The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1841

Wynter could sense the changes in the Heavenly Derivation formation from within.

From the moment she entered, something about it had been amiss. If she had not been so focused on leaving, she might have already been assimilated into it.

After all, remaining here wasn't entirely unpleasant. In here, her seniors and Ailithir were all by her side, making it easy to grow attached.

Yet, there was one thing that served as a reminder—a certain sacred statue's presence. Though its arrival never signaled anything good, it at least reinforced the fact that she was still inside the formation.

No matter how much she longed for the people and memories here, she had to get out.

Yet, the formation was defying logic by growing stronger by the minute.

This could be a nested formation, where all the resentment energy was supplied by the unborn souls within. In that case, the Human Sacrificial Formation should have weakened after dismantling the formations in Granville Village and Mt. Lunther, even if the grand formation couldn't be broken.

So, why were the restraints growing tighter?

Wynter looked down at the Spirit Token wrapped around her wrist, noticing a new mark etched into her skin. She was merging more and more with this body—so much so that she even had the unsettling thought that she might be trapped here forever.

Time was running out. She had to find Isidore. Only then might she still have a way out.

The group followed Wynter to the back of the mountain.

The cultivators whose spiritual forms had been devoured by Mirel hadn't left. Instead, they trailed behind the group as wandering spirits, intent on repaying the debt to Wynter.

Mirel was still clutched in Wynter's hand as it was being used as a tool to pound open the mountain's hidden door. She wielded it with such ease, as if Mirel were nothing more than a nuisance, her movements sharp and decisive.

The once-smug Mirel now twisted in discomfort. Unlike before, when it had been all smiles, it now feared Wynter more than anything. A chunk of its head had already been chipped off from the impacts, yet it still didn't dare raise its voice.

"We… We can't open the door like this," it stammered.

Wynter glanced down, her tone icy. "So, what should we do?"

Mirel trembled. "Y-You need to chant an incantation."

"Should I just keep using you to smash it open instead? That way, you won't even have a face left to worry about," Wynter said coolly.

The threat was clear—if it wasted any more time, she would batter it beyond recognition. Whether the door would open was uncertain, but Mirel would undoubtedly be shattered beyond repair.

"N-No! I'll start chanting now!"

Never in its existence had Mirel been so submissive.

The others watched in silence. Terell was barely clinging to life, and the decision of whether he would continue to breathe was left in the hands of the spectral disciples who now followed Wynter.

Feradach couldn't help but mutter under his breath, "I've never seen a foreign mystic statue pushed to this point. Only Wynter could do this. The sages haven't even said a word."

Indeed, they had been eerily quiet. The calculating glint in their eyes had long since been replaced with something closer to dread. If given the choice, they would have preferred to have nothing to do with a disciple like Wynter.

From the sidelines, Dalton chuckled, his voice low and magnetic.

Wynter flicked a glance his way, arching a brow, as if to ask what he found so funny.

Dalton had always known Wynter had a temper, but he hadn't expected it to manifest like this. In the past, so long as she wasn't provoked, she remained indifferent, concealing her methods carefully. After all, if she acted recklessly, she might be accused of being possessed.

But now, it was as if she no longer cared. And in shedding that restraint, her true nature became apparent—impatient, utterly uncompromising, and not someone to be trifled with.

The other sects, who had once schemed against her, now showed clear unease. They knew full well that scheming against a disciple like this came with consequences.

Using a mystic statue—even a corrupted one—as a battering ram was something that would challenge the orthodox mindset. In all of history, she was probably the first to do it.

But her sudden lack of restraint… Did it mean she was preparing to break out of the formation?

The thought made Dalton's smirk deepen as the warmth in his eyes faded into something colder. It was so cold that Whitley, coiled among the clouds, couldn't help but peek down at the scene below.

Finally, Dalton spoke, his voice just loud enough for those near Wynter to hear. "It's nothing. It's just rare to see you in such a hurry."

The tone he used to speak to her while wearing that devastatingly handsome face was inappropriate, to say the least.

Feradach and the others found it strange. The way Dalton spoke hadn't felt out of place when he was in his younger form. But now, in his adult version, he carried an air that made it seem as though no one was worthy of standing beside him.

Well, except for Wynter. Because compared to him, her hostility was already written plainly across her face. Also, their faces suited each other oddly well.

But why did that matter? They shook their heads, trying to rationalize their own thoughts.

Wynter, however, didn't deny it. Her gaze remained fixed on Dalton. "I do need to get back soon."

Dalton tilted his head slightly, his defined jawline sharp and cold. His fingers absently traced along something unseen, lost in thought.

Then, he let out a sigh of mock regret. "Ailithir would be sad to hear that. After all, he had raised a disciple who felt no attachment to him despite the care he gave."

Something about their conversation was becoming increasingly difficult to follow.

Even Whitley found it incomprehensible. But that didn't stop the urge to flee every time Dalton spoke to Wynter.

This was the first time Dalton was a human. Why was he acting so strange? Did the refining flames damage his mind?

Whitley forced himself to stop thinking such thoughts. Dalton might find out, after all.

Still, it was bizarre. Since when did Dalton talk so much with a mortal—let alone a female cultivator? Furthermore, Whitley could sense Dalton's souring mood—something that had never happened before.

Mirel seemed to pick up on it, too. It stopped chanting, its eyes darting between Wynter and Dalton, as if hatching some scheme.

Wynter didn't bother with words this time. She raised her hand and gave Mirel a sounding smack. In an instant, Mirel saw stars.

Wynter smirked. "Did I say you could stop?"

At this point, Mirel abandoned all its schemes. It finally understood that Wynter held no concept of reverence. It didn't know what she believed in, only that she was ruthless.

And perhaps only someone like Wynter could remain unaffected by all the corruptive influences within the formation. All the mystical preachings Mirel had hoped to impose on her were completely useless.

Defeated, it resumed its chanting.

Soon after, the door at the back of the mountain swung open.

The sects finally saw what lay inside, and one by one, their faces drained of color.

With their wishes fulfilled, the spirits dispersed.

By all logic, the formation should have shattered by now.

The surrounding atmosphere had indeed changed as it no longer felt so deathly still. By normal reasoning, the formation's boundaries should have started to loosen, breaking apart little by little, just like the previous times.

She should have been able to pass through the dark mist and return to the real world outside.

But this time, something inexplicable happened. Not only did the formation not loosen, but everyone around her seemed relieved, as if they had survived a great ordeal.

The mountain's malevolent energy had vanished, and even the sacred statue in Wynter's hand had crumbled to dust.

The air was filled with the fresh scent of spring grass—a sign of pure, nourishing spiritual energy. An immeasurable amount of merit enveloped Wynter, as if cloaking her in divine light.

Yet, Wynter's expression held no joy. Instead, she frowned slowly, staring at her own hands.

She hadn't returned to the real world. Why?

What unsettled her even more was that the sacred statue was gone. Without it, what could she use to remind herself that this place was just a formation?

She didn't know why, but her first instinct was to look at Dalton, who stood beside her.

But Dalton was even faster. He grasped her wrist, his voice a soft sigh against her ear. "What's troubling you?"

Was staying here so terrible? Why was she making that face? Who was out there that she missed so much?

By her own words, she had entered this formation because of Raleigh.

Dalton knew—whether she was searching for the sacred statue or Isidore—it was all to break the formation.

He could let her do anything. Leaving him, however, was not an option.

Studying him now, Wynter was abruptly reminded of their first meeting on the streets of Hawford's old district.

Back then, as she exited the formation, flames raged around her. The entire realm shook, the inferno threatening to consume everything. Yet, he stood at the center of the inferno, staring at her obstinately.

He had been smiling, but his eyes were cold. His lips moved slightly—as if speaking—before curving into that familiar smirk.

He was always like that—impeccably suited, exuding an aristocratic heir's elegance, untouched by even a speck of dust. So refined, so noble, as he looked at people with an unfathomable depth in his eyes.

At the time, Wynter hadn't heard him clearly. Now, his words echoed in her mind with perfect clarity.

"The next time we meet, I will make sure to keep you."

Wynter's fingers twitched. When she came back to her senses, she met his eyes again—dark, endless, and deceptively harmless.

He seemed harmless, even a bit sickly pale, as if he were frail. But in truth, no one in the world was harder to deal with than him.

If it really was him, how much of a chance did she have to escape his grasp? Too little. No matter how she calculated, the odds were disturbingly low, especially since he was the first person who had ever tracked her notebook's location.

If there was anyone in this world she least wanted as an enemy, it was the man before her.