Chapter 608: A Lesson for You

Loki thinks Fu Li Jia is a big‑breasted, brainless goddess.

At the very least, if it were him, he would not reveal his weakness to any god, any person, any living, breathing thing.

Anything that could kill him, harm him, or make him wake up one morning to find a knife on his neck, he would rot it in his stomach, take it to his grave, burn it to ash and scatter it into the sea, not even telling the wind!

Not even Yu Lin is an exception!

But Fu Li Jia said it so unguardedly.

This isn't brainless—what is this?

Of course, Loki is also grateful.

All in the name of repayment~

Loki plans to give Fu Li Jia thirty million.

Be sure to pay attention, be sure to be careful, be sure to be prudent.

And.

A lesson.

At the cost of losing her most beloved son, remember this lesson—never tell anyone your weakness!

But now isn't the time.

Wait a little longer.

Wait for Bader, that arrogant, overconfident guy, to start the feast again, to invite the Gods to hurl weapons at him again................

He enjoys that feeling, enjoys being watched by everyone, cheered by everyone, proven by everyone that "nothing can hurt me."

That is his highlight moment, his solo act, a feast that feeds his vanity to the brim!

Loki waits, waiting for that feast to open again.

Hmph, laugh?

Everyone, cry for me!

Loki sneers, casting his gaze outward.

The feast arrives faster than Loki imagined.

The Gods rush in from all corners of the Nine Realms.

Bader sits on the main seat, wearing the white robe that Fu Li Jia personally wove for him; the robe's hem is embroidered with silver thread, flowing like water ripples in the candlelight.

His golden hair is meticulously combed, tied at the back with a white ribbon, revealing a face so handsome it borders on unreal.

His smile is brilliant, brighter than all the lights in the palace combined.

"Friends," he stands, raising his goblet:

"Thank you for coming to my feast. Today, there is no war, no quarrel, no those annoying, headache‑inducing things."

"Only wine, only meat, only laughter."

"And, who else wants to smash me with weapons again? It's great stress relief, isn't it? Hahaha!"

The Gods also laugh.

"Come on," Bader spreads his arms like a soaring white bird, "who goes first?"

"Watch me!"

Thor is the first to stand again.

He grabs the table fork, weighs it, finds it too light, puts it down, and switches to a short meat‑cutting knife.

The short knife in his hand is like a toothpick; he aims at Bader's chest and hurls it forcefully.

The knife spins in the air, its edge flashing a cold glint in the candlelight, flies to Bader's front, curves, slides past his side, and embeds in the pillar behind him.

"Good!" the Gods applaud.

Fuleiya stands, removes the necklace from her neck, tosses it toward Bader; the necklace unfurls in the air like a golden snake, flies to Bader's front, gently lands on his shoulder and hangs there.

Bader takes off the necklace, returns it to Fuleiya, who takes it back, puts it on again, and winks at him.

Heimdall stands, unfastens the horn from his waist, and blows a short note.

The note turns into an invisible ripple that sweeps toward Bader, reaches him, spreads, becomes a gentle breeze that brushes his cheek and stirs a few stray hairs at his temples.

Bader laughs, raises his goblet to Heimdall.

One after another, the Gods stand up in succession, hurling weapons at Bader.

Knives, spears, arrows, Bone, fruit pits, even Thor's hammer are tossed—this time not stolen by anyone, but thrown by Thor himself.

The hammer flies to Bader's front, stops, hovering in midair like an iron ball held by an invisible hand.

It spins, then leisurely drifts back into Thor's hand.

Thor catches the hammer, mutters something, and sits down to keep drinking.

The atmosphere in the Great Hall grows ever more lively, laughter louder, cheers louder.

The Gods are no longer just throwing weapons; they begin a contest of who throws most accurately, who throws farthest, who throws with the most flair.

Someone tosses three knives simultaneously; the knives line up in a straight line in the air, curve one after another before Bader, embed sequentially in the pillars with equal spacing, as if measured with a ruler.

Someone flings a jar of wine; the liquid turns in midair into a rainbow, scattering before Bader into countless tiny Water Droplets that flash in the candlelight, then fall to the floor, soaking a patch of carpet.

Someone even lifts a chair and hurls it; the chair flies to Bader's front, breaks into several wooden planks that scatter around him like dismantled building blocks.

Bader stands in the center of the Great Hall, surrounded by those weapons, stones, wine liquid, wooden planks, yet he is unscathed.

He spreads his arms, lifts his head, his golden hair fluttering in the candlelight like a banner.

"Look!" he shouts, "nothing can hurt me! Nothing!"

The Gods cheer, thunderous applause.

At this moment.

Loki arrives.

His movements were light, and he did not disturb anyone.

He now held something in his hand: a Mistletoe, with green leaves and white berries, delicate and frail, as if just plucked from a tree.

He placed the Mistletoe in his palm, pressed his hands together, and gave it a gentle rub.

The fragile plant began to change: the green leaves shrank, the white berries withered, the stalk hardened and straightened, becoming like a nail, like a spear, like an arrow.

In Loki's palm it grew, twisted, and metamorphosed, finally turning into a dark‑green weapon, smooth all over and looking utterly unremarkable.

Yet it was sharp—so sharp that when Loki merely brushed its tip, a drop of blood seeped from his fingertip.

Loki decided to name it—Mistering.

Then he stepped out of the corner, walked to the back row, where a man sat: the God of Darkness Huo De Er.

Huo De Er sat in his seat, head turned, listening to the cheers, laughter, the sound of weapons slicing through air, and Bader's laughter.

His fingers tapped lightly on the tabletop, as if counting something, or simply passing the time.

Loki sat beside him.

"Huo De Er," he began, his voice soft, as if chatting with an old friend, "why don't you join the others?"

Huo De Er turned his head, his sightless eyes fixed toward Loki's direction.

"I have no weapon to throw."

"And I can't see Bader either."

Loki smiled, "I have."

"I can also guide you."

He placed the Mistering into Huo De Er's hand; Huo De Er grasped it, his fingers feeling along the barrel, from tip to tail and back again.

His brow furrowed slightly, then relaxed.

"What is this?" he asked.

"A weapon," Loki said, "made especially for you."

"There is Bader, do you hear? The place where the cheers are loudest, the laughter most resonant, the applause most dense."

"Bader stands there, waiting for you."

Huo De Er tilted his ear, listened, and nodded.

Loki released his shoulder, stepping back one step.

"Throw boldly and without hesitation,"

"Nothing can harm him; all things have sworn, even this weapon in your hand has taken an oath."

"It will never harm Bader, ever."

Huo De Er raised his hand, and the Mistering sat steadily in his palm with a solid clink.

"Now is the time," Loki's voice came from behind, carrying a strange, hypnotic tenderness:

"While they are all cheering happily, come, offer your blessing."

"Alright."