The Heiress’ Return: Six Brothers at Her Beck and Call (Wynter Quinnell) novel Chapter 1926

At that moment, Wynter was sitting in the car, her eyes closed as she took a nap. Beside her, Wolf was watching cartoons.

Suddenly, Wynter seemed to sense something. Her eyes snapped open, and she looked straight ahead.

Seven men in cultivation robes suddenly appeared ahead, spreading out in a wide arc to block the road.

They stared coldly at Wynter's car, each wielding a different artifact—one held an Arcane Staff, another a bronze bell, and another clutched an astrolabe among other tools.

The driver had never seen anything like this. He couldn't understand why a group of men was blocking the road at night. He was just about to roll down the window to speak when a sharp numbness struck his neck before he slumped into unconsciousness.

Wynter dusted off her hands lazily after knocking the driver out. Then, she stretched and glanced at Wolf. "Get out. It's time to stir up some trouble."

Wolf quickly handed her the phone before Wynter opened the car door and hopped out. Seeing this, Wolf followed close behind.

The markings on their robes were unmistakable. Wynter quickly recognized them as Mt. Darkwood's members. She hadn't expected them to arrive so soon, though whether these men could withstand her fury remained to be seen.

Leaning casually against the car, Wynter spoke with a drawl. "It took you long enough. I've been waiting."

One of the men stepped forward. "Are you the cultivator from the mainland?"

Edgar, who stood beside the man, said coldly, "That's her! I won't mistake her for anyone else. She destroyed both Webster and me."

Wynter raised her pretty eyes. "Oh, so you're the one whose Arcane mind shattered at the banquet, huh?"

"You dare bring that up after you've disgraced all of Mt. Darkwood?" The leading man, Callan Ronin, struck Edgar with a palm, sending him flying several miles away.

Then, he turned to Wynter. "I'm a sect elder of Mt. Darkwood. The name's Callan Ronin. You might as well tell me your name, too, so that someone will know who to bury."

Wynter's voice turned cold. "You are not qualified to know my name."

Callan let out a laugh, fury dancing in his eyes. "Such arrogance. The sect leader sent us here to invite you to Mt. Darkwood for a little talk."

"No, thanks. I find that place dirty," Wynter said without hesitation, her fingers quietly sliding toward the silver needles at her waist.

Callan seemed to have caught her movement. "Ungrateful brat. Then don't blame me for bullying the young."

After speaking, Callan began walking toward Wynter step by step, his eyes full of disdain. In his mind, the only place in the mainland worth anything was Mt. Dragon, and even then, only Kaspar had real ability—and he was an old man. He figured Wynter didn't look like anything special.

Wolf tried to step in front of Wynter, but she pressed a finger to his forehead. "Go watch your cartoons. I'm here, so there's no need for you to play hero."

Wolf tilted his head. "Then make it quick, Boss. I'm off."

Callan stopped three steps away from Wynter. "This is your last chance—come with us to the mountain or die."

Wynter raised her eyes lazily. "I might've considered it if your sect leader personally came to invite me. But you? You don't qualify."

The moment the words left her mouth, Callan struck. A rope flew out from his sleeve, his Specter Lash heading straight for Wynter. The rope coiled tightly around her, binding her limbs.

Callan let out a loud laugh. "I know you have some skill. After all, you're the one who ruined Edgar and Webster. But now that you're caught in my Specter Lash, you won't be able to use any of your cultivation, no matter how strong it is."

Wynter could tell the rope wasn't ordinary, but her lips curled into a smile. "Who told you I was a cultivator?"

With a flick of her finger, as sharp as a blade, she sliced the Specter Lash clean in two. The pieces dropped uselessly to the ground.

Callan stood frozen. The Specter Lash, as Wynter had said, was only effective against those who used cultivation. Without it, it was just a normal rope. But hadn't everyone said she was a cultivator?

His expression darkened. "You're not a cultivator? All the more reason not to let you leave alive."

Seeing Wynter empty-handed, Wolf quickly grabbed a wooden stick from the side and tossed it over.

Wynter caught it with one hand and gripped it tightly. "It's showtime. All of you better come at once. After all, you won't get another chance after this."

As she spoke, she bit into her fingertip. Her blood smeared across the stick, and with it, threads of fortune began to coil around it.

Her foot tapped the ground. In a flash, she lunged forward, the stick pointed directly at Callan. She was so fast he didn't even have time to react before it was already striking his body.

Normally, a wooden stick would shatter after one hit. However, when infused with her fortune, it not only became even more solid, but the pain it delivered also multiplied.

With a sweeping blow, she sent Callan flying straight into the group of robed men behind him. Seeing this, the group scrambled to catch him.

Wynter sighed softly. "Pathetic. I haven't even started."

"Mr. Ronin! Are you alright?"

"How are you feeling, Mr. Ronin?"

Callan spat out blood as he glared daggers at Wynter. "You…"

He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth before shaking the blood off his hand. "You mainland people really don't know when to stop, do you? Since you refuse to come quietly, let me show you what Webster felt that night!"

Then, he addressed the group of men. "All of you, attack together! Create a formation!"

The moment the words left his mouth, a thick fog suddenly rolled in. It surged toward Wynter as Callan chanted a series of incantations under his breath.

In an instant, the scene before Wynter's eyes changed completely—those men were nowhere to be seen.

Instead, tendrils of energy began rising from the ground, twisting and gathering into over 100 souls—some elderly, some young. Their eyes were vacant, arms outstretched, all of them advancing toward one target—Wynter.

Callan's laughter echoed through the fog. "Aren't you the strong and fearless one? Then go on—destroy these unborn souls! Only when you wipe them all out can you face me.

"If I'm not mistaken, you infused fortune into that wooden stick. I didn't expect someone your age to already be blessed with fortune.

"I'll be honest with you. These souls carry immense resentment. They're not just random spirits—they're all wronged souls Mt. Darkwood has collected over the years. You'll have to turn them into dust if you want to survive! Don't disappoint me now—kill them all!"

His laughter rang like a demonic chorus, drilling into Wynter's ears.

She stood at the center of it all, one hand gripping her stick, her eyes darkening as she watched the swarm of souls slowly advance.

Mt. Darkwood was truly vile. Not only did they kill innocents under the guise of other sects, but they also imprisoned their souls, refusing them reincarnation and even turning them into weapons for themselves.

She flicked her wrist, and a set of lucky tokens appeared in her hand. However, they could only hold the spirits back for a short while. The souls would eventually break through if this dragged on.

The regular ones weren't the problem, but the children and elders among them had all been killed by Mt. Darkwood. Some hadn't even received proper burials, let alone a chance at reincarnation.

The resentment clinging to them was enough to blanket the world in darkness, threatening to drag Wynter into an endless abyss.

Wynter closed her eyes. If she wanted to break the Wronged Souls Formation, she had to locate its heart. That core was the vessel anchoring the souls. Once it was destroyed, the unborn souls would be released and no longer bound by Mt. Darkwood's control. But where was it?

Her vision was growing hazier by the second, swallowed by the thick black mist. Everywhere she looked, there were souls steeped in seething resentment. Their cries echoed from all directions, like a demonic chorus. Just hearing them was enough to shake a person's mind.

Wynter tried to stay calm, but when she opened her eyes, her pupils had already turned a deep, blood-red. Even the wooden stick she held upright began to rise higher as she loosened her grip.

But Atwater had told her that in this age, the Wailing Procession of 100 Spirits didn't exist. Life and death were now recorded by the underworld's ledgers. What kind of grudge or hatred could be so deep that 100 spirits would rise?

She had asked him once what to do when one unfortunately stumbled into such a formation. Back then, he'd put on an air of mystery and offered her a single word—run. Run as far and as fast as one can.

Wynter lifted her gaze. One particularly close soul surged forward, and she swung her fortune-infused stick. With a single strike, the soul scattered into nothing. But seconds later, it reappeared behind her, coming at her again.

Wynter smirked. "How interesting. It respawns at full strength even after being obliterated. It looks like it's not that I can't destroy them, but that I can't keep them dead. In the end, I'll just wear myself out."

This was a Wraithlord Transformation Formation. These unborn souls were tied directly to the formation itself. They lived and died as one.

If the formation shattered, they would vanish, but the reverse must also be true. If all the souls were destroyed simultaneously, the formation would collapse. Killing one meant it would respawn, but killing all of them at once was the key to breaking the formation.

With that thought, Wynter tightened her grip on the wooden stick and bolted toward the rear. All the unborn souls immediately gave chase, swarming after her.

As she ran, she smeared more of her blood onto the wooden stick. However, this time, she infused it with heavenly luck.

Then, she suddenly came to a halt, pointing the stick directly at the souls ahead. As expected, they recoiled slightly, some even retreating in fear.

Wynter's lips curled into a faint smirk. "It's just as I thought."

But the moment she lowered the stick, the souls surged forward again.

She continued moving, letting them surround her. Layer after layer of unborn souls now encircled her tightly. Seeing that the opportunity had come, Wynter sprang lightly into the air, then drove her wooden stick deep into the ground.

At the exact moment the stick struck the earth, her lips parted, voice calm and resonant like a sacred chant. "Still."

Instantly, all the souls froze, like robots that had run out of batteries.

Wynter took the chance to scatter her lucky tokens in a full circle around them, sealing the boundary. Once the tokens were in place, she returned to the center and raised the stick once more.

To destroy them all at once, she would need the tokens' help to trap them.

Then, she leapt into the air, gripped the stick tightly, and brought it crashing down with immense force.

The ground split open in all directions. Every soul plummeted downward, swallowed by the abyss. One by one, they fell until the last had disappeared. This time, not a single one respawned.

Wynter bowed her head slightly. "Rest in peace, all of you."

Outside the formation, Callan had just stabilized the earlier crack. He let out a long breath. "This girl's power is strong enough to fracture my strongest formation."

One of the other robed cultivators spoke up. "Mr. Ronin, you weren't even using your full strength just now. If you had, she would have died on the spot!"

Callan smiled at that, clearly flattered by those words. "True. I think you're fit to be the new chief disciple. Once we return, I'll make it official."

The man replied quickly, "Thank you, Mr. Ronin!"

However, no sooner had the words left his mouth than the crack suddenly widened. In an instant, a blinding beam of light burst through.

The formation had shattered.

There, standing before them, was a figure holding a wooden stick.

Wynter raised and pointed it straight at Callan. "You. How would you like to die?"