There are few moments in one's life where they can look at a room full of robed philosophers, floating cats, and a ten-foot-tall golden soup ladle singing opera and say, with complete sincerity: this is my fault.
I'd like to say I learned something.
But instead, I sat in the central chamber of the Soup Cult's newly-erected Parliament Hall—carved entirely out of donated spoons and bad decisions—and regretted not dying in the trial.
"Order!" bellowed the Spoon, now wearing what could only be described as judicial vestments made of stitched lentil banners. "Let the Sacred Inquiry of the First Parliament commence!"
A gavel—no, correction, a ladle—struck a podium. Soup sloshed out of it.
I blinked. "Why does our legislative body contain more broth than common sense?"
"Because, my wayward vessel," the Spoon said gravely, "law is merely tradition that hasn't yet spoiled."
"You stole that from a moldy proverb tile."
"And yet it remains legally binding."
To my left, Belladonna sat with her arms crossed and one eyebrow hovering in 'this is why we don't have nice things' territory. She still refused to touch the floor, choosing instead to hover an elegant two inches off it in protest. Ever since the soup baptism that nearly flambéed her royal cape, she had developed a mysterious allergy to ground contact.
To my right, Fluffernox—cat, cryptid, cosmic enigma—presided from a throne of tinned goods, eyes glowing with eldritch authority.
He had declared himself "Soup Pope."
He had been voted in unanimously.
The vote consisted entirely of Fluffernox eating all the ballots.
"First edict!" cried one of the monks, adjusting his beetroot-dyed robes. "We must abolish Tuesdays. They offend the broth."
There was polite, contemplative nodding. Someone snapped their fingers in existential agreement.
I raised a hand. "I feel like we're—how do I put this?—losing touch with reality."
"Reality was voted irrelevant three sessions ago," replied Aureline, casually sipping from a floating ladle that followed her around like a service animal. "Try to keep up, Glitch Messiah."
"Stop calling me that."
"Then stop glowing every time someone quotes the Soup Codex."
That wasn't fair. I hadn't meant to glow.
The Codex was a sentient, floating recipe book now containing such entries as:
Article 4: Thou Shalt Not Boil Thy Comrades
Article 12: All Pickles Are Sacred Until Proven Treasonous
Article 17: Soup May Be Weaponized At The Committee's Discretion
"Next edict," Fluffernox meowed, tail twitching with cosmic wisdom, "all divine proclamations shall be issued in rhyme."
Half the monks began freestyling. One started beatboxing.
A system window popped up in my peripheral vision.
📣 SYSTEM ALERT: CULT PARLIAMENT HAS REACHED 'EXISTENTIAL REFORM' PHASE.
⚠️ Warning: Soup Law overrides Local Law.
🥒 Your Divine Pickle Status has been elevated to Pickle Chancellor of the Second Broth Age.
✍️ Please sign your Soup Constitution within 24 hours.
I considered screaming.
Instead, I stood, cleared my throat, and attempted diplomacy. Which is to say, I flailed in verbal soup.
"Esteemed... soup people. I understand you've found meaning in broth. That's great. Deeply concerning, but great. However, perhaps we should... un-legislate some of this?"
There was silence.
Then someone yelled, "HERESY!"
The crowd gasped in five-part harmony.
Belladonna pinched the bridge of her nose. "You do remember they think you're a demiurge of soup rebirth, yes?"
"Unfortunately."
Aureline, bless her chaotic heart, stood beside me and muttered, "You could just lean in. Sign the constitution. It's mostly ceremonial. And soaked in rosemary."
"I don't want a cult."
"You have one. You might as well get dental benefits."
Before I could formulate a better argument than "please stop sanctifying my pantry," the Spoon floated down beside me.
"You were born of mistake," it intoned, "but your legacy is intentional. The people believe in you—not because of perfection, but because of the chaos you carry like a torch. Kael, you are the Parliament's paradox. Their symbol. Their mascot."
"Did you just give me a pep talk in a democracy made of soup?"
"Yes," said the Spoon. "And it was delicious."
There was no escaping it. The Cult Parliament was real. I was their mascot. Fluffernox had three more edicts queued up, and Belladonna was already rewriting tax law using soup ingredients as currency.
I sighed.
"Fine. Let's pass the Pickle Rights Act. But only if someone gets me coffee."
"Broth," said Fluffernox.
"Fine. Broth."
NEXT TIME ON KAELVERSE:
Chapter 90 – "Echo Glitch: The Mask Votes Back"
Kael attends a memory tribunal inside his own brain. The Mask of Echo develops opinions. Someone tries to assassinate Kael using croutons. Romance is illegalized temporarily. Again.
Will Kael survive internal politics, literal and metaphysical?
Will Fluffernox declare war on solid foods?
And why is the Spoon glowing ominously again?
Find out next time—bring a ladle.