Slaying God: I, the insane and witty god

Before the older maid could finish speaking, a gust of wind, accompanied by golden afterimages, suddenly appeared in front of the two of them.

The pebbles exploded on the soles of the boots, and the strong wind made the potted plants in the hands of the two maids shake violently, splashing fine soil onto their white skirts.

Ladies, could you lend me a light... no, I mean, could you lend me a flower?

Bragi's iconic, somewhat poetic, face was right up close.

His smile was exceptionally bright, his neat white teeth gleaming with a chilling brilliance under the somber lightning.

That smile is so perfect; the curve of the corners of the mouth looks like it was measured with a compass.

It was so perfect that you couldn't find a single trace of human micro-expression.

The older maid screamed in fright, nearly dropping the chrysanthemum in her hand.

The moment she saw who it was, her pupils constricted to the size of pinpoints.

His lips trembled as he squeezed out a few broken syllables: "B...Lord Bragi?"

You're not missing...

Shh, don't mention that word, now it's time for a surprise.

Bragi placed his slender finger between his lips, making an elegant shushing gesture.

Before the maid could react, he reached out with his right hand and swept it out.

The most beautifully blooming chrysanthemum seemed to be drawn by a magnet, and steadily fell into his arms.

He took a deep breath of the floral fragrance, his nostrils flaring slightly, and closed his eyes in blissful ecstasy.

This crisp, earthy scent is the true essence of Asgard.

The air in the hospital, though clean, reeked of formaldehyde; it was a desecration of the poet's soul.

Consider it a favor I owe you.

Bragi opened his eyes, a near-frenzied excitement gleaming in them.

Next time I write a new song, I'll sing and play it especially for the two of you.

As for this pot of flowers, consider it part of my reunion gift.

Before the maid could recover from the overwhelming, almost suffocating pressure of his divine power,

The man in front of her once again transformed into a blurry figure of light and shadow.

His movements were so fast that a sharp whistling sound, produced by high-frequency vibrations, even lingered in the air.

The two maids leaned against each other, slumped against the stone pillars of the corridor, looking at each other in bewilderment.

In their eyes, although Blake's appearance hadn't changed, his aura seemed to have been forcibly replaced by something indescribable.

The poet who used to sit under the tree, melancholy strumming his harp, and who would nod gently to the maids, is gone.

Instead, there was a monster that exuded danger, was extremely excited, and had empty eyes.

Bragi paid no attention to the reactions of the people behind him; his heart was pounding in his chest at an unprecedented rate.

He could find his way around here with his eyes closed.

Turning past this corridor, crossing the lawn that should have been covered with moongrass, and going around the fountain, you'll find the garden he's been dreaming of.

He held the pot of chrysanthemum in his arms, and the cobblestone path beneath his feet made a crisp, clattering sound.

In the past, he always felt that this journey was long, because every step was filled with the urgency to see Eden;

But now, he felt like a bird flying through the void, with the surrounding scenery rushing past him.

His gaze swept over the flowerbeds by the roadside, and his brows furrowed slightly.

The once neatly trimmed shrubs have grown to waist height.

Branches lay haphazardly across the middle of the road, withered leaves piled up in the drainage ditch, emitting a putrid smell.

The once clear fountain pool has long since dried up, leaving only a stone base covered in moss.

Like a dried-out skeleton, it stands alone in the shadows.

Did they deliberately make the house look like this to test my sincerity?

Bragi's lips twitched slightly, then he flashed that standard smile again.

It must be like this.

As Dean Lin once said, the real surprises are often hidden beneath the worst appearances.

This is like writing poetry; you must first suppress it before you can elevate it to a higher level.

He quickened his pace, not even caring that the rampaging, withered branches tore his priceless robe.

Until he rushed into the center of the garden.

The secret garden, which should have been full of blooming flowers and filled with Eden's laughter,

All that remained was a shocking dark gray.

Vast swathes of fruit trees have withered and died, their dark branches twisting and piercing the leaden sky.

Like outstretched hands reaching out from the depths of hell, pleading for help.

The wooden house at the end of the garden was once the most cozy corner of Asgard.

But now, half of the roof has collapsed, and the broken window frames creak in the cold wind.

The wooden steps were rotten through, revealing dark holes.

There was no welcoming hug.

There was no cheering of surprise.

There wasn't even a hint of life in it.

Only the howling wind, carrying a biting chill, howled low through the desolate ruins.

Eden?

Bragi stood beneath the withered fruit tree, the chrysanthemums in his arms standing out starkly in the desolate environment.

He tried to shout, his voice very soft, but it echoed several times in the empty ruins.

No one responded.

The perfect curve of his lips remained there.

But the almost brainwashing excitement planted in his eyes by Yeland began to flicker violently at this moment, like a candle dying in the wind.

Eden, stop hiding, this joke isn't funny at all.

He stepped on the crisp, withered leaves, the crunching sound of which was startling in the silent garden.

He walked step by step toward the dilapidated wooden house, his fingers gripping the edge of the flowerpot so tightly that his fingertips turned white.

When he pushed open the half-closed wooden door covered in cobwebs, Bragi even held his breath.

He frantically imagined what would happen next: Eden would suddenly jump out from some corner.

She jokingly called him a late idiot, then took the potted plant and gave him a deep kiss on the cheek.

The door hinges emitted a harsh, screeching sound, like a mournful farewell.

The room was extremely dark, and dust motes danced wildly in the few remaining rays of light.

Bragi's gaze swept across the empty living room, past the overturned wooden table, and finally settled on the dusty bench in the corner.

There is no most beautiful goddess in the divine realm there.

There was only one long dress, neatly folded but long since lost its original color.

A yellowed letter lay on the hem of her skirt, trembling slightly in the wind, as if telling some secret forgotten by time.