Chapter 198 — The Creator of Dragons
Viscount Kuranshivil was certain.
If I give Elric any justification here, I’ll lose control forever. And if that happens—everything I’ve built will be taken from me!
If Elric invoked military law to detain him and strip him of command, then even if Kuranshivil’s body moved freely, he’d be a prisoner in all but name. His soldiers would be absorbed one by one into Elric’s command.
That was why the notoriously ruthless yet cunning viscount had risked so much already. Cut off from the main army, any lesser commander would have lost the respect of his troops—but Elric had only grown stronger, uniting them further.
If things continued, even his household troops would slip from his grasp. Count Calliger said to wait for the right moment, but the viscount feared there would be nothing left by then.
That fear was born from experience—because Kuranshivil himself had once risen by exploiting chaos.
When the Mage of the Stars fell and most of Melvinger’s power perished in the Great War, Kuranshivil had gathered the lost retainers and soldiers under his own banner and declared independence. In the confusion, he had been the first to break away from House Melvinger’s crumbling gates.
But ever since Elric Melvinger became known as the Hero of Lacent, a quiet dread had lodged itself in Kuranshivil’s chest— a fear that the grandson of Usthen Melvinger might someday tighten a noose around his neck. That the specters of the Mage of the Stars might come for his heart.
So when Count Calliger first offered an alliance, Kuranshivil had accepted despite his disgust— because he wanted to make sure Melvinger could never rise again. To crush the seed before it became a tree.
But he had been wrong.
Elric was no seed.
He was already a towering tree— one whose branches could blot out the sky.
BOOM!
When he clashed with Elric, Kuranshivil’s expression hardened immediately.
Solid…
That was his first thought. He’d known Elric’s growth had been extraordinary, but now that he faced him head-on, he realized the difference was far beyond imagination. It was as if Elric had broken through another wall entirely.
He couldn’t tell what circle Elric had reached—but surely one higher than before. The rumors of him breaking the Demon Swordsman’s blade, of conquering a fortress alone—they hadn’t been exaggerations.
“Viscount Kuranshivil of Twork!” Elric’s voice cut through the air. “Defying the Imperial command authority, rejecting a lawful court-martial— and now you plot mutiny as well?!”
He lowered his hand, the spear of ice glinting cold blue, his aura bursting forth like a storm. The air itself seemed to freeze, winds spiraling around him into a growing vortex.
“I’ll ask again,” Elric thundered. “Are you truly raising arms in rebellion?”
Kuranshivil’s frustration deepened. The more Elric insisted on law and order, the more the viscount felt cornered. His plan to contact Crown Prince Jeraitz had failed. Whether Elric seized power by pretext or by force, the end result was the same—his downfall.
He needed to strike first. To capture Elric’s body, twist the narrative, and reclaim legitimacy by force.
“Flame Calamity Zone!”
He said nothing more. Instead, he activated one of his memorized spells—his favorite.
WHOOSH!
Crimson and black fire erupted around him in concentric rings. The heat was so intense that even the air screamed. It was as if ranks of soldiers had thrust their blazing spears toward the heavens at once.
In the past, the Franz family had been called the “Wall” of Melvinger. The Twork line had been its “Spear.” Their magic was pure offense—brutal, direct, unrelenting.
Kuranshivil himself, though not a six-point archmage, was one of the strongest war mages alive.
“Our house,” he declared, raising his staff—a massive crimson crystal orb that shimmered like blood— “is the heir of Summer, one of the four seasons who aided the Founder and laid the first stone of Melvinger’s legacy!”
The gem pulsed violently with fiery light. Elric instantly recognized it as an ancient artifact. And the words—*heir of Summer*—caught his attention.
So the seasonal legacies still exist… scattered but alive.
“The Melvingers have forgotten the true teachings of the Founder,” Kuranshivil shouted. “But I, heir of Summer and descendant through my grandmother’s blood, shall deliver judgment upon you, who walk the corrupted path!”
In an instant, he reframed the fight—not as mutiny, but as a noble feud. Even now, he sought legitimacy.
Elric let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Judgment?”
If Kuranshivil truly claimed to be Summer’s heir—
“Then show me.”
His eyes glowed cold blue. “If you can.”
WHOOSH!
Kuranshivil raised his crystal orb high, and the inferno surged forward like a tidal wave.
Elric’s boots dug into the ground as he shot forward, a streak of light cutting through flame.
He called upon one of his powers—the North Wind. Deep within his mana circuits, the slumbering wraiths stirred once more.
“[Inhabit.]”
Sparks of frost danced across his body. After so many trials, Elric had mastered possession; it no longer drained him as before. And he’d learned something new— the wraiths had ranks, hierarchies based on their deeds in life.
The highest among them were different. They didn’t obey blindly. They watched. They commanded others. They were not mere soldiers—they had stood beside the Founders as equals.
Elric called them the Six Generals of Winter.
When Elric first encountered them, he had been tested.
Ordinary wraiths had yielded after he proved his strength through combat. But the Six Generals were unmoved. They sat upon six thrones of ice, silent and watchful, as if demanding a new kind of proof—something beyond strength.
Elric realized that if he had proven his power to the soldiers, he must now prove his worth to the generals. To show he was a leader capable of bearing Melvinger’s future.
Each of the six had their own will, their own standard. This too was a trial.
At last, one rose from his throne—the one seated furthest to the right. A spectral figure wreathed in blue flame, clad in heavy armor, holding an enormous banner.
Upon that banner were two sigils: the crest of Melvinger, and the winter seal of Oto Han.
“Banner of the White Dragon—Nahatram.”
That was his name.
In life, Nahatram had led the charge before every battle, waving Melvinger’s flag high, his signal heralding death for countless demons. They had feared the sight of that banner, because it always meant slaughter would follow.
Nahatram said nothing aloud, but his thoughts flowed into Elric’s mind. To earn his acknowledgment, one had to lead from the front. A true lord did not hide behind his soldiers, but inspired them by standing at their side.
“Do you have that resolve?” he asked.
Elric answered without hesitation. He already fought at the vanguard. He had always wielded his blade before anyone else. Had Nahatram not seen that all along?
The wraith was silent for a moment. Then he thrust the banner’s staff into Elric’s hands.
Not as acceptance—but as a challenge.
If your words are true, raise this banner yourself. Let friend and foe alike witness what Melvinger stands for.
To the enemy, it must bring fear— to his allies, it must bring hope. A shade in chaos, a tree for the weary to rest beneath.
Elric grasped the banner and nodded. “I will.”
And now—
FWOOOOOSH!
Elric finally had the chance to wield that banner.
His foe: Viscount Kuranshivil. Once an ally—now his enemy.
To Kuranshivil, he would become terror itself. To his soldiers—Ate, Brian, and all the Star’s Legion—he would become faith.
He would be the banner.
The Banner of the White Dragon—Nahatram—merged with Elric.
In his hand, the spear of ice felt like a flagpole, heavy with destiny.
BOOM!
He thrust it forward.
It looked like a simple strike, yet its force was monumental. The infernal tide split open, a gaping wind-tunnel tearing through the flames.
Beyond it, Kuranshivil’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“Heir of Summer, was it?”
Watching that expression, Elric—or perhaps Nahatram within him—snarled.
“Ridiculous. You don’t even reach her feet, and yet you dare prattle as if you could speak in her name.”
The Creator of Dragons.