The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1859

April marked the opening of the Spirit Gate. It was the time when all the spirits in hell wished to rise to the surface to partake in offerings. It was also a time when malevolent spirits from the underworld gathered and enjoyed their freedom.

Some of the more hideous-looking ghosts would even tidy themselves up, all for the sake of making it in time for this one day.

The elders used to warn children not to visit graves, and this was why.

From the perspective of seasonal winds, April's temperature difference between day and night was significant. In the northern regions, it was easy to catch a cold or fever from being exposed to the chill.

Spiritually speaking, children had a weak life force during this period. If they visited places they shouldn't and made contact with someone too close to death, they might fall ill once they returned home.

Plus, some recently deceased elders, reluctant to leave their younger generations, often desired to pat them on the head on this day.

During this time, families would make many offerings, which was a common practice. The chanting of names served a purpose—summoning spirits.

But the most effective summons came from those with blood ties. The other party might appear after only a few calls.

If that didn't work, it would help to have something the deceased loved in life. Without that, even if the underworld guards came, finding a soul, especially a fragment of one, would become difficult.

But for those who were lost to the past, only Morna had the power to summon them, because the River of Forgetfulness itself held soul power.

What Wynter was about to do was unprecedented. Few dared to confront the underworld directly.

While the underworld did not control life, it governed death and the cycle of reincarnation. A single misstep could lead to carrying countless personal burdens.

Moreover, the evil spirits beneath the River of Forgetfulness were not easy to control. To summon a soul, one must reach the middle of the river. Very few dared to do so, so such a scene was rare.

The mist swirled over the lake, obscuring the path ahead. The water was eerily still, yet if one looked closely, one could see faces beneath the surface, their mouths opened. It was as if they were trying to crawl upward.

A small wooden boat drifted in the center. There were no other boats around, and only Wynter stood on board.

Morna's voice echoed in her ear. "Lady Wynter, the River of Forgetfulness is unlike any river in this world. It does not belong to the Realms of Reincarnation. You must remember to return within one hour, whether you find the person you are searching for or not.

"You cannot stay in the center of the river. I know your power, but the spirits in the River of Forgetfulness are not ordinary. If time passes and you haven't returned, you will have to join them. The waters will never calm otherwise.

"I will assist you from the shore, using the power of the Erasure Brew to search every place you have visited in past lives. But the result depends on the person's will.

"Also, to summon a soul, you need to bring the object that person cherished most in life. Did you bring it?"

Wynter steadied herself with a bamboo pole, her posture as upright as a pine tree. It was as though the countless evil spirits around her could not affect her in the slightest. "I brought it."

"Take it out, tie it with a red string, and throw one end of it into the river." Morna's voice drifted through the fog, making everything feel dreamlike.

What happened next, however, was unexpected.

Wynter threw one end of the red string into the river, while the other end was tied to her own wrist. She stood at the bow of the boat, facing the countless spirits below, all scrambling to climb aboard. Her expression was incredibly calm, almost detached, exuding a quiet indifference.

To those from the sects, she would have been seen as reckless and someone who feared nothing.

And the truth was, Wynter truly feared nothing. It was the onlookers who would feel anxious.

Morna paused, and when her voice sounded again, it was no longer monotonous. There was a hint of hesitation. "Lady Wynter, you..."

"His most cherished thing in life is probably me," Wynter said casually, her expression unreadable in the dim light. "I left him behind in the formation and told him I would wait for him. If he gets closer, he'll hear me more clearly."

But that was never really the case.

Clifton stood at the shore, his mouth opening as if to say something.

However, Wynter raised her right hand, and a multitude of stars appeared behind her. They were the accumulated merits of her past.

Not even Clifton or the evil spirits beneath the River of Forgetfulness had witnessed someone using their own merits to summon a soul, offering themselves as the "sacrifice", all in hopes of bringing the person she sought back.

She truly wasn't afraid of death, nor was she afraid of falling into the river.

All the evil spirits were thinking the same thing—had Wynter lost her mind? They were afraid to approach her because of her Arcane Way and merits, yet they still wanted to take her soul fragment. However, now, when she lowered her gaze upon them, they found themselves trembling in fear.

It was as if she would tear the River of Forgetfulness apart herself if the person she was searching for didn't return. The weight of her merit was overwhelming.

Morna closed her eyes, and in that moment, it seemed as though whispers were swirling around the evil spirits' ears. From the mist, the sound stretched deep into the bottom of the River of Forgetfulness. It sounded like sacred chants or the soft murmurs of spirits.

At that moment, the River of Forgetfulness, silent for millennia, seemed to stir, as if a breeze had blown through. The datura petals fluttered up, floating on the river, their beauty like a blazing fire.

Amidst this breathtaking sight, Wynter stood alone, her long hair flowing with the wind. Her profile exuded an androgynous grace, while the red string on her porcelain-white wrist gleamed with striking vibrancy.

People often said that the heavens could not harbor love, and no matchmaker dared to mediate for the gods.

Wynter had heard of this before, but she always dismissed it. She understood that love between men and women was fleeting, and that human nature could never be put to the test. But now, she had only one thought in her mind.

"Without the matchmaker, I'll tie my own red string."

Forget the evil spirits' fate or the consequences of being abandoned by all—her resolve was clear.

"I will have the one I want. As long as he's willing, even if it means going against heaven itself, I'll bring him back."

Her voice wasn't loud, but it seemed to penetrate everything, echoing softly at the river's bottom.

The red string stirred. Ripples spread across the water, and the sound of countless spiritual bells rang.

…

In the depths of the black mist, Dalton, sitting on his throne, seemed to sense something, and his eyes snapped open. Beside him, everything—whether objects or spirits—began to fade one by one.

He moved slightly, and the iron chains on his wrists clinked. He raised an eyebrow, his features still dignified and aristocratic.

Of course, he knew that all of this was from the past. Rather than facing this truth, he preferred to remain as the Spirit King, for during that time, he had truly possessed her.

He hadn't wanted to wake up, but the noise was unbearable. There was nothing around him, just endless darkness, yet the noise persisted.

Dalton rose from his coffin, casually snapping the iron chains. Countless chants descended, as if trying to bind him. However, he ignored them, brushing off the dust from his clothes, letting the Fankrit inscriptions coil around his soul.

The world was dark, and all he could hear was the sound of dripping water. Who was making that noise?

He turned his gaze, flexing his wrist, about to settle back down into his coffin.

Just then, an ethereal voice pierced through the water, echoing in his ear. "Dalton Yarwood."

Dalton froze, his palm tightening. With a forceful motion, the entire coffin shattered.

A faint light appeared ahead, and he moved toward it, his boots stepping on the dark water, transforming into soft leather shoes.

His clothes also changed, no longer the demon-red ancient robes. Now, he wore a sleek black wool coat—fine craftsmanship that looked like it came from Frenda, with a shirt and trousers beneath. It was an old-school foreign style.

He raised an eyebrow at his own appearance, then seemed to remember something, suddenly breaking into a smile. "This is also me."

Indeed, it was him.

He stood at the dock, during the steam era, with people everywhere shouting, "Newspapers for sale! Newspapers for sale!

"Sir, would you like a newspaper?"

Dalton remained silent, standing in the crowd, unsure if he belonged here.

She had indeed forgotten him. At less than five years old, she was already clever enough to know someone was following her.

"Sir, if you keep following me like this, I'll call the police."

Dalton laughed at her words. He bent down, looking into her black eyes, which seemed to be shrouded in mist. "If I stop following you, you better be careful and not let others affect your spiritual form or steal your fortune."

"I don't understand what spiritual form is." Her little face was cold, showing no signs of a smile. "But if someone dares take what's mine, I'll make sure to take it back. We're in a lawful society now."

Dalton couldn't hold back, his shoulders trembling slightly before he broke into a low laugh, seemingly making Wynter think he was rude.

He didn't want to leave a bad impression. He extended his hand. "I'll wait for you to come find me then."

"Why would I look for you?"

Dalton's voice was low. "You'll know why when the time comes."

After he spoke, the scenes around them began to fade.

Dalton knew that this was the past—a memory deep within his spiritual form. He still had to move forward, but everything around him was so dark. It was so dark that only he remained.

His brow furrowed. Accompanied by the sound of the ringing bells was light, but the voice calling his name was gone.

Instead, voices were conversing.

"Hurry up! If you're late, there won't be any offerings left."

"How much offering do you think you'll get? When you were alive, your son was already living off you. Now that you're dead, they'll no doubt give you offerings."

"You don't get it. This is just our tradition."

Suddenly, there were people beside Dalton. No, wait. These weren't people. They were more like ghosts.

He didn't speak but just walked forward coldly.

"Come on! Hurry up, or you'll miss the last bus!"

Apart from the ghosts, there were indeed other people—some office workers with laptop bags.

It was so dark that only a few scattered lights could be seen on the street. Because it was a holiday, there weren't many people waiting for the bus.

The office worker looked at his watch. "Why hasn't the last bus come yet?"

The ghosts next to him continued talking. "Yeah, why hasn't our last bus come yet, either?"

Hearing that, the office worker sighed. "At least I'm not the only one working overtime today."

In the midst of this, Dalton stood out.

The office worker glanced at him. "Wow! Is someone dressed like that still going to take the bus with us?"

The ghosts nearby looked at him. "What does it matter what he's wearing? He still has to take this bus."

The office worker didn't understand and asked, "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Just get on the bus later," the ghost said, its facial expression turning sour. There was a line of people waiting, including elderly people and children, but the little child's ears seemed to be bleeding.

The office worker didn't notice, his attention still on Dalton. He couldn't help but think how handsome Dalton was and was about to take out his phone to snap a picture.

But at that moment, a dilapidated bus suddenly appeared at the roadside through the thick fog.