I would like to clarify—for the gods, the Tribunal, the System, the readers, and whatever is currently whispering parsnip-based scripture into my left ear—that I did not approve of the Spoon's latest canonization.
I especially did not approve of the ceremonial ladle robes.
Or the forty-seven robed initiates who now refer to me as "High Simmering Glitch-Born."
Or the very real chance that Fluffernox is now in charge of an entire spiritual bureaucracy made of canned goods.
"Do not resist the Brine," one of the robed figures murmured at me, passing a bubbling chalice of pickled turnip wine.
I resisted the Brine.
Hard.
Let's rewind thirty-two regret-soaked minutes.
It started—like all terrible things in my life—with the Spoon levitating above a congregation of vegetable-themed monks in the Echo courtyard.
"AND LO, THE GREAT CONSUMÉ DESCENDED," the Spoon bellowed in an accent I can only describe as ancient soup wizard. "HE STIRRED THE CHAOS, AND THE CHAOS STIRRED BACK."
The monks screamed in spiritual ecstasy.
Belladonna, still floating exactly three inches off the stone tiles thanks to a malfunctioning levitation curse, rolled her eyes so hard the moon blinked in sympathy.
Fluffernox sat beside her, wearing a tiny crown made of croutons and looking profoundly smug.
"This is your fault," she muttered, glaring at me like I'd baptized someone in broth.
Technically, I hadn't.
Accidentally, maybe.
Consequentially, definitely.
"I left for one (1) hour to meditate and when I came back, you'd founded a second denomination," I told the Spoon.
"Third," it said. "The second was invalidated when the cabbage priest defenestrated himself for heresy."
"...That sentence should not exist."
"And yet," the Spoon intoned with glowing reverence, "here we are."
The courtyard had been repurposed into a full-blown holy soup trial, which included:
A crystal cauldron in the center, filled with broth so divine it shimmered with the ghosts of sautéed onions.
Robed acolytes chanting in Old Parsnip.
A scroll-wielding initiate translating the System's notifications into gospel verse.
And one very tired, very done reincarnated noble who had specifically asked not to start any cults.
Guess who I was.
Yes. Hello.
It me.
"Trial of the Ladleborn shall now commence," a monk declared, dramatically slapping a fish against a gong.
"Why the fish?" I asked, because I hate myself.
"It is sacred," the monk said solemnly. "Blessed by the Spoon. It has seen the Brine and returned unmarinated."
I said nothing.
I simply turned to Belladonna, who had finally started slowly spinning in midair like a judgmental chandelier.
"On a scale of one to drowning in sanctified clam chowder, how cursed is this?" I asked.
"Seven," she replied. "Possibly eight if they canonize the cat again."
Fluffernox chose that moment to meow and lick his paw atop the sacramental Book of Broth.
We were already at eight.
Then came the recitation of divine errors.
One of the cultists opened a System scroll and read aloud:
"Alert: Kael [Glitch ID #77899] has failed the [Non-Cult-Founding] achievement. Penalty applied: Spiritual Followers +42. System Integrity -13."
"You were warned," the Spoon said gravely, spinning midair.
I narrowed my eyes. "You glitched the scroll formatting."
The Spoon, if spoons could smirk, smirked.
"Don't make me bring out the Holy Whisk," I said.
The crowd gasped.
"The Whisk of Rejection?" someone whispered reverently.
"The Utensil That Stirred Against Fate?"
I hate everything.
Belladonna finally floated down just to slap a cultist.
It didn't help.
A chant started—"May the Simmer guide us."
I tried to protest.
The Spoon started glowing.
And then, of course, the Soup Eye opened again in the sky—a floating orb of broth-shaped prophecy that appears whenever the Spoon's ego expands beyond baseline containment thresholds—and reality hiccuped.
Time stuttered.
The vegetables spoke.
"ALL SHALL BE STEWED IN PURPOSE," the Soup Eye declared.
"LET THE LEFTOVERS RISE."
A pickled onion landed in my palm like a divine coin.
I think it winked at me.
Somewhere between the celestial sermon and the jam-fueled procession, the System pinged me again.
System Alert: You are now 34% Deified. Would you like to select a Divine Domain?
A. Brine
B. Regret
C. Found Souping
D. Nap
I hovered over D.
The Spoon intervened.
"You must choose," it said solemnly. "Or the cult will."
"I want to choose none," I said.
"Too late," said a monk, slipping a divine tiara made of spaghetti onto my head. "You are our simmering savior."
Belladonna made a noise halfway between a scream and a highborn sigh.
Fluffernox began purring a hymn.
I stared into the Spoon's gleaming bowl of smugness and accepted my fate.
"Fine," I muttered. "But I'm not attending any more Brining Ceremonies unless there are snacks."
"You are the snack," the Spoon whispered.
I wish I could say I didn't understand what it meant.
But unfortunately, I did.
And so the cult lived.
Again.
Next Time on Kaelverse: "Reincarnation Tribunal v. Kael: Glitch on Trial"
Kael faces divine judgment for his crimes against reincarnation, reality, and flavor balance. The Spoon defends him in a trial of cosmic nonsense. Fluffernox brings snacks. Belladonna considers perjury. The System weeps.