The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1789

Dalton had never experienced being pinned down and taken advantage of. This was the first time he had been in such close contact with someone. After all, no one had ever dared to do anything to him. This was undeniably a novel experience.

When Wynter pressed closer, Dalton discovered just how soft a woman's body could be. Like silk, Wynter was almost too tempting to let go.

But she was too cold. Dalton could tell with just a touch that it was due to her unstable spiritual form. However, this puzzled him. Why was Wynter's spiritual form unstable in the first place?

Ever since he had emerged from the refining flames, certain things about him had vanished—he could no longer trace retribution, but he could still see through spiritual manifestations.

Wynter was entangled in personal burdens she had gotten from somewhere. Usually, cultivators avoided personal burdens at all costs, as they led to an ill-fated end. Yet, she didn't seem like the type to court disaster.

As Dalton lowered his gaze, his long lashes fluttered slightly. He simply let her steal warmth from his neck.

His fingers curled around Wynter's. "You shouldn't be so reckless, miss. I am a man, after all."

His tone was so calm and indifferent. It didn't sound like he intended to do anything—or even wanted to. His expression was utterly impassive, his refined features as pristine and distant as a snow sculpture in winter.

"How can someone have such pale and smooth skin?" Wynter murmured against his skin, her fingers restlessly exploring. After all, Dalton was weaker than her. His fair, delicate complexion made him look like he was perfect for bullying.

Almost effortlessly, Wynter slipped free from his grasp and pinched his cheek. "Tell me that again when you've grown up a little. Don't worry, I won't do anything. I just want to stick close to you."

Dalton showed no reaction. Even after being teased to this extent, he merely turned his face slightly away.

Wynter's words sounded an awful lot like, "I won't put it in. Just let me rub against you a little."

Either way, her movements were growing increasingly brazen. Her fingertips trailed across him without a hint of ulterior motive—she really was just trying to warm up.

It was hard for Dalton not to imagine things. Even if his heart was detached from mortal desires, his body was that of a young man. And with bloody energy running hot in his veins, it was impossible for him to remain completely indifferent.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he lowered his gaze. Gradually, his grip loosened, only for him to shift one hand to support Wynter's waist while the other slid behind her back. It was as if he was both resisting and not.

His gaze landed on Wynter's flushed face, and he found her lightly biting her lips as she fought against the cold, her long hair tangled between his fingers. She was as enchanting as she was bewitching.

Dalton had been to the underworld before. Back when he was still in the heavens, he had encountered plenty of ghosts who cultivated the art of seduction and possessed unearthly beauty.

In fact, the underworld had even offered him ghostly maidens in tribute, hoping to win his favor and obtain his golden encounter.

Not just the underworld, but mortal immortal sects did the same. Once every hundred years, they would consult the heavens through divination and offer up celestial maidens. Finding such things tedious, Dalton had never spared the maidens a second glance.

He had long been a target of many after he was born from the refining flames. However, he had never cared about such matters. To him, all beings were nothing more than flesh with skeletons beneath. They were nothing worth admiring.

Yet now, with someone like Wynter in his arms…

Dalton had to admit that she made for a decent pillow. As long as she stopped groping everywhere, he didn't mind keeping a pet around.

Not that Wynter had any idea she had just been classified as a pet. Considering their current position, if anyone was the pet, it should be the one being pinned down.

After Wynter was done teasing Dalton, her mood improved considerably. The cold in her body also eased, thanks to Dalton's warmth.

Though sleeping on top of someone wasn't exactly appropriate, Wynter had to counteract the Sacrificial Human Formation's effects, especially when her spiritual form was unstable.

As she calmed herself down, Wynter began to wonder if the formation master had already noticed her presence in the formation. That would explain the sudden immense pressure she was feeling.

But they probably didn't know who she was possessing. Otherwise, they would have expelled her immediately instead of just leaving her spiritual form unstable.

What mattered most to her was still the precognitive dream she had.

She had been reminding herself not to forget she was in the Sacrificial Human Formation, not to get too emotionally attached to anyone inside, and to find the sacred statue. Yet, she just couldn't let go.

She had felt this way before at the last two formations.

One was in Hawford, where she watched countless heroic spirits exhaust every possible means to defend this land. The other was when she obtained the Soul Commanding Badge, where the entire sect ended up perishing as they were betrayed and massacred while holding onto their beliefs.

Atwater was the only one who remained.

In fact, Wynter was also affected back then, but it was nothing like this. This time, the pain wrapped around her heart felt dense and suffocating.

The thought that this mountain would one day cease to exist made her feel as if she couldn't breathe, as though she had already lived through this before.

Wynter forced herself not to dwell on it. She placed her hand on Dalton's chest, as if only by sensing his heartbeat could she find a fleeting moment of peace.

What kind of god would demand living beings as sacrifices? And what did her dream mean? She needed to recover quickly to find the answers to these questions.

Wynter was sharp. Back at Wretched Ground, she had already realized that the so-called sacred statue was inextricably linked to these sects. She had to find the origin of it all.

As these thoughts spun in her mind, she slowly closed her eyes. Due to her unstable spiritual form, her energy was nearly depleted.

Dalton had no intention of getting involved. However, he had just acquired a rather convenient cushion, so he wasn't about to give it up so easily. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment. Then, seeing that Wynter still had a soul left, tilted her chin up and breathed into her.

As for his other hand, it was completely immobilized as it had been pinned down the whole time.

After he transferred his energy, he wasn't in a good state himself. He glanced at Wynter, who was lying on top of him, and hesitated for a long moment before he finally closed his eyes.

…

Beyond the mountain, thunder rumbled, and calamity loomed.

Logically speaking, with countless sects existing in the world, there should not have been such an abnormal phenomenon. And yet, for reasons unknown, the heavens seemed furious.

In recent years, these strange occurrences had become more frequent, leaving people restless and uneasy.

Within Mt. Nyxvarn, Ailithir was tending to a young spotted deer's wounds. He had originally set out to gather medicinal herbs but instead came across the dying creature.

"Child, this will pass."

The spotted deer licked his palm before taking a few steps forward, leading him along. Then, he froze in place.

Lying ahead was a dead spotted deer, its throat torn open and blood still trickling from the wound. But what truly sent a chill down Ailithir's spine was that its spiritual energy had been completely drained by something.

This kind of death should have been impossible within the sect unless there were demons lurking in Mt. Nyxvarn.

He added, "Mr. Glaisne, what happened at the Wretched Ground last time was no accident. The villagers said they were visited by immortals in their dreams—some from Mt. Lunther, others from Mt. Verfait.

"Those two sects despise malevolent spirits. They wish for all demons under the heavens to be slaughtered and are obsessed with ascending to the Sacred Path. Plus, they've long had their eyes on Mt. Nyxvarn. They are not as righteous as they claim."

Ailithir knew that his eldest disciple, being the sharpest among them, was the pillar of the younger generation. He wanted him to discern right from wrong. But more than that, he needed him to be outwardly humble and learn when to hide his strength. That was the only way to survive.

What more could Ailithir wish for other than seeing his disciples live long, peaceful lives?

But fate was cruel. As Mt. Nyxvarn's energy veins were depleted, the thunderstrike trial was inevitable. Too many demons and evil spirits had been sealed beneath this mountain.

A thousand years had passed. The formations were unraveling, and spiritual energy was dissipating. No grand master of the Sacred Path was willing to sacrifice their own body to maintain the seal.

The moment heavenly law ceased its suppression and heavenly thunder fell, all the demons would rejoice.

While Ailithir had considered using his own body, his cultivation wasn't strong enough. He wouldn't live long enough to see the trial through.

He had always known this was his fate. Yet, with the little time he had left, he just wanted to protect his disciples a little longer.

What he hadn't expected was how impatient his so-called peers had become. Desire—that was all it came down to. Yet, within the sect, everyone convinced themselves they were above their "desires". Perhaps only the old master knew who had truly wronged whom.

…

There was another peal of thunder.

Wynter, who was on the bed in the main hall, no longer had nightmares. She had seen the sacred statue again, but this time, she crushed it without hesitation as she refused to let anything manipulate her spiritual form.

She was certain the enemy had yet to locate her. She didn't know why, but instinct told her to make the first move. Did they want to weaken her through dreams? It was wishful thinking.

Unconsciously, Wynter's palm loosened, letting fragments of stone fall. Her expression remained indifferent.

…

Meanwhile, only a few rays of sunlight pierced through the dense foliage outside at a gloomy manor at Colifernia beyond the formation.

An elderly man in a black, old-fashioned robe with its hem swaying despite it being windless sat on an old wooden stool in a shadowed corner of the courtyard. His face was gaunt and worn, deep-set eyes flickering with an eerie glow, as if he could see through a person's very soul.

Before him stood a sacred statue, and upon closer inspection, it was identical to the one Wynter had encountered in the Sacrificial Human Formation. It looked the same, no matter from which angle.

The old man closed his eyes. As his fingers weaved through the air, the sacred statue before him seemed to come alive. From within it, thin wisps of black energy began to seep out, surging into the man's body.

As the dark energy merged with him, vivid, multicolored light erupted behind his back.

This was the Sacrificial Human Formation's power—it allowed one to plunder others' heavenly luck. This kind of dark art could transform him into a being of immense blessing, propelling him to even greater heights.

But just as he absorbed the stolen luck, his eyes snapped open.

"Is the sacred statue… destroyed?"