Let me preface this by saying that I did not intend to start a religion.
Sure, I once accidentally founded a rebellion against fashion standards. Yes, I may have ignited a minor magical uprising by sneezing into a leyline. And okay, I did lead a Spoon into a bake-off so divine it triggered ancestral visions in the judges. But a cult? That was not on the bingo card.
It all began with soup.
"The broth is awakening," said Spoon.
I blinked at it. "You say that like it's a good thing."
Steam curled upward from the oversized cauldron like it was casting a spell. Which, to be clear, it was. Because this was the Divine Stew of Contemplation, and in typical Echo Shrine fashion, no one warned me it would be sentient.
"It has begun to manifest aroma-based prophecy," one of the Echo Monks whispered reverently. "This is stage three."
"Of what?"
"Ascension."
Wonderful. First jam-induced time travel, now soup-based divinity.
The monks had gathered in ceremonial aprons, faces solemn beneath their Echo masks. Belladonna stood at the far end of the shrine-kitchen hybrid, arms crossed, lips twitching between judgment and secondhand embarrassment.
"If the soup asks for sacrifice," she muttered, "I'm leaving."
"If it asks for seasoning, I'm leaving," I replied.
The cauldron gurgled ominously.
Spoon quivered in my hand. "Do you feel that? The universe is stirring... with cumin."
This was supposed to be a rest day.
After the Scone War (still being legally reclassified from a culinary incident to a divine miracle), the Echo Shrine masters decided I needed spiritual grounding. Their solution: "commune with broth." I assumed that meant soup tasting. I was wrong.
"The Spoon God demands a vessel," said High Monk Bravlior.
"I am not that vessel," I said quickly.
Too late. The broth had already latched onto my soul like a clingy ex reincarnated as minestrone.
Steam curled around my face. I saw visions:
A battlefield made entirely of dumplings.
A golden ladle, wreathed in lightning.
Fluffernox, wearing a crown made of croutons, judging me silently from atop a soup throne.
"You must complete the Rite of Simmering," said Bravlior. "Only then will the Spoon God fully rise."
I gave Spoon the stink-eye. "Is this you?"
"I might have whispered ancient truths to the broth."
"WHY."
"For flavor."
The Rite of Simmering consisted of six stages:
Chop vegetables with introspective intent.
Stir widdershins while chanting a recipe in reverse.
Confront your soup shadow.
Receive the blessing of the Holy Salt.
Taste the broth of self.
*Declare your culinary purpose before the Infinite Stew."
I want to be very clear: this was a real thing in the Echo Archives.
Mirielle read the instructions aloud while hiding laughter behind her notes. Seraphina refused to participate and watched from a spiritual distance with the expression of someone attending an exorcism performed by toddlers.
Belladonna kept asking if this would affect our engagement. I told her it depended on how much soup trauma she was willing to marry into.
Step one was easy. I chopped veggies and tried to be introspective. My soul offered up:
Regret about the scone duel.
Lingering confusion over whether I kissed Seraphina or the glamoured Mirielle.
Existential dread flavored with thyme.
Step two involved chanting what might have been a pasta recipe backward. Halfway through, Fluffernox joined in. The moment it harmonized on the word "rigatoni," thunder struck.
Step three: Confront your soup shadow.
A portal opened in the broth.
Out stepped Soup-Kael.
He looked like me, but better hydrated. His eyes swirled like bisque. He held a soup ladle that shimmered with ancestral starch. And he judged me.
"You never seasoned your decisions," Soup-Kael said.
"Oh no. I'm not doing therapy in a stew."
"You lack depth."
"I lack sleep. And a therapist! And basic boundaries with mystical cookware!"
We dueled with ladles. I won, mostly by distracting him with existential croutons. He vanished into the broth with a whisper:
"Simmer wisely."
Step four: the Holy Salt. Spoon insisted it must be cast dramatically.
I flung it with a flourish.
There was a minor explosion. The monks clapped.
Step five: taste the broth of self.
It was… surprisingly good.
Too good.
I saw my childhood. My past life. The moment I glitched into this world. I saw my parents. My death. My almost-choice not to be reborn. I tasted loss, and hope, and something suspiciously like nutmeg.
"You okay?" Belladonna asked.
"I just relived every existential crisis I've ever had through umami."
She handed me a towel. "Standard Thursday, then."
Step six: declare your purpose before the Infinite Stew.
I stood before the bubbling cauldron.
The broth shimmered with faces, memories, errors.
"I don't know what I'm becoming," I said. "But I know I'm tired of being stirred by fate. So from now on… I'm stirring back."
The broth approved. It flashed like soup lightning. The Spoon glowed.
Fluffernox meowed dramatically.
The monks bowed.
Bravlior declared: "The Spoon God Rises."
I said: "No. No no no—don't you dare—"
Too late. They were already chanting.
KAEL. KAEL. KÄEL.
"That's not even how you spell my name!"
I left the chamber drenched in divine broth, holding a glowing Spoon, and trailed by a cult I definitely did not consent to leading.
Belladonna handed me a very judgmental towel.
"So," she said, "Soup Pope?"
I groaned. "Please stop."
"You're going to have to explain this to the Academy. And to Seraphina. And to the System."
"I'll fake my death. Again."
Spoon hummed ominously.
Fluffernox purred with the power of ten thousand simmering secrets.
The soup rippled behind us like an awakening god.
Next Time on Yes, I Was Reborn. No, I Don't Want a Harem. Stop Looking at Me Like That:
Chapter 79 – "How to Lose a Cult in 10 Days (Or Accidentally Grow It Into a Religion)"
Kael tries to shut down his accidental soup cult. The cult responds by building a shrine. Spoon starts writing holy scripture. Belladonna may be starting to believe. And Seraphina shows up with a divine cease-and-desist letter from the System.