The spellbook Rowan had given Lúthien contained a new generation of spell cards.
They were inspired by ancient arcane card constructs, but heavily redesigned.
Even so, this was only the first generation. Far from Rowan’s true goal.
He hadn’t created them as tools for others.
He wanted them as weapons to support his own combat style.
Traditional spell cards were inefficient for high-tier casters. They added extra steps between intent and execution.
For Rowan, using a lightning spell card instead of casting lightning directly would only make sense if the card massively amplified the result.
That was the direction of his research.
Each card would eventually function like an independent relic, capable of enhancing spell output dramatically. Together, they could form complex spell formations.
Even more ambitious, each card’s manifested spirit would be able to train independently, growing stronger over ti and pushing toward the absolute peak of that spell type.
Soday, he wanted to be able to release a swarm of spell spirits and let them fight battles for him.
For now, though, this first-generation set simply expanded the variety and scale of spells available to the user.
For Rowan, it was mostly a prototype.
For Lúthien, it was a massive power boost.
Lúthien sliced her finger and let a drop of blood fall onto the spellbook.
"Spell Cards of Rowan rcer, bound to light and will... Reveal your true power. By contract, I command you. Seal release!"
The book flared with light.
She spread her wings and soared skyward, gripping the to containing all 108 spell cards.
Straight toward Ancalagon.
"Grand Spell: Fairy Radiance!"
A pillar of pure light slamd down from the heavens.
Ancalagon scread as the attack struck him directly.
Galadriel, Angrod, and Aegnor imdiately pressed the assault from their stone wyvern.
Lúthien flipped another card.
"Celestial Collapse!"
A teor tore through the sky.
Another card.
"Ice Forge!"
Another.
"Thunder!"
"Water!"
"Phantom!"
"Slumber!"
Spell after spell chained together.
Hard control. Soft control. Raw damage.
Under relentless pressure, Ancalagon’s body finally began to show real damage.
One wing shattered halfway through the bone structure.
He crashed to the ground, unable to take flight again.
Imdiately, waves of elven warriors sward him.
Rowan watched.
Then shook his head slightly.
"Still not enough."
Lúthien’s attacks were impressive.
But compared to Rowan casting directly?
There was still a massive gap.
If Rowan unleashed full power, a single spell could critically wound Ancalagon.
That was the difference between prototype tools and true apex magic.
Still, improving artifacts at his level wasn’t easy.
Even relics that once multiplied spell output dozens of tis ant nothing to him now.
"NO!"
Pinned down by Lúthien’s spell suppression, the stone wyvern riders, the allied armies, and finally Fingon himself entering the battle...
Ancalagon finally lost the ability to resist.
"Don’t kill him," Rowan said quickly, stepping forward. "I need this dragon alive."
Fingon didn’t hesitate.
"Then he’s yours, Director."
Everyone present understood.
The current strength of the three-race alliance existed largely because of Rowan and the Magic Academy.
Without him, today would have been a massacre.
Even the High King treated Rowan with the utmost respect.
So even quietly wondered if he was a divine being walking in mortal form.
Rowan raised his hand.
"Contain."
Ancalagon vanished into Rowan’s personal dinsional world.
"All forces, advance!" Fingon roared.
With the dragon army destroyed, the alliance surged forward toward Himring.
Inside the city, Gothmog was leading the final slaughter within the inner palace, hunting down Maedhros, Maglor, and the remaining defenders.
Then he heard it.
Ancalagon’s dying roar.
His expression darkened.
"Useless beast... Defeated already?"
His confidence cracked for the first ti.
If the dragons were gone...
Then the alliance army would soon be behind him.
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