"No matter! You two are still no match for me!" Leywin roared, raising both arms as dozens of bloody spears formed above him in the air.
They hung there for a breathless second—unnatural and unstable—before raining down in erratic patterns. The aim wasn't clean, but the sheer volume made up for their lack of precision. It was a chaotic barrage of power and rage.
[The Archivist Reads]
'Even now… it works!'
Corven's eyes tracked the spears. His vision shifted, the script laid bare. There it was—on each spear—lines of text, each one etched with glowing script only he could interpret.
Spells weren't being woven with gestures or rituals. Leywin wasn't even casting in the traditional sense.
He was writing them.
Corven's eyes narrowed as realization dawned. These weren't just visual spells—each one was a line of code, a sentence of power. Either that, or his class—the Archivist—was translating them into something he could instinctively read.
'Either way, it worked.'
