The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1855

The Special Unit was not to be trifled with. They followed the tire tracks for quite some time, but they weren't sure which direction to take when they reached a T-junction.

One of the team members, holding a notebook, quickly analyzed the data and reported to Sheldon. "Mr. Bridger, the left road leads back to the city, while the right one goes toward the ferry dock."

Sheldon frowned. "The ferry dock?"

Without hesitation, he restarted the engine, made a right turn, and headed toward the dock. If Wolf had really run into trouble, the perpetrators would likely be heading for the ferry. Their best bet would be to attempt an illegal border crossing.

With that thought, Sheldon pressed harder on the accelerator. The car sped forward, and soon, they arrived at the dock.

The ferry hadn't arrived yet, so they got out of the car. Dressed in plain clothes, they blended in seamlessly, making it hard for anyone to guess their identity.

Suddenly, Sheldon's gaze flicked toward a narrow alley. He moved cautiously toward it, and upon passing through, he discovered a warehouse.

The other team members followed and saw the same sight. Just as one of them was about to speak, Sheldon raised a hand, signaling them to crouch—someone from inside the warehouse was walking out.

A team member whispered, "Mr. Bridger, could this be an illegal border crossing?"

Sheldon pondered for a moment. "Possibly. We'll need to scout further." He glanced at the group. "Is everyone wearing bulletproof vests? Stay alert. There might be armed terrorists inside."

They all nodded. They hadn't always had this habit, but after an operation where one team member died because he wasn't wearing a bulletproof vest, Wynter had drilled into them that no matter the size of the mission, their safety came first.

Suspects should still be caught, but none of them could afford severe injuries.

Sheldon stood up first. "Let's go. Follow my lead. I'll do the talking."

They had barely taken a few steps when one of Dunstan's lackeys spotted them. "Stop! What are you doing here?"

Sheldon smiled. "What else would we be here for? We're looking to cross the border, of course."

The lackey remained skeptical. "Who referred you?"

Sheldon paused briefly before leaning in. "Word of mouth. You know how it is. No one would try to cross the border illegally unless they're desperate."

He gestured to the team behind him. "It's the same for them—debt collectors breathing down their necks. We just need a fresh start somewhere else." He pulled out some cash and discreetly slipped it to the lackey.

The lackey's tone softened. "Fine. You'll have to talk to my boss."

Sheldon grinned. "Naturally."

"Follow me. Just tell him I referred you," he said.

Sheldon quickly thanked him. "I really appreciate it."

As they entered the warehouse, Sheldon spotted the van. His sharp eyes immediately noticed an older woman, Zenia, sitting in the front seat.

The other team members subtly scanned the surroundings, but the lackey barked, "Quit looking around. You'll get us all in trouble."

Sheldon nodded apologetically. "Sorry. I just got curious, that's all."

Before they could react, they were brought before Dunstan. The lackey whispered something to him, and Dunstan's sharp eyes swept over the group. "Where to?"

Sheldon was a decent actor. He forced a few tears and said pitifully, "Wherever is cheapest. We're running low on funds."

Dunstan scoffed. "Havenia, then. You can't afford to go overseas."

Sheldon nodded eagerly. "It's your call. We just need to get out of here."

Dunstan waved a hand dismissively. "Wait by the entrance. I'll let you know when the ferry arrives."

Sheldon thanked him profusely before leading the team toward the entrance, right where the van was parked.

Soon, Meade and his lackey returned to the van. Spotting them, Sheldon approached casually. "Hey, got a light?"

Meade handed him a lighter. Sheldon tilted his head as he lit up, using the moment to glance into the backseat, and there, he saw Wolf.

After lighting up, he returned the lighter. "Thanks, man."

Meade shrugged. "No problem."

He turned to get back into the van, but Sheldon continued, "So, where are you headed?"

Meade grew wary. "I'm just delivering some goods."

Sheldon nodded and didn't press further. As he was figuring out a rescue plan, he glanced back at Wolf, only to find Wolf staring right at him.

Wolf had heard the commotion outside. When he opened his eyes and saw the Special Unit members, he realized they must have gotten the alert when his watch had been destroyed. Otherwise, they wouldn't have known.

Wolf quickly made a hand signal to Sheldon. Though Sheldon didn't understand sign language, he grasped the basic message.

Wolf raised his hands in an X-shape, signaling stand down.

Sheldon gave a slight nod. He didn't know Wolf's reasoning, but he trusted his judgment unconditionally. He led the team to a spot nearby and huddled up.

In a low voice, he said, "Wolf's in the van, but he told us not to move."

"Then we wait."

Yes, some things required patience, just like in the underworld now.

…

The moment the spirits heard the plea for Wynter to stop, they all froze. The voice was far too familiar.

Thousands of years had passed, yet the underworld judge's appearance had never changed. He still looked like a grinning deity, except with blue skin, fangs, a spirit vehicle adorned with skulls, and a smile so forced it sent chills down one's spine.

The way his entire body trembled for some inexplicable reason made the sight truly unforgettable.

The soulkeepers had no idea why their superior was acting this way. After all, some of them were mere new spirits, having only been dead for a few centuries.

Long before arriving, the underworld judge, Clifton Beck, had sensed the Soul Commanding Badge. His legs were shaking uncontrollably now.

After all, there was only one person in all existence who could summon that token. The last time she had come to the underworld, he had nearly been tossed to Wolf as a snack.

No one could fathom the turmoil in Clifton's heart right now. He was torn between protecting the underworld and facing the one being he feared most.

He didn't dare get too close to Wynter as he spoke, and in his nervousness, one of his eyes popped out, leaving an empty socket staring at her.

Any ordinary living soul would have fainted from terror at the sight, but Wynter was no ordinary soul.

Wynter could feel the endless resentful energy. It was so thick with emotion that it was impossible to tell whether it was hatred, regret, or simply a desperate wish for peace.

But one thing was certain—the underworld erased memories. A single bowl of Erasure Brew, and by the time a soul crossed the bridge to hell, even the fiercest love or deepest hatred would vanish without a trace.

Clifton could see it all. After all, beyond the fog, the River Styx churned, the bridge looming over it.

Morna stood there, mechanically ladling out her brew to each passing soul. Her movements were numb, her eyes vacant and almost hollow.

Wynter observed this before picking up Clifton's pen from his desk. The Book of Judgment lay open before her, its pages writhing like living things.

This pen did not record mortal lives, only the sins of the dead. It decided whether a soul would reincarnate as livestock or return to the world in wealth and glory.

By all rights, no one but Clifton should touch it, yet Wynter did.

Clifton took a deep breath, but he didn't dare protest. Inwardly, he was desperately convincing himself to just let her be as long as she didn't rewrite fate and rip the entire verdicts to shreds like what Dalton did.

Speaking of Dalton…

Clifton stole a glance at Wynter. "Esteemed cultivator… you've met him, haven't you?"

Wynter looked up. She had no idea who he meant, but years of interrogations had taught her how to fish for answers. She smiled. "Yes."

"Good! That's great! It's good to know you've met him," Clifton repeated the phrase nervously, circling around behind Wynter like a worried spirit, as if afraid she'd suddenly scribble some catastrophic verdict.

He continued, "You've no idea! After you stormed the underworld last time, your husband showed up and forced his way through for your—"

He caught himself and slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Ah, forgive me. Age makes one ramble." His eyes darted around. "Surely, you've come on official business. Feel free to name it. I will assist however possible!"

Wynter, however, simply leaned back in her seat, twirling the pen between her fingers with lazy grace. "Keep talking. I like rambling. You mentioned my husband. What did he do?"

Clifton averted his gaze. "Did I? I've grown old. My memory is failing me—"

"That's alright. I'm sure a few strikes might jog it." Wynter rested her chin on one hand, her dark eyes reflecting nothing, not even the underworld's horrors. Her beauty was still dangerously bewitching.

Clifton couldn't withstand that gaze.

Back then, if it hadn't been for the underworld's deity speaking up, Wynter would've torn the entire underworld apart. Not for herself, but to find the unborn souls of those from Mt. Nyxvarn.

Clifton would never forget that day.

Her left cheek, porcelain white, was streaked with blood, and even her eyes looked as though they'd been steeped in it. Her long hair, once neatly tied, was disheveled and swept to one side. And pressed beneath her bloodstained spear was the soul of a revered sect's sage.

That soul had been marked for reincarnation, destined to re-enter the sects. But she had stood right here, in the very same place, the bridge to hell at her side as she stomped corpses of unborn souls beneath her feet.

She was a living soul, yet more terrifying than any demon condemned to the deepest level of hell.

Clutching onto her own soul fragment, barely holding herself together, she grabbed Clifton by the collar and held him up.

Her voice was hoarse and dry that day. "Why? Why do these beasts get to rise in ranks and ascend while my sage and seniors don't even get to reincarnate?"

At the time, he'd been so terrified his legs gave out. He had no idea how to respond and could only stammer, "Th-This… this was predestined. You're a cultivator, so you should understand that better than I do…"