The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1857

Clifton jolted his head up, trembling as he echoed, "Merit..."

Wynter, however, seemed to have made the most ordinary decision. "I would have to trouble you to take me to the deepest part of the River Styx. I know Morna's work isn't limited to brewing."

Clifton stared at her, unable to snap out of his shock for a long time. Every cultivator knew just how crucial merit was. To exhaust one's merit to summon a soul...

Of course, the underworld would welcome it as it would help purify the lingering resentment energy. But no one would ever do such a thing.

Clifton had seen his share of true love, but honestly, a pair with tension as thick as Wynter and Dalton was rare. These two operated in a way that left no retreat for themselves. Exhausting one's merit…

Clifton took two steps before turning back. "Esteemed cultivator, aren't you afraid that without merit, you'll face backlash from the resentment energy clinging to your spiritual form?"

Wynter observed her surroundings, then smiled faintly. "Let them try."

The black mist suddenly stilled. The lurking malevolent spirits, sensing her smile, shrank back behind her.

Using merit to summon a soul was like lighting the brightest lantern in the vast darkness—every wandering soul and spiritual form would be drawn to it. It could even transcend time and space.

…

The black fog grew heavier, shrouding Mt. Nyxvarn, lingering without dispersing.

Indeed, Dalton refused to leave that Sacrificial Human Formation. He had shattered the heavenly decrees that the major sects had invoked just like before.

The sects were always quick with excuses, eager to pin the world's turmoil on Wynter, spinning tales of romance and love.

When humanity grew corrupt, and when rulers ceased to rule and ministers ceased to serve, chaos inevitably followed.

To draw an imperfect parallel, take the ancient Emperor's beloved rose, Consort Annalee Rich, for instance.

Everyone cursed her as a femme fatale, a woman who served two husbands. The most infamous tale was her love for lychees, for which countless couriers were run to death just so she could taste a fresh one.

The imperial guards claimed that Annalee's family had brought ruin to the nation and her beauty had caused a rebellion, and thus demanded her execution.

In truth, it was the emperor's own folly that led to ancient Cascadia's decline. Annalee became the scapegoat for the imperial court's policy of appeasing the warlords. The more vividly they spun the tale, the more it was to clear their name.

Likewise, when the sects' corruption was exposed, their golden age collapsing into decline, they, having tasted the thrill of absolute power, refused to change. They couldn't accept a woman surpassing them in talent to ascend to the Sacred Path, so they cast themselves as victims or bystanders.

They didn't even resort to witchcraft like Isidore. They simply didn't want Wynter to rise.

A tree that stood too tall would be toppled by the wind. If refusing to conform was a crime, then Mt. Nyxvarn's actions were indeed unforgivable.

These were the dying words of a certain sect's sage. "Since ancient times, humanity has been divided into ranks. Yet, Mt. Nyxvarn refused to acknowledge this truth.

"They allowed that disciple to run wild, disturbing all the sects' peace, and insisting on delivering so-called 'justice' to those lowborn peasants in the valleys.

"Since when has the world ever known absolute justice? If they truly wanted fairness, they should ask their parents why they weren't born into a cultivation sect!

"All things follow retribution and reincarnation. If they were destined to be lesser beings, then they should accept their place! The fact that the sects even glanced their way was already a blessing.

"Dual cultivation is the natural order of heaven and earth. That Quinnell girl uncovered some of Mt. Lunther's unsavory deeds. That itself is fine, but she could've stopped there. But no, she had to dig deeper."

The sage showed no remorse for his actions. "She sought to sever all the sects' path. No wonder resentful energy clung to her, condemning her to eternal exile from the cycle of reincarnation!"

Dalton had been lounging on the Netherthrone, his chin resting on his hand, listening with detached amusement.

Of course, the sage dared speak so boldly because of the rumors. They claimed that the underworld's new Spirit King, Dalton, held a grudge against Mt. Nyxvarn, especially against Wynter, who had died without a grave to her name. After all, she had once dragged him to the mountain as her boy toy.

In the cultivation sects' eyes, this was likely the greatest humiliation the Spirit King had ever endured. And really, who wouldn't resent being reminded of their lowest moments, especially the indignity of being someone's plaything?

Seeing the faint smile on Dalton's face, the recently deceased sage assumed his words had struck a chord. Emboldened, he continued airing his grievances.

This wasn't the mortal realm anymore, and he believed he could speak his mind freely. Once he left the underworld, no one would even recognize him.

But what he didn't expect was for his neck to be snapped in the next second.

The newly crowned Dalton seemed to despise direct skin contact. His hands were gloved, and his body was adorned with faintly chiming ornaments—something resembling Spirit Tokens woven with red thread.

The sage had assumed that, having already died once, he would feel no pain or fear.

But Dalton didn't just snap his neck. He shattered his soul and spiritual form, every path of cultivation he had ever walked.

In his final moments, the sage's eyes bulged wide with disbelief, his lips still forming a broken whisper. "Wh… Why…?"

His soul dissolved into dark water, his spiritual form torn apart until nothing but ashes remained.

The malevolent spirits kneeling below trembled violently, their hands shaking.

Yet Dalton, who had just committed this act, showed no expression at all. His face remained as coldly beautiful as ever, as though he had merely crushed something insignificant.

"Bring me more of this trash," he said coldly.

"Y-Yes, my lord!"

No one dared disobey the Spirit King, especially this new one. He truly feared nothing—neither heaven nor earth. There was nothing he cared about.

In the past, evil spirits could still sneak out to prey on humans. Now, they truly didn't dare. Instead, they scrambled to think of ways to please Dalton.

But Dalton had no interest in beauties, nor in wine and feasts. His only pleasures seemed to be haunting the underworld and hunting down the sect sages' souls. Sometimes, even his own subordinates feared approaching him.

A few who had connections in the underworld whispered that he was searching for someone, but it had been so many years without a single trace of the other person. If this went on, they might have to personally scour the realms to find whoever it was.

The spirits' thoughts were simple—they genuinely wanted to ease Dalton's burdens. That was why they had initially tried the classic tactic of offering him beautiful women. But they quickly abandoned that plan because whoever presented a "gift" risked being incinerated on the spot.

Gradually, Dalton's palace became a place they feared to approach, never mind the shadowed steps leading to the Netherthrone.

Now, they could only wish that the cultivation world's sages would keep their heads down and stop invoking Dalton's wrath.

After all, if this continued, Dalton would inevitably turn the entire cultivation world into a sacrificial pyre. And if the underworld itself ceased to exist in the fallout, where would that leave them?

Of course, there were still those with enough sense to read the room, like the malevolent spirit who had followed Dalton to Mt. Nyxvarn back when he was still a lowly, unremarkable wraith.

Dunstan's expression remained flat. "It doesn't matter. One slip-up, and neither of us walks away."

Meade lit a cigarette for him. "I don't know much about you, but with your illegal cross-boarding skills, I can tell you have connections. I'm not worried."

Dunstan's eyes narrowed. "Watch your mouth. Play dumb if you want to live long."

The Special Unit had caught the exchange.

Sheldon muttered casually, "They're heading to Havenia, too. Otherwise, he wouldn't have checked with both groups."

A teammate frowned. "Do we follow Wolf there, Mr. Bridger?"

Sheldon kept his voice low. "We don't have a choice. We found him, but he's not making a move. We can only stick with him."

He motioned to one of the members. "Tell the others to alert Havenia HQ. If Ms. Quinnell returns, just report everything as is to her. If someone asks where you went, just say you took a piss."

That member hummed in agreement and slipped away unnoticed.

Just then, the ferry horn blared outside. Dunstan reappeared, handing out an item.

"Show these at inspection. They'll let you through," he said as he passed the item to Sheldon and Meade.

His gaze sharpened as he counted heads. "You're missing one."

Sheldon chuckled. "Nature called. He stepped out."

Right on cue, that member returned. Dunstan stared him down. "Where'd you go?"

The member paused for a moment before replying, "Bathroom break. I'm not familiar with the layout here, so I had to find a spot outside."

Dunstan's eyes locked onto him. After a few seconds of silent tension, he finally spoke, his voice low but firm. "Don't wander around. If something happens, no one will be able to cover for you."

The member nodded firmly. "Understood."

Only then did Dunstan shift his gaze elsewhere. "Start prepping for boarding. Don't dawdle."

As soon as the words left his mouth, the van rumbled to life, rolling toward the docked ship. Sheldon, seeing this, gestured to his group and followed.

When the van reached the boarding point, a man stepped forward to block them. "Routine check."

Meade wordlessly handed over the item Dunstan had given him earlier. The dock guard glanced at it, then sized him up before peeking into the van. "Go on."

Meade nodded. "Thanks." Then, he slammed his foot down on the gas and drove onto the ferry.

Sheldon and the rest of the team mirrored Meade's approach and handed over their items for inspection. After a quick, half-hearted check, they were waved through as well.

Once the van was parked in place, Wolf's nose twitched slightly. He could tell that the scent wasn't far from him, which meant the source was in the ferry as well.

He closed his eyes, trying to trace the presence through sheer sensory focus. But that scent was flickering. It was close one moment, but distant the next. This left Wolf completely baffled.