The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1787

Dalton was taken aback and asked, "What's wrong?"

He sounded as though he hadn't had much rest, his deep, mellow voice carrying a touch of lingering allure. Apparently, he had been looking after her.

Wynter could smell the faint scent of medicine from her bed. Her grip remained tight on Dalton's wrist, leaving a red mark on his skin. A dazed look lingered in her dark eyes, as if she had yet to return to reality.

Dalton lowered his gaze as he asked patiently, "Did you have a nightmare?"

Only then did Wynter seem to regain her senses. She shook her head and questioned, "Where's Mr. Glaisne?"

"He's still in the apothecary. You gave him quite the scare when you fainted," Dalton replied, seemingly ready to answer all of her questions.

Wynter stared at Dalton's pallid face. His wrist, just as colorless, made the red mark on his skin stand out glaringly. She couldn't help but wonder how hard she had gripped him.

Her thoughts shifted to the dream she had earlier. The conversation she had overheard implied that Mt. Nyxvarn no longer existed. Its members were either fallen, dead, or scattered—none with a better fate. As for Wynter herself, she had been protected by Ailithir and started anew on Mt. Lunther.

However, it turned out that Mt. Lunther had never intended to take her in. They scorned her for her close connection with the mystic spirits and blamed her for Ailithir's fall in Primordial Arcane.

The dream gnawed on her. The conversation was likely between members from various sects, but the black mud remained a mystery. The voice in her dream had claimed that everything could change only if the heavenly law was destroyed.

Though Wynter remained skeptical, she couldn't deny that the dream had been strange. She wasn't sure if she had truly fainted upon hearing Dalton's name. The odds of meeting someone with the same name within the formation were just too unlikely.

Logically speaking, her dream resembled what was now known as a precognitive dream. Yet, it also made her realize that she couldn't have such a dream within the Sacrificial Human Formation.

Under such illogical situations, Wynter had to constantly remind herself that nothing around her was real, to the point of mental exhaustion. She was the most aware of the oddity, though she couldn't say the same for anyone else.

Cultivators often stumbled into a formation unknowingly. And when they did, the first step was always the same—to find the heart of the formation. Only when they resolved the root of the problem could they escape the formation and restore normalcy.

Yet, Wynter felt no trace of resentment or attachment within the Sacrificial Human Formation. A person's attachment could manifest in many forms, including remnants of their soul, memories, or certain objects.

But since entering the formation, Wynter found nothing unusual aside from the eerie statue. Even so, it gave off no hint of resentment, making it harder for her to locate the heart of the formation.

To make matters worse, she didn't bring anything along to track the passage of time. If Leo had been there, she might've had a way to figure things out. At the moment, she could only wander around aimlessly.

Cultivators were advised not to disrupt the course of events while searching for the heart of the formation, as any disturbance could destabilize it. If the formation master were triggered, it might collapse entirely.

If that happened, the cultivator would be trapped forever, along with the regrets of those bound within the formation. Moreover, reactivating a sealed formation was impossible.

Worse of all, the Sacrificial Human Formation would begin to expand, causing chaos in the world of the living.

For instance, more lives within Monway University's vicinity would be taken and sacrificed to the formation. Eventually, the entire area would turn into a living hell, slipping beyond the Realms of Reincarnation's influence.

To prevent the formation from solidifying into a barrier, Wynter decided to enter it ahead of time. As long as a living soul remained inside, there would still be hope for survival.

That said, Wynter wasn't acting on impulse. She had already known that Atwater was safe. Perhaps he had stayed hidden since she had yet to return to the Quinnell family and take control of the Southern Cascadia Chamber of Commerce.

But now, the chamber had stabilized, and she had fulfilled Gordon's last wishes.

In fact, the young cultivator that she encountered in the previous formation was none other than Atwater. She had left him a message back then, trusting that he and Kaspar would join forces to stop the disaster once he foresaw her entering the Sacrificial Human Formation.

When Wynter heard Dalton's explanation, she came to a clear conclusion—the Sacrificial Human Formation had to be stopped.

If she wanted to save the people trapped within it, she would have to venture into the formation alone and free the souls. If she didn't, the murderers would eventually be pulled into the formation.

In any case, the Sacrificial Human Formation must be dispelled once activated. The heavens refused to be toyed with by the mortal schemes.

As Wynter clenched her fists, Dalton turned to face her. His long hair brushed the back of her hand, and he looked at her with seriousness. "Do you want to talk about your dream?"

"I've forgotten about it," Wynter said, rubbing her temple. She wasn't ready to share certain details, not until she had confirmed the formation master's identity. Besides, the dream was obviously related to…

Wynter cut off her thoughts. She lifted Dalton's chin with a finger and smirked. "Why did you stop calling me 'miss'?"

Dalton was stunned for a moment, nearly breaking his facade. His lips then curled into a soft smile. "Do you prefer me to call you that? Your Highness."

Despite the rising warmth on her forehead, Wynter still teased, "Now you're calling me 'Your Highness'? You're rather fickle. By the way, what's all that noise outside?"

Dalton's smile faltered, and his demeanor grew cold. "What else? Your boy toys are so competitive. One wants to prepare the medicine for you, and the other is thinking of making soup. They're fighting over the kitchen space."

Wynter coughed awkwardly at the reply. "Tell them I'm not hungry."

Dalton glanced at her and stood up from the bed. "Or I could dismiss them if you want. They're nothing but a noisy bunch."

As if to prove his point, a loud bang rang out from behind the door.

"I'm telling you, I'll be the one tending to her tonight!"

"You can't even control your own strength. There's no way you'll be able to take good care of her."

"First, let's get rid of the one who's already in there."

There was the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, followed by an animalistic growl.

In the past, Wynter had always been surrounded by handsome men at the nightclub. While she had no trouble managing those kinds of relationships, she couldn't help feeling guilty with "Dalton" around.

"Just tell them to get some rest." Wynter sighed. She couldn't dismiss the boy toys outright, or she would risk disrupting the original course of events.

Seeing Dalton approach, Wynter propped herself up. "I need you to help me with something. Don't tell anyone about this."

When Dalton remained silent, she yanked him over. "You're the only one I can trust here. I don't have much time. Just do as I say."

Wynter had been restless because of the sudden wave of anxiety, though she understood it stemmed from the depletion of her life force within the formation. That said, the real catalyst had been the precognitive dream.

Determined not to let Mt. Nyxvarn perish, she decided to do whatever she could to save them without alerting the formation master.

"Alright. What do you want me to do?" Dalton asked, setting the oil lamp down.

Wynter replied in a low voice, "I need you to find out which mountain can shelter us from the thunderstrike trial. Also, find out how many villagers are residing at the foot of this mountain."

Dalton retorted calmly, "I'm just an ordinary human, miss. It's a bit difficult for me to do what you're asking."

Wynter was taken aback. "Are you really just a mortal?"

It didn't make sense. He was obviously heaven's chosen one, given the overwhelming heavenly luck that was bestowed upon his reincarnation. How could he possibly be reincarnated as a mortal in a world full of cultivators and immortals?

Dalton was amused by Wynter's reaction. "Who do you think I was, then?"

"Seeing how you were chained up there, I was guessing you're the Spirit King. Otherwise, why would the demons cower in your presence and even salute you?" Wynter questioned.

Although she intended to keep the information hidden, she needed an ally after having that precognitive dream. While others were affected by the formation, Dalton had always been untouched by its influence.

It was just like what she had previously seen in Hawford within the formation. In those special times, everyone believed they were acting in the right—whether it was the souls trapped within the formation or individuals like Gordon.

They fought against the Foplyans and made compromises when necessary, all in hopes of a brighter future for Cascadia.

In contrast, Dalton cared little for authority when he burned down the consulate. Wynter recalled that he was rumored to possess more wealth than Gordon and had helped introduce several foreign connections.

Despite their age differences, Dalton and Gordon became friends. Perhaps that was why Wynter saw Dalton in the formation.

Back then, Dalton appeared no different from his age now. However, he was practically above all laws.

Even the officers at the consulate feared him, calling him the most terrifying man in Cascadia. Some foreign chambers hailed him as a guest of honor, further highlighting his unique standing.

Within the Sacrificial Human Formation, he was the only one indifferent toward the world. At times, he would show an expression that reflected his youthful age. Yet, he had been trapped in the Wretched Ground, offered as a sacrifice to the statue—or perhaps, the formation of that time.

In any case, he could always escape at will. It was simply a matter of his own choosing.

Wynter could never forget the first time she saw him at the Wretched Ground. His pale, handsome face carried a semblance of an elegant man bound by a cruel fate, yet his bloody fingers told a different tale—he seemed to be the one who twisted the heads scattered on the ground.