t too rare in the wake of the war, but the Pateirian Emperor officially ending his Cultivation Suppression Edict was what it took to open the flood gates. He supposed that if Tian Feng’s cultivator genocide was in anyone’s living memory, it would be immortal hermits.
One particular cultivator came up to Jorfr from behind, emanating a powerful yet subdued aura, and smelling like the smoke of a wildfire. It was a little, hunched old man, emaciated and wearing only trousers, with tied-back white hair and a wispy goatee. By his light brown skin and hazel eyes, he had to be a Grekurian. His body had tattoo-like tracts of black resembling a Victory Demon’s burns, but the patterns weren’t harsh enough, and he felt much too old to be a Victory Demon. In his hand he had a large pipe with a bulbous, metalshod end and a distinct handle, and it spewed dark, dense smoke. It was obviously intended for use as a weapon.
“What shall we do with these bandits, my young martial brother? Your spirit pressure cannot hold them forever.” asked the old man.
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“I suspect that some among them are merely victims of the war trying to eke out a living… But many among them also likely deserve death, or at least some other punishment.”
“Very well. I shall invoke Omniudex to arbitrate…” he said, taking a long drag of his pipe.
He then wheezed out a multi-sentence incantation and exhaled with great force. Nothing happened. He furrowed his brow.
“Surely, the Black Judge cannot have completely lost his power in a few hundred years. I’ve only had a failure like this once before… Has there been a second Renegade Inquisitor lately?”
“A third one, but yes. Last year. Alcerys the Charred Judge. A sister to my sect’s founder.”
Jorfr knew the relationship to be an ancestral one, but it felt wrong to say that, given how the two interacted on the rare occasion he had seen them do so.
The smoking cultivator seemed taken aback by the implication that he had missed a whole Renegade Inquisitor during his time away from society, but he quickly took a puff of his pipe and gathered his wits.
“Well then I suppose one of his children ought to do.”
The same process took place, with a different incantation.
His smoke formed the image of a plate-armoured woman with long hair and two swords, many seals dangling off of her limbs as well as her back, forming a short cloak. She flew forward, passing over each bandit in turn, leaving smoky images of swords hanging over a few of their heads. Roughly thrice as many got the image of manacles and a numeral, most of which were low. Some got no image at all, and others were just left out - specifically, those strong enough to resist Jorfr’s aura pressure.
“There’s your answer. Sword means execution, manacles mean imprisonment for so many years.”
“And what would the judging criteria happen to be, martial brother?” Jorfr asked, trying to be polite to this man-out-of-time.
Rather than answer, the smoky cultivator dragged from his pipe again and blew smoke in Jorfr’s face. Knowledge of a foreign conception of justice rushed into his mind as abstract concepts rather than words, thus demanding a bit of time to process. The name of the god came with it: Iusticia. All in all, Iusticia’s idea of what crimes warranted death or imprisonment was surprisingly close to Jorfr’s own views. Notably, the killing of another human, even outside a combative context, wasn’t an automatic death sentence, especially if one held remorse within their soul.
“What’s that look for, viking? These parlor tricks only work on mortals and bottom-rung First Circlers, I rarely ever get to use them. Go on and ask the suspects, they can’t lie for the next couple minutes.”
Jorfr was a bit doubtful, not being one to immediately trust a stranger, so he did ask… And found that the bandits’ reactions ranged from total refusal to speak to admitting to stealing things to peddle for food and equipment to steal more. A few grinned at him and freely admitted to killing, trying to act as if he was somehow the same as them for killing his enemies in combat. This was of course not the issue here, as several of those with no punishment mark expressed surprise due to their own guilt over having killed someone.