The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1849

Fabian understood immediately, his expression darkening slightly. "I see."

Playing the weak to deceive the enemy was a classic tactic in business. When one thought they had gotten someone cornered, they might already be stepping into their trap.

At the same window seat inside, Virgil sat leisurely sipping tea. This time, he didn't bother with the fake courtesy of greeting Fabian at the door.

Kaspar supported Fabian as he slowly took his seat.

Virgil's eyes gleamed with satisfaction at Fabian's somber demeanor. Just as his master said—hit them where it hurt, and even the mighty Fabian would crumble.

His gaze flicked to Kaspar dismissively. He figured he was just some insignificant cultivator clinging to Fabian's side. He believed businessmen nowadays overestimated cultivators.

Once seated, Fabian spoke deliberately. "I can hand over the Quinnell Group's liquid assets. But when will I see Wynter?"

Virgil smirked. "Seeing your granddaughter isn't impossible. But it's not just the assets we want. We need the Quinnell family's fortune, too."

Fabian frowned as he struggled to understand his words. "Fortune?"

Virgil waved a hand. "No need for you to understand. The cultivator beside you should know."

Kaspar's eyes darkened at the mention of fortune. Virgil was clearly a pawn placed by the real mastermind.

"What do you need the Quinnell's fortune for?" Kaspar asked coldly.

Virgil shrugged. "No comment. And this isn't a request—it's a demand."

Fabian contemplated before sighing. "Fine. Take whatever 'fortune' you want. Just tell me when Wynter will return."

"Fulfill these two conditions, and she'll walk back into your life."

But Fabian was no fool. Of course, he wouldn't fall for such a trick. He stuck to the plan, engaging in small talk to buy time.

The one pulling the strings had already anticipated that there would be no breakthroughs here.

After all, even back when he was in the Winston family, he hadn't been able to sink his teeth into his particular target. So, he understood just how difficult the Quinnell family was to deal with.

Thus, he made a call, leveraging his own status to apply pressure and attack from both fronts.

The person who answered the call immediately grasped his intent and swiftly relayed the message to the Colifernia Chamber of Commerce.

Their arrogance stemmed from their certainty that Wynter wouldn't return. And the Colifernia Chamber of Commerce was simply the easiest target.

…

Cleo was in the middle of a meeting with several managers when a commotion erupted outside the door, all demanding that Cleo give them an explanation.

If the previous unrest had been internal, this time, the problem lay with their business partners.

"Mr. Sinclair, you claimed Ms. Quinnell was just handling some matters and would return once she was done, didn't you?"

"Now, we can't reach her at all. No calls went through, and there was no contact at all. What kind of business requires this level of secrecy?"

"We've all been working with the Southern Chamber of Commerce for quite a while. Let's not talk about other cities now. Just take Colifernia alone, for example.

"Every single shipment, every vessel, big or small, goes through the chamber, passing through Havenia. We're all businessmen here and know how high those profits run."

The speakers, all speaking in Havenian, were all involved in international trade.

Cleo truly couldn't understand them. This was just one of the many communication barriers.

These businessmen's core operations weren't even on Cascadia. Most were based overseas, though they weren't exactly foreign nationals. Many were from Havenia, having made fortunes during Cascadia's economic boom.

Now that the economy wasn't as thriving as before, they were gradually pulling out their investments. Naturally, some had already become Asmarian citizens.

This was their usual playbook. Their attitude toward Cascadia was simple—take what they could and discard the rest. But they couldn't let go of port-related businesses—the profits were too massive to abandon.

"We never had these issues back when Mr. Wray was in charge. Now? The chairman had disappeared at the drop of a hat. This doesn't inspire confidence."

The speaker was an older man, spinning a large gold ring on his finger, his gaze sharp and imposing.

"Mr. Sinclair, let's not mince words. For us, business is about profit. Frankly, the Cascadian authorities are already offering us incentives. We don't even need to go through your Colifernia Chamber of Commerce anymore. Today, we're here to tell you that we're pulling out."

"Since Mr. Quinnell Senior is here, too, and he's a reasonable man... Whether you agree or not, we're leaving."

People from the older generation carried an undeniable air of authority.

Even Cleo was momentarily stunned but quickly regained his composure. "You can withdraw, but my stance remains the same. Wait for Ms. Quinnell to return."

Though he said this, worry gnawed at him. Wynter still hadn't been reachable.

But rules were rules—withdrawal required contracts to expire. These people were here now because they saw an opportunity with Wynter's absence, aiming to strike hard.

"Do you really think Ms. Quinnell will come back?" Virgil smirked, his gaze deliberately flicking toward Fabian, his words cutting deep. "I doubt it. Missing for so many days? She'd have shown up by now if she could return. You're just stalling..."

Cleo listened as his gaze darted around, and his palms were sweaty while he scrambled for a solution.

Then, a cold, familiar voice cut through from outside the door. "Who said I wouldn't return?"

Instantly, the atmosphere froze. The managers inside the meeting room turned at the disturbance, their expressions shifting as they looked toward the entrance.

The newcomer was none other than Wynter. Though she bore visible injuries, with her right palm bleeding, her strikingly beautiful face was as defiant and fierce as ever. Pale, yes, but it only sharpened her lethality.

Her gaze locked onto Virgil. "Were you just threatening my grandfather?"

The moment her voice rang out, all eyes snapped to the door.

Fabian was so overcome that his cane clattered to the ground. "Wynter! You're back!" He rushed toward her, examining her with trembling hands. "You scared me to death."

Wynter offered a rare smile. "I'm fine, Grandpa. Don't worry."

Kaspar, who had been watching in shock, now beamed. "Wynter, it's really good to have you back."

Wynter chuckled. "You've worked hard these past few days, Mr. Stavius."

Then, without hesitation, she strode toward one of the chamber members. "Do you know who I am?"

Virgil could guess from Fabian and Kaspar's reactions. He nodded shakily. "Y-Yes."

Hadn't the old man said she wouldn't make it out? How was she standing here, alive and staring right at him?

Wynter cut straight to the point. "Where's the cultivator behind you?"

Logically, a being of his auspicious nature should have been able to influence any Earthbound Formation. Yet, this one had resisted him entirely.

And it was strange—for centuries, no one had ever activated it. All cultivation sects had forbidden it, claiming it as an evil formation. Whenever Crow had sensed its presence, he had avoided it—until now.

Now that he knew Dalton's spiritual form was inside—the final key to his restoration—he had waited until the moment was right, until Dalton had chosen to enter.

Now, everything should have been resolved. Yet, Dalton still hadn't returned. This wasn't part of the plan.

"This doesn't make sense," Crow murmured, his brow furrowing in genuine concern for the first time.

Nothing in this world could trap Dalton—not when his spiritual form was nearly whole again, unless… unless he was staying by choice!

The realization struck Crow like lightning. His head snapped up, his gaze locking onto the bed.

What could possibly make him stay? He had never asked why Dalton was shackled by so much resentful energy. What could have happened that could make the heavenly law himself be sealed by Fankrit inscriptions?

Then, suddenly, he remembered.

Years ago, Dalton had sent him to search for a place. Back then, Dalton had asked him, "Where do you think a person could be locked away, so thoroughly that escape would be impossible?"

When Dalton spoke those words, his expression had been indifferent, as if it were nothing more than an offhand remark.

But now, thinking back—had Dalton ever spoken idly? Never.

Crow's fingers trembled. So, what exactly was Dalton doing in that already-shattered Sacrificial Human Formation?

What Dalton was doing was simple. From the highest heavens to the deepest underworld, he pursued only one thing—a soul!

…

If Wynter had been outside the formation, then inside it, she must already be dead. Death didn't matter. Whether Wynter had become an ordinary spirit or a malevolent wraith, he would find her.

At this thought, Dalton's eyes darkened. No longer smiling, he stepped forward, walking unhurriedly out of the great hall, now little more than ruins.

Behind him, everything crumbled, yet the ground beneath his feet remained untouched, as though preserved by some unspoken will.

Amidst the quaking earth and collapsing mountains, he descended into the underworld. Unlike any other spirit, his arrival sent tremors through the very foundations of hell.

The city's towering walls loomed ahead. In the distance, underworld officials stumbled, their chains rattling as the spirits they escorted swayed unsteadily. Some even lost their hats in the chaos, looking thoroughly disheveled.

Two underworld guards stood at the gates, tasked with overseeing the spirits' entry into the city.

After three rounds of judgment, the souls would be sentenced. Some would be lightly punished, their tongues ripped out or their bodies fried in oil.

After all, it wasn't the officials who suffered, only those who had sinned in life.

The worst offenders—those denied reincarnation—were thrown into the Dark River. That place knew no light, and those cast into its depths were torn apart endlessly, alive yet unable to die. Reincarnation was impossible for them. They existed only to endure agony without end.

Then, there were those with merit—the sages and virtuous, who were treated with reverence.

But not every spirit earned an audience with the Grim Reaper himself.

Yet, here stood Dalton, reeking of living essence. He was not a cultivator nor an immortal, just a mortal soul who had somehow appeared before the underworld's gates.

He wasn't even carrying an artifact. He was practically asking for death!