The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1876

Even divine retribution could do nothing to Dalton. After all, they shared the same origin. Where there was the heavenly law, there would be divine retribution. Furthermore, divine retribution existed because of Dalton.

Within the Earthbound Formation, divine retribution held no authority. It could not interfere, for this did not disrupt the order of karma.

Having received their share of fortune, the beast clans now sought news of Wynter. This was especially true for the White Tiger and mystical deer clans of Mt. Nyxvarn, bound by a pact.

That grand wedding had never reached its rightful conclusion on Mt. Nyxvarn. Now, at last, it had taken the form it was always meant to have.

From the depths of their hearts, they felt pride for Wynter. Yet, few of those who once stood with her remained. Those who had cherished her as their own, like the spider clan, had vanished without a trace.

At the very peak of Spirit Mountain, inside the bedchamber, Wynter suddenly opened her eyes, as if sensing something.

She sat up in bed. As she moved, the black suit jacket draped over her slid to the side. Through the gauzy bed curtains, one could vaguely glimpse her beautiful, delicate collarbone. It was as white as ivory, but now, that flawless fairness bore several marks. Almost all of them were hickeys left by Dalton.

Wynter raised an eyebrow slightly, lifting her hand to massage her waist. The tingling between her legs still lingered, yet it didn't affect her thoughts in the slightest.

From outside the chamber came the soft sound of footsteps. Five or six female spirits stepped up to her bedside.

"Your Majesty, are you awake?"

"Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

Any other woman who had just spent the night in such intimacy might have blushed the next day, but not Wynter. She wasn't shy or flustered at all. With swift, fluid movements, she pulled the black suit jacket back over her shoulders.

The blend of a classical gauze dress with a man's suit jacket didn't look mismatched. In fact, it added to her commanding presence, as if the combination were made to match her presence of dominance.

She was just as she had always been—languid and seductive. Her long hair cascaded down, and the tear mole at the corner of her eye was strikingly visible.

As she walked toward the female spirits, they couldn't help but gasp softly. They had always known that the Queen Dalton brought back from the sects was no ordinary woman, but they had never seen her this close before.

Wynter's slender, pale ankle was still clasped by the soul-locking chain. The iron chains scraped softly against the ground, creating a faint sound that echoed in the room.

Yet, she seemed utterly indifferent. Resting one hand on her side, she picked up the Soul Commanding Badge nearby and asked with a smile, "Where is he?"

There was no need to specify who "he" was. The female spirits all understood that Wynter was referring to Dalton.

They had never had a clear image of who might stand beside Dalton as his equal until now. Seeing Wynter's composure, they realized that in all of heaven and earth, perhaps only she could stand by his side without being overshadowed, becoming a mere accessory, or fading into insignificance.

One of the female spirits gazed at Wynter's eyes, her admiration nearly turning into starry-eyed worship as she stammered, "The king, he... Beasts from all realms have come to celebrate your union. The three realms are offering congratulations on your wedding.

"His Majesty went to greet them. After all, it wouldn't be good if a fight broke out. As mortals say, it's best to avoid bloodshed during a wedding."

"It's best to avoid fatalities," a serpent spirit corrected, her forked tongue flickering menacingly as she spoke.

But to Wynter, such sights were nothing unusual. Far from being frightened, she even smiled. "You make it sound like he enjoys killing."

"Oh, it's more than just enjoyment. His Majesty practically—" The female spirit abruptly cut herself off, slapping a hand over her mouth in dismay.

She was worried Wynter would take her words to heart and decide to flee. After all, the soul-locking chain around Wynter's ankle had been specially obtained from the underworld by Dalton to prevent exactly that.

Wynter acted as though she hadn't noticed the spirit's panic. She took two more steps forward until the chain reached its limit. She lowered her gaze, briefly glancing at her ankle.

The spirit, terrified she might anger her, hurriedly said, "Your Majesty, you must be hungry. Quick, bring the warmed human lungs for the queen!"

"You've forgotten again," the serpent spirit hissed. "Her Majesty is a cultivator. She doesn't eat such things."

The female spirit nodded. "Right, right! His Majesty ordered roasted lamb prepared by the blaze spirits. I'll fetch them now."

"I'll pour the dew!"

"I'll slice the divine fruit!"

Each of them scrambled for an excuse to busy themselves. They were doing everything to avoid addressing the matter of the soul-locking chain around Wynter's ankle.

Wynter observed the scene before her, pausing for a few seconds before lifting a hand to pluck a hairpin from her long locks. With a few deft movements, she unlocked the restraints around her ankle.

The female spirits were stunned, their eyes widening comically.

But Wynter merely smirked, unbothered. "Sorry, force of habit."

The spirits wondered what kind of habit involved lockpicking.

Draped in her suit jacket, barefoot against the marble floor, she looked both breathtaking and untamed. "I've picked too many locks on missions. This one was simple."

The spirits couldn't help but feel this was a jab against the underworld. Wasn't this supposed to be unbreakable even by grand masters?

As if reading their thoughts, Wynter let out a soft "ah" and clarified, "It is complicated to open with spells. But it's as easy as a regular lock."

The spirits stared blankly at the infamous soul-locking chain. Did it just get compared with a regular lock?

Just as Wynter noticed the chain's stubborn resistance and raised her hand again, the door creaked open.

A rush of morning mist swept in, carrying the crisp scent of ink, the sweetness of peach blossom honey, and a faint trace of dragon's spice. This was a fragrance unique to one person.

"Why aren't you wearing shoes?" Dalton asked as he strode forward.

Without giving her time to react, he swept her up into his arms and placed her on the throne. Then, kneeling on one knee beside her, he cradled her ankle and slid her shoes on with effortless grace.

Outside, the city trembled under the weight of kneeling spirits. Beyond the walls, beasts roared in celebration. Mystical cranes soared above the underworld.

And at that moment, everyone witnessed it. The untouchable, regal man, bending with such tenderness before her.

Wynter watched him, then suddenly reached out, gripping Dalton's wrist. Beneath his skin, she felt the faint pulse. It was wild and alive, despite his spectral form.

A part of her was afraid that she was still trapped in the formation. But then her fingertips brushed against the red thread at his wrist. It was woven from her own merit, now tangled inextricably with the one on hers—unbreakable.

Only then did her lips curve.

"Finally, I've stolen you back from it," she murmured.

When Wynter spoke of "it", she wasn't referring to a person. No one, except for Wynter, had ever dared to defy the heavens and snatch the heavenly law from it before.

The Netherfire River's waves faded into the distance, but the spirit flames within the Temple of Endless Light burned fiercer than ever. The underworld, once filled with corpses, now pulsed with fortune on this very day.

Upon the throne no longer sat the inscrutable Spirit King, but Wynter, draped in a black suit jacket, her lips curved in a faint, knowing smile.

And that very Spirit King? He knelt on one knee beside her, lifting her hand to press a kiss to her fingertips.

From then on, across the heavens and the mortal realm, through the underworld and celestial domains, nothing could tear them apart. Even if the heavens themselves were displeased, the bond between them was now etched into the fabric of existence.

The entire city erupted in celebration, their cheers ringing out as the illusion around them began to dissolve.

The barrier shattered like fading paint on a canvas, reality seeping back in.

The old man fed him a pill, then sealed his pressure points one by one to prevent reverse blood flow. Only after completing these steps did he retreat to his chair.

When Mervyn awoke, he found himself in an unfamiliar room, but noticed the old man seated nearby in deep meditation.

Without opening his eyes, the old man grumbled, "Are you awake?"

Mervyn tried to rise and bow, but his body felt shattered, refusing to move. He managed a weak whisper, "Yes, sir."

Finally, the old man's eyes opened. "Don't move. Your injuries are severe. Bringing you back was no small feat."

"Thank you, sir." Gritting through the pain, Mervyn forced out his report. "On the streets, I encountered a child. He was tailing me, so I lured him into an alley to eliminate him discreetly. Yet, that child was formidable.

"He bore no traces of a cultivator's energy, but he dismantled me with mere gestures that left me gravely wounded. Had I not used the invisibility spell you taught me, I wouldn't have been able to escape."

He swallowed hard. "And that child... he matches the description you gave us. It's exactly as you said."

The old man stood up as he heard this, his gaze piercing. "Are you certain?"

Mervyn nodded fervently. "I couldn't possibly mistake him, my lord."

The old man nodded and contemplated. "Then it seems we've truly been noticed."

The old man's gaze turned icy. "Did I not teach you techniques? And yet, a child reduced you to this state."

Mervyn shook his head weakly. "Sir, I employed everything you taught me, even the Dark Mist Dragon. Yet, none of it could touch him."

The old man fell silent. The Dark Mist Dragon was a devastating force. Though Mervyn's version lacked its full might, it should've at least been mid to high tier.

As if remembering something, Mervyn added, "There's more. That child seemed capable of consuming spells. My formation vanished the moment it reached him!"

"Consuming spells?" the old man murmured, his mind coming to a conclusion.

To devour spells without consequence... only one legend came to mind. It had to be a Savior. He hadn't anticipated such an entity appearing here, let alone tailing him all the way from Colifernia to Havenia.

"Rest now," the old man ordered. "I have matters to attend to."

"Understood, sir."

Once outside, a figure cloaked in black approached silently. "You summoned me, my lord."

The old man nodded. "Havenia has grown unstable. Alert your operatives to be cautious—we've been noticed. Effective immediately, all operations enter radio silence. Make no moves without my direct command.

"Additionally, dispatch scouts to survey the Celestial Force. I sensed a trap there during last night's celestial readings. It was as if our plans were anticipated."

The cloaked man dipped his head. "Alright, I'll relay your message at once."

The old man gave a low hum of agreement, and in the blink of an eye, the cloaked figure vanished from sight.

Once the figure disappeared, the old man stood before the closed door, his gaze fixed on Mervyn lying inside. A sinister smile crept onto his face.

"Being watched... It really is an awful feeling. Only by making them believe that you are me can I put an end to such feelings," he muttered.

With those words, he began walking slowly into the room.