The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1790

The sudden situation forced the old man to halt his devouring of the heavenly luck.

The sacred statues within the formation were indestructible by ordinary people. Faced with such statues, most would bow in reverence unless someone had seen through their secrets.

The Sacrificial Human Formation was his creation, and its most recent use was during the roundtable meeting.

He closed his eyes to meditate, and a wisp of his divine soul seeped into the sacred statue.

He saw a scene when he entered the formation. Wynter had severed the divine shackles and taken away the sacrificial offerings tied to them. Yet, his spiritual sense couldn't pinpoint her exact location.

This was too suspicious. How did it come to this?

He was the one who had set up the Sacrificial Human Formation, yet his spiritual sense couldn't attack within the formation, as if it had been repelled by someone. This wasn't normal!

The old man opened his eyes, his gaze dark and his fists clenched tightly.

Originally, there would be no way out for Wynter as long as she chose to save those people. Once the Sacrificial Human Formation was activated, no one within it could leave alive, not even a grand master.

That was why he had set up this formation—to ensure that Wynter, who always thwarted his plans, would perish within it, allowing him to seize her heavenly luck.

The moment Wynter entered, she was supposed to die in the Wretched Ground. It should have been her doom once she touched the sacred statue!

"She's truly hard to kill." The old man sneered, his gaze lowering.

The sacred statue was still surrounded by an endless flow of energy. This meant that Wynter had only destroyed one statue and hadn't disrupted the Sacrificial Human Formation's overall layout. After all, this was a formation left behind by heaven's will.

He hadn't wanted to deploy such a formation unless absolutely necessary. After all, it also risked exposing his true identity. If it weren't for Wynter constantly opposing him, he wouldn't have revealed this grand formation so soon.

But there were its benefits, too. Once the formation was complete, not only would Wynter's heavenly luck fall into his hands, but the country's fortune would also protect him. By then, he would surely ascend to the Sacred Path.

He could have achieved enlightenment and become an immortal a million years ago. If it weren't for that meddlesome Mt. Nyxvarn, he wouldn't have had to live in hiding, clinging to this wretched existence.

"I can make you die in an endless cycle of dreams even if I can't find you." The old man laughed, his body no longer resembling that of a normal person.

He crawled down from his chair, moving closer to the sacred statue in a grotesque manner. Insatiable desire was etched on his aged face more than ever. It was as if he was addicted to inhaling the energy around him.

He no longer bore any resemblance to a human, let alone an immortal cultivator.

No wonder it was said that the older the sects, the more sordid their secrets. Alchemy, dual cultivation—countless practices were hidden from the outside world. When spoken of, it was always about upholding righteousness and vanquishing demons.

But no one knew what truly lay within. Otherwise, formations like the Sacrificial Human Formation wouldn't have existed. In reality, no matter what kind of chaos-inducing formation it was, it was often man-made.

Just like this old man, who, in his pursuit of eternal life, no longer cared what he had become.

"Within the Sacrificial Human Formation lies what you desire most in your heart, trapping you in an illusory world until your soul is extinguished. So what if you can hide? Since it's a Sacrificial Human Formation, it must have been born from a great calamity of the past.

"Heaven's will demands your death. Let's see how you will survive now."

The old man's low voice, like a curse, merged with the resentment absorbed by the sacred statue and seeped into the formation.

No one could have imagined that such a scene would unfold within this building. After all, it appeared grander and more imposing than any other place. Plus, the old man's office wasn't a place just anyone could enter.

Nevertheless, incidents had been frequent recently.

…

After much thought, Kiaran Trump decided to report the matter concerning Monway University to his superior, the old man.

He wasn't sure if it was just his imagination, but lately, the old man's health had been deteriorating day by day. It was especially so after he returned from the Chamber of Commerce—the old man had seemed utterly drained of energy.

At night, Kiaran would hear faint, aged groans, intermittent and filled with pain, as if the old man were suffering greatly.

He even wondered if it would be best to take the old man back to Hawford. After all, the last time his superior had fallen so ill, a trip to Hawford had miraculously restored him.

As Kiaran pondered this, he glanced at his watch, not paying much attention to his surroundings.

When he reached the office door, he was struck by an icy chill. The sounds he had heard at night echoed once more.

Thinking the old man might be having another episode or that something was wrong, Kiaran hurried forward.

The office door, for some reason, was slightly ajar. That was weird. After all, the old man was the only one currently on that floor.

He looked inside and saw a sacred statue placed in the center of the room. The usually meticulous old man was now coiled around the statue in a bizarre posture, with tendrils of black energy flowing from the statue into his body.

With each wisp of black energy absorbed, the old man's complexion grew more vibrant, as if his very life depended on the statue.

Witnessing this, Kiaran was utterly terrified. His hands started trembling uncontrollably.

The old man, as if sensing someone at the door, stopped his movements and turned to look directly at him. "Kiaran?"

There was no response. The old man narrowed his eyes and climbed down from the statue.

On the other side of the door, in the hallway, Kiaran clamped a hand over his mouth. He was fearful of making even a sound as he quietly retreated from the door.

He didn't dare dwell on what the old man had been doing. That strange posture... Moreover, this was a government office. How could there be a sacred statue here? They were supposed to be atheists, after all.

He wondered if the old man had been possessed. At this thought, Kiaran's heart raced even faster. He was afraid of being discovered but had no idea who to turn to.

At that moment, he thought of Kaspar. Stumbling down the stairs, Kiaran's first instinct was to reach for his phone, desperate to contact someone from Mt. Dragon.

But just then, his phone rang. The caller ID showed none other than the old man.

Kiaran's face turned pale, and his hand shook as he answered the call. Not answering would only make him more suspicious.

Taking a deep breath, Kiaran swallowed hard and unlocked his phone. "Hello, sir."

The old man, hearing this, stood up and walked to the door, pulling it open. Seeing no one in the hallway, he smiled kindly. "Kiaran, where are you? Didn't you say there's a meeting this afternoon? Why haven't you come to inform me?"

Kiaran, his forehead damp with sweat, stammered, "I'm downstairs. The meeting isn't going to start anytime soon. I thought you might be resting, so I planned to come up and notify you closer to the time."

The old man maintained his smile and asked, slowly and deliberately, "Are you really downstairs?"

Kiaran clenched his teeth. "Yes, sir."

With that, the spotted deer turned to leave, its spirit seemingly broken. It understood that Wynter had no reason to help them and risk bringing trouble upon herself.

She had been harshly criticized by the sects and placed under house arrest after having protected a dragon on the mountain last time. If it weren't for Ailithir shielding her, she might have been expelled from the sect altogether.

After all, who would still side with the demon clans in times like these?

The young spotted deer had only taken two steps when a voice called out from behind. It was as if Wynter had just snapped out of her thoughts. "Wait."

The deer turned back, its gaze fixed on Wynter.

Wynter's eyes fell on the deer's injured leg. "I didn't say I wouldn't help."

Before the deer could react, a cool, composed voice sounded from inside the Aureum Pavilion. "Are you really going to help?"

It was Dalton, now awake. He was dressed in a white robe, his feet bare on the stone floor, his collar loose, but his hair neatly tied up as always.

His deep eyes seemed to pierce through Wynter. "Though I don't practice Arcane Way, I know the world's current state. Even in our village, many cultivators come to hunt spirits and demons. This little deer in front of you may seem harmless, but it's still a spirit. Are you really going to help it?"

The spotted deer looked up, about to speak.

But Dalton's expression remained cold. "Think this through. If you help them, the sects like Mt. Lunther and Mt. Verfait won't let you off easily."

Hearing this, the spotted deer prepared to run. Dalton was right. Would Wynter truly remain unharmed if she helped them? Her cultivation was far inferior to the major sects' sages. She was merely placed under house arrest previously, but what would happen this time?

Though young, the spotted deer had always known not to trouble others. And this trouble could very well be a death sentence.

Every cultivator aimed to ascend the Sacred Path. If Wynter helped the demon clans, her path to ascension would be cut off.

With that in mind, the spotted deer decided to find another way.

Just then, Wynter spoke, her tone as defiant as it had been out of the formation. "And who are those people you mentioned who wouldn't me off?"

Dalton gazed down at her.

Wynter continued, "Spotted deers are protected animals. White tigers are even rarer and protected. Even cultivators have to obey the law."

Dalton blinked, doubting his ears. "Protected animals? Obey the law?"

"I'll explain it to you later," Wynter said casually, not wanting to delve into the so-called Primordial Arcane.

In her view, these people were simply using their spells to justify killing innocents. All this talk of spirit clans and sects was nonsense.

"Take me to them. Bring all the medicine," Wynter said, not forgetting that this was the world of immortal sects. Her medical skills and rare medicines couldn't just sit idle while these animals suffered.

Dalton hadn't expected this outcome. He asked again, "Are you—"

"Do you not want to help?" Wynter interrupted, turning back, her robe still damp from the rain.

Dalton smiled, his face strikingly handsome. "Not at all. I just didn't expect to meet a cultivator like you in this world."

Foolish, but extraordinary.