Chapter 199 — The Creator of Dragons
『Nahatram…?』
Mephisto blinked. For a moment, he thought he’d misheard—or mis-seen. The tone in Elric’s voice wasn’t his own.
It reminded him of someone from long ago— the blunt, cocky warrior who once stood at the vanguard of the Winter Sage’s army, banner in hand, wind and frost in his wake.
Even Elric’s stance—how he gripped the spear of ice— was nearly identical.
Too much so, Mephisto thought. As if Nahatram’s great banner were now unfurled above Elric’s own spear.
Knowing that Elric could summon and embody the wraiths left behind by Oto Han, he asked the question instinctively.
But after watching a while longer, Mephisto clicked his tongue and shook his head.
『No… just a shadow.』
Nahatram, like Oto Han before him, had been one of the Melvinger retainers who once stood in Mephisto’s way. Resentment remained—but after so many centuries, even that bitterness was mixed with faint nostalgia.
Yet what he saw now was not truly Nahatram. It was Elric.
Elric was not possessed—he was wearing Nahatram’s mask, reading his will, tracing his legacy. He was not the vessel. He was the wielder.
『He’s even placed his six “snow blossoms” as guardians? Oto Han… you prepared everything well.』
Now Mephisto understood. The inheritance of the North Wind had never been mere ornamentation. Oto Han had left behind everything—his power, his memories, his designs— for a distant descendant to find.
And now, after a thousand years, that seed was blooming at last.
“You’re not even fit to reach her feet.”
That phrase made Viscount Kuranshivil’s expression harden. It wasn’t the insult itself—it was what Elric’s words implied. He spoke as though he truly knew the original master of “Summer,” something even most scholars of the house didn’t know.
She.
He knew that the heir of Summer had been a woman— a secret Kuranshivil himself had only discovered after years of digging through forbidden records.
“What would a half-trained fool like you know—!”
“To embody ‘Summer,’ three things are required,” Elric—or rather, Nahatram through him—said coolly. “A river of fire, a desert of sand, and a dragon. Yet you possess none of them.”
He smirked, eyes gleaming. “You only memorized a spellbook she left behind, didn’t you? Or perhaps you think blood alone makes an heir? If that’s the case, then even I might carry some trace of her blood after a thousand years.”
“Silence!”
“Ah, struck a nerve, did I?”
“I said, shut up!”
Kuranshivil poured all his mana into the crystal orb, the gem flaring with light as the Flame Calamity Zone intensified.
BOOM! BOOM!
“Get back!” someone shouted. But Kuranshivil no longer cared who was caught in the blast.
“Beast Awakened in Fire!”
The seething flames twisted together, forming the shape of a beast— something between a tiger, a lion, and an elephant—its form too fluid to name. The creature lunged, jaws open, molten heat pouring from its throat.
Elric didn’t flinch.
“That’s it? I remember her summer sun being hot enough to burn the skin raw. Yours is just… itchy.”
The flames never reached him. Blizzards roared from his body, freezing the inferno solid. Frost spread across the ground; each of his steps cracked the ice beneath him.
Crack. Crunch.
Ice dust gathered at the tip of his spear, fluttering like a flag—then exploded.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three thunderous bursts ripped through the air. The fiery beast’s head shattered, then its shoulder, then its torso— all gone in seconds.
Kuranshivil could only gape.
That’s impossible!
This had been the most destructive spell in his Book of Summer— a beast imbued with sentience, a living weapon. Now it was gone, obliterated as if it were nothing.
CRASH!
Elric’s boots cracked the ice as he charged forward. The viscount barely managed to cast again.
“Army of Burning Flame! Rain of Fire! Dancers of the Blaze!”
One by one, memorized spells vanished from his mind as he unleashed them all. Fire poured from the heavens. Blazing whirlwinds rose from the earth, trapping Elric inside a furnace of flame.
But—
The blizzard howled louder. Each ice spear shattered a summoned creature’s skull. Each shard of frost tore through fire like paper.
“[Blow.]”
With a single command, a freezing gale surged forward, snuffing out every flame and shattering every protective barrier. Walls of ice rose, blocking every escape. Above, countless ice arrows rained like a storm of daggers.
“Th-this can’t be…!”
Kuranshivil tried to summon more fire through the crystal orb, but each time he melted a path, new ice covered it again.
Then came the sound.
Chrrrk… chrrrk…
Chains of frost burst from the ground, coiling around his limbs. They bit deep, freezing his veins and muscles. The poison of frost spread quickly, killing the mana flow itself.
SHHHHHK!
An ice spear fell diagonally from above. He threw every last spell at it— but it pierced through everything.
Fragments scattered like glittering shards of glass. Elric stood firm, spear lowered like a banner.
“Make your enemies beneath your banner unable to breathe.” That had been Nahatram’s instruction— and Elric had obeyed it perfectly.
CRUNCH!
“Kuh—!”
The spear ran through Kuranshivil’s chest. He coughed blood, still clutching the shattered crystal orb.
Crack. It splintered, then disintegrated into dust— its life spent, its magic gone.
“N-no…”
His last defense, gone. Frost crept up his veins, his skin turning blue, his chest stilling.
Elric leaned close, voice like ice.
“Do you know what she would have said if one of her descendants acted like this?”
“W-what… are you—”
“Idiot.”
Kuranshivil froze.
“She was arrogant, yes— boastful, proud, impossible. But she earned it. She deserved it. You? You’re just filth daring to speak her name.”
His teeth glinted, sharp and white.
“You’re not even worth her shadow.”
Kuranshivil’s body trembled. From cold—or fear—it was impossible to tell.
“W-who are you?!”
“Me? Elric Melvinger.”
“N-no! You can’t be—”
He was sure. The man before him wasn’t the same Elric he’d mocked. He was a warrior—a veteran who’d walked countless battlefields, one who knew the hidden histories of the noble houses too well. A ghost from the past.
But Elric cut him off coldly. He might borrow Nahatram’s will, but the will behind every strike was his own.
He raised his left hand. Frost glimmered across his palm. The White Hand—his own creation. It was time for judgment.
“D-damn it! Soldiers of Twork! What are you waiting for?! Arrest this traitor!”
His voice echoed through the camp— but no one moved.
Not one soldier, not one officer. Even his once-loyal men looked away.
Those who still had any will to resist were already bound or subdued.
“Still don’t get it, do you?”
Elric smirked before striking.
“W-what?”
“You don’t have a side anymore.”
Kuranshivil’s eyes widened.
“I made them an offer,” Elric said softly. “‘Return to Melvinger, and I’ll lift the decree of exile.’ That was all it took.”
“…!”
The Decree of Exile— issued generations ago when Twork had broken from Melvinger. It had branded them as sinners, forever forbidden to return beneath the Melvinger crest.
Kuranshivil had dismissed it as a relic of a dying house. But Elric had remembered. And now, he had used it.
To the soldiers, Melvinger was heritage— something sacred they had never truly forgotten. And now the Hero of Lacent was offering them absolution.
How could they refuse?
Elric had outplayed them all— both the Count and the Viscount, turning their own men into his strength.
Kuranshivil realized too late. Even his rebellion had been part of Elric’s plan.
What a terrifying mind…
His thoughts stopped there. Frost reached his spine, freezing his brain and blood.
Elric’s voice echoed, cold and absolute:
“By the name of Elric Melvinger, Duke of Chanser and Head of Melvinger—”
Kuranshivil could barely keep his eyes open. So this was the end. His dream of glory, dying here.
But Elric wasn’t done.
“By the decree once passed upon your house, I reclaim all that was given to you— and deliver punishment befitting your betrayal.”
The White Hand pressed against his forehead. A sudden dread surged through him—an instinct deeper than fear.
“[Return.]”
THUMP. A pulse. Then another. And another.
Kuranshivil’s mana—his life’s work—reversed its flow. Spells, power, achievements, all drained upward, rushing into Elric’s palm like rivers into the sea.
“Reclaim.” It wasn’t a metaphor. Elric was taking back everything the Twork line had ever gained from Melvinger— their arts, their mana, their souls.
The shadow of the North Wind rose, swallowing Kuranshivil’s spirit whole.
『Even in death, serve Melvinger. Atone forever, Kuranshivil.』
『N-no…! Noooooo!』
And with that cry—
Thud.
The viscount’s lifeless body fell to the frozen ground.
The Talent-Swallowing Magician.