Let me explain something: I never meant to incite a religious baking war.
But, in my defense, the Spoon started it.
"Scones," it whispered to me one morning, voice echoing with divine intensity. "The chosen medium of soul purification."
I had made the tragic error of asking what the Echo monks ate for breakfast. Innocent question, right? I was expecting gruel. Maybe existential granola. Not a sermon about pastries.
But now, three hours later, the courtyard of the Echo Shrine had transformed into a competitive arena of divine baking proportions.
Monks stood in rows behind flour-dusted tables. Floating recipes spun above their heads. Sacks of sacred flour were being blessed by a nun who was definitely crying. The shrine bells tolled with increasing concern. Fluffernox wore a miniature baker's hat and had eaten exactly three butter sticks before someone stopped him.
And me? I was the judge. Why? Because apparently the Mask of Echo glitched out during a lecture and named me "Culinary Arbitrator of the Timeline."
Thanks, System. Really needed more titles.
"Let the scones decide!"
That was Spoon, hovering above the arena like a deranged ladle-shaped deity. It wore a tiny chef's scarf now. I hate that I found it charming.
"Competitors, you have one hour!" shouted Aureline, who had volunteered herself as Master of Ceremonies despite clearly not knowing how to bake anything beyond political intrigue.
Belladonna sat beside me at the Judge's Table. She looked bored. Probably because no one was actively threatening my life this hour. Yet.
"You do realize," she said, sipping enchanted tea with the grace of someone who owned six crowns, "that this is going to end with a flour explosion and/or spiritual awakening, right?"
"Yes," I said. "But think of the snacks."
Thirty minutes in.
Things had gone slightly off-script.
One monk had summoned a minor flour elemental. Another had fused their soul to a rolling pin and begun crying about their yeast trauma. A third had created what could only be described as sentient jam.
"I NAME THEE STRAWBARIUS!" the monk cried, raising a spoon aloft as the gelatinous creature jiggled in battle readiness.
Fluffernox attempted to eat it.
"THIS IS NOT A TIME FOR CONSUMPTION," boomed Spoon from above. "THIS IS A SACRED SUGAR SACRAMENT."
Belladonna had begun taking bets on who would survive the round.
"Ten crowns on the redhead with the whisk chakras misaligned. He looks ready to ascend or explode."
I, meanwhile, was trying to figure out how one of the scones had developed eyelashes.
Fifteen minutes left.
"KAEL!" shouted Seraphina, crashing into the courtyard holding what looked like a flaming pie tin. "I brought backup pastry support!"
Behind her, Mirielle carried a tray of experimental lemon tarts glowing with holy energy. One chirped at me.
"WHY ARE THESE ALIVE."
"To judge the judges!" Mirielle beamed. "It's a recursive flavor matrix!"
"That means absolutely nothing, and I fear it might be genius."
"Bless the bake!" Spoon chanted.
Someone burst into tears.
One minute left.
The monks stood, trembling, scone trays raised like tributes to a carbohydrate god. Some of them glowed. Some of them floated. One had begun to sing.
I took a bite.
Then another.
Then I bit into a scone and had a vision.
Vision Log: Entry 001 – The Scone of Time
A field of stars.
I floated, wrapped in butterlight. In front of me stood... myself. Wearing a crown of jam.
"You are not ready," Jam-Kael intoned.
"For what?"
"To consume the full pastry truth."
He raised a golden whisk.
I screamed.
"KAEL! WAKE UP!"
I gasped, eyes flying open.
Belladonna was shaking me. "You fainted into the scone pile. Again."
"Did I speak in tongues?"
"Mostly about buttered inevitability."
"...classic."
Judgement Hour.
I stood.
Monks held their breath.
Fluffernox sat on the table, licking strawberry glaze off its whiskers.
I raised the final scone—piping hot, structurally perfect, and possibly radiating low-level divine aura.
"The winner," I announced, "is the one who didn't try to weaponize pastry magic or summon the Scone of Time."
Gasps.
A single novice monk burst into tears of joy. "My gran would be proud!"
Spoon floated down beside me. "You have judged well. We live to butter another day."
Later That Evening.
I lay flat on my bed, stomach full of experimental sugar divinity, brain softly short-circuiting from jam visions.
Belladonna knocked once, entered, and tossed a small plate onto my bed.
One final scone.
"You didn't try mine," she said.
I took a bite.
It was perfect. Soft, spiced. Warm with honey and memory.
She watched me.
I looked up.
"That one," I said. "That's the one I'll remember."
She smirked.
Then left.
Next Time on Yes, I Was Reborn. No, I Don't Want a Harem. Stop Looking at Me Like That.
Chapter 78: "Spoon God Rises: A Tale of Soup and Suffering"
The Spoon gains followers. Fluffernox writes a prophecy in jelly. Kael tries to hide under a table and ends up starting a revolution. Again.