The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1850

"How audacious!"

"The living are forbidden from entering the underworld! Take another step, and you forfeit your life!"

A dozen underworld guards, realizing Dalton truly feared nothing, released the spirits they had been restraining before raising the spirit flame in their hands, encircling Dalton completely.

Yet, Dalton walked through them as if they were nothing. His handsome, indifferent face showed no expression, only the faintest curl of a cold smile at the corner of his lips.

"I'll wait for you to come take my life."

With that, he stepped forward, his movements so swift he seemed to flicker past them, yet his bearing carried an inexplicable scholarly grace—except he was no scholar.

He held a parasol, and his sleeves brushed the air with every step, leaving behind echoes of sacred chants.

Where he walked, the ground beneath him cracked. The towering city walls, inscribed with plaques, trembled as if on the verge of collapse.

This was the underworld—yet they felt an unprecedented, scorching heat. What kind of fire could reach even here? And who was this living soul? The closer he got, the more unbearable the burning became.

In the underworld, both the dead and its enforcers were spirits—none could endure these sacred chants. Some of the underworld guards' eyes reddened with rage, ready to strike, unknowingly signing their own doom.

Just as Dalton began to tilt his parasol, a frantic voice rang out from the distance. "M-My lord, please wait!"

Dalton's cold, elegant eyes lifted slightly.

"All of you, stand down!"

The underworld guards paled, immediately extinguishing their spirit flames and lowering their scythes, turning toward the source of the voice.

From the inky darkness, a path materialized. At its end, skeletal bearers hurriedly carried a crimson carriage, inside which sat an underworld judge, clad in scarlet robes embroidered with coiling serpents.

But beneath those robes was no body—only writhing masses of trapped souls.

This was no ordinary road. It was the Path of the Dead.

And the voice came from none other than the underworld judge, the Grim Reaper's proxy. Short in stature but horrifying in appearance, he looked like something ripped from a horror comic book—the kind that would make a child wail in terror.

More monstrous than the fiercest spirits, his every word sent the skeletons around him twitching.

Yet now, he was smiling—a rare sight, for few could ever earn his deference.

"They didn't recognize you and acted out of turn, my lord. But may I ask… what brings you to the underworld?"

The underworld judge wore a wide smile that made even the seasoned underworld guards shiver inexplicably.

What was going on? Why would the underworld judge refer to a living soul as "my lord"?

The skeletal guards, in order to let the underworld judge down from the carriage, had already knelt in unison.

It was hard to read much from the underworld judge's green-hued face, but his trembling voice betrayed his fear.

The guards exchanged glances. The underworld judge, afraid?

But how could he not be? Years ago, while on duty in the underworld, he had witnessed the "Legions of the Dead Kneel". Such an event only occurred when a new Spirit King was crowned. And the underworld knew well how one became the Spirit King.

It was the survival of the fittest. It wasn't just killing but also the consumption of the opposition. Hence, any who claimed that title were beings of terrifying power.

He had meant to avoid the spectacle, but fate had other plans that day. His carriage had nearly collided with Dalton, who stood in the dark. At first, he hadn't thought much of it. He believed Dalton was just another lost soul to bribe with spirit money.

But before he could scatter the offerings, Dalton had crushed a malevolent spirit's skull with a single, indifferent flick of his fingers.

Only then did the underworld judge realize that this was no ordinary path. It was a road paved with the bones of countless spirits, all crushed beneath Dalton's feet.

Trembling, he heard others addressing Dalton with reverence. And at that moment, he understood that he was the underworld's new sovereign.

He was so young that no one would guess he was the Spirit King by age alone. And his face was far from a spirit's. He resembled more an aloof immortal from the cultivation sects.

He was handsome and cold, but his gaze was so dark they held no warmth at all. It was especially so when, with a chilling smile, he had dusted off the shattered skull, wiped his hands with a handkerchief, and then looked straight at him.

That was when the underworld judge learned that appearances could deceive. Some who seemed harmless could kill with a glance.

A veteran of centuries in the underworld, the judge had never seen anything like this.

But what truly shook him wasn't Dalton's presence but the fact that the underworld's deity had personally sent him there.

The deity, who had vowed never to attain Celestialhood until the underworld was emptied, had never interfered in mortal or spirit affairs. For ages, he had remained silent, suppressing the abyssal darkness beneath the underworld.

Yet that day, he had summoned the underworld judge and ordered him to meet someone from the underworld. He had told the judge that he would know who he was meeting when he saw him.

And with uncharacteristic gravity, he had added to treat him like an esteemed guest while addressing him with respect.

The judge had always known that the deity could see through all Realms of Reincarnation. He couldn't help but wonder if he was showing Dalton this much respect because he foresaw that he would one day become the new Spirit King.

However, he soon realized that wasn't the case. Because it was clear that the moment Dalton heard the words "the underworld's deity", he immediately understood the judge's origins and outright refused recruitment.

"Go back and tell him that the peace he seeks will never come. I was born from the refining flame."

At first, the underworld judge didn't understand. It wasn't until he reported back that he heard the deity sigh. "Divine retribution is coming. Even the underworld cannot escape unscathed. The sects have committed too many sins over the years, and this is the backlash. Prepare yourselves."

And so, the underworld judge prepared. He prepared for years.

Now, standing face-to-face with him again—how could he not be terrified?

But there was no choice. The Grim Reaper wasn't here, and the deity couldn't leave its position. So, it fell to him to receive Dalton.

Dalton held the parasol with one hand, looking down at him with an air of detached indifference. It seemed he finally remembered who the judge was. However, he didn't step forward. Instead, he raised his pale, elegant hand.

"Bring me the Death Record. I'm looking for someone."

The underworld judge froze. His forced smile collapsed, his eyes darting nervously before he finally accepted that there was no point in deception.

He sighed heavily. "My lord… the Death Record cannot be viewed by the living. Which soul are you searching for? I can check for you."

His tone was painfully submissive, and the underworld guards didn't understand why.

But the judge was desperate. After all, Dalton could crush his skull without a second thought if he grew impatient.

"I'll be quick. This is our duty," the judge added hastily.

Dalton lifted his gaze slightly, his expression unreadable, as if nothing in the world could stir his emotions. Yet, inexplicably, the judge had the chilling sense that if he failed to find who Dalton sought today, the entire underworld might collapse.

Just as the judge was about to wipe the sweat from his brow, Dalton's voice came, low and slightly hoarse. "The Velmorian Princess and Mt. Nyxvarn's disciple—Wynter Quinnell."

At first, the judge didn't react to the words "Velmorian Princess". He mechanically flipped through the Death Record, searching for the entry.

Dalton's lips curved. "How unfair."

"Huh?" The judge was baffled.

Dalton's fingertip started bleeding out of nowhere as he smudged the Death Record.

"This verdict should be rewritten," Dalton said calmly.

"My lord, it's not that I'm refusing you, but no one can rewrite this! Not even the underworld's deity can interfere unless—"

Before he could finish, his words died in his throat. The previous verdict had vanished. The 81 scrolls pertaining to Wynter were now blank. Not a single word remained.

She had become an existence no one could touch. In the Realm of Reincarnation, where life and death were predetermined, she was now the one exception.

The judge paled as he looked up at Dalton. "Y-You… but the resentful energy can't be erased!"

"Who said anything about erasing it?" Dalton lifted the parasol slightly, his eyes as icy as they had been in the underworld back then. "I haven't finished collecting the sects' debts."

Was he going to kill those souls? But the only one who could alter reincarnation was Dalton. And wasn't he the one who favored the sects in the first place? Wasn't that why they ascended?

The judge couldn't make sense of it anymore. All he knew was that the world itself seemed on the verge of upheaval, all because of the verdict Dalton had just seen.

Divine retribution had been delivered to the wrong person. Those sects had wielded power they were never meant to have.

Divine retribution…

Dalton's grip on the parasol tightened. They had pinned the blame on him. How dare they decide whether she reincarnated or not?

For the first time in his existence, Dalton felt something akin to regret. He was regretful that these sects had ever existed and that he had ever given humanity hope.

But most of all, he regretted that her fate might have been his doing.

His hand trembled.

She couldn't have vanished without reincarnating. Hadn't she already broken the formation?

…

Meanwhile, a meeting was being held at the municipal building.

"What you must do next has already been outlined—" The old man was mid-sentence when his heart lurched. He could feel a disturbance in the sacred statue.

"Meeting adjourned." Without another word, he strode out, moving swiftly toward his office.

The statue had always been kept in his office, hidden away. Once inside, he locked the door and carefully retrieved it from the cabinet. However, before long, the statue shattered in his hands.

He was baffled by it. No one had ever emerged unscathed from the Sacrificial Human Formation.

Yet, as he stared at the broken fragments, his eyes darkened with fury. "Wynter!"

However, Wynter had severed her own obsession.

The old man never felt so uneasy. If the formation was broken, that meant Wynter had returned. And with that, stealing the Quinnell family's fortune just became far more difficult.