I should've known something was wrong the moment the invitation screamed.
Not metaphorically. Literally screamed. It was gilded in gold filigree, etched in ceremonial soup stains, and the second I touched it, it shrieked:
"BY SOUP'S GRACE AND ECHO'S GLITCH, YOU ARE SUMMONED TO THE MOST HOLY RAGER. BRING A FORK."
I dropped it. It bounced. The floor now smelled like divine consommé.
Welcome to my life.
Let's rewind.
After surviving a tribunal where I defended my existence via spoon-flavored logic and soup metaphysics, I was finally granted a temporary ceasefire by the System. By which I mean:
"User Kael is to remain in the mortal realm under probationary divinity and simmered surveillance until further notice."
Thanks, System. Love the vague divine parole.
But I had bigger problems.
The Soup Cult was throwing a party.
No. A rager. A banquet. A holy mess of spilled broth, sacred breadsticks, glitch theology, and probably interpretive dance involving ladles.
And—of course—I was the guest of honor.
Because I'm the Echo Sovereign, apparently. The reluctant figurehead of a movement I keep telling people I didn't start, didn't authorize, and definitely didn't give permission to print my face on ceremonial soup cans.
Belladonna insisted I needed to look 'presentable.'
Which, in Belladonna-ese, meant she tried to drown me in four layers of enchanted formalwear and elbowed me in the ribs when I muttered, "Why does this robe smell like basil?"
"It's a blessed basil enchantment," she snapped. "Fluffernox said it promotes inner clarity."
"Fluffernox also ate the Prime Minister's wig."
"Exactly. Clarity."
The banquet hall (read: monastery courtyard, now rebranded as the Holy Simmerspace) had been completely transformed.
Tapestries woven with depictions of me in various soup-related miracles hung between divine ladles and glitch-light torches. One banner read:
"KAEL WALKS AMONGST US (DON'T LET HIM ESCAPE THIS TIME)"
Not ominous at all.
Fluffernox sat at the center dais on a pile of golden tuna cans, radiating smug divinity. Spoon floated above a cauldron throne, wearing a monocle. Yes, a monocle. No, I don't know how it was attached. The Spoon has standards now.
Cultists, nobles, monks, and a few confused ambassadors filled the space, all sipping ceremonial soup from glowing ladles.
Seraphina leaned over and whispered, "You realize we can't leave until you say the sacred soup words."
"I don't know the sacred soup words."
"You made them up last week when you were half-asleep and possessed by divine broth."
"Exactly. I was half-asleep. And possessed."
Spoon floated down in front of me with unsettling glee. "Your Worshipfulness. The time has come for the Opening Blessing."
I blinked. "What."
"You must bless the soup. With passion. And conviction. And maybe an interpretive metaphor involving carrots."
Belladonna looked like she wanted to drown herself in a bisque.
I rose.
My robe sparkled ominously. The crowd hushed.
I cleared my throat.
"Uh… we gather here today," I began, "not because soup is perfect, but because it is chaotic, flawed, and deeply edible. Like us."
Someone gasped. Spoon nodded reverently.
"Soup doesn't judge. Soup spills. Soup burns. Soup forgets its own recipe. And that is… beautiful."
A chorus of "Halle-soup-yah!" echoed around me.
"We stand at the precipice of Echo's glitch," I continued, fully channeling my inner Spoon now, "a threshold where flavor meets fate, and broth becomes… belief."
Thunder cracked. Somewhere, the System whimpered.
"Tonight, we do not eat. We remember. We consume the chaos within and season it with love. Or at least paprika."
I ended the speech by dipping my hand into the ceremonial soup and sprinkling it across the altar.
It immediately burst into flames.
Everyone cheered.
The party exploded.
There was dancing. Wild chanting. Fluffernox wrote a new set of commandments in gravy.
Belladonna accidentally won a duel while eating breadsticks. Seraphina gave an impromptu sermon about faith and seasoning. Mirielle tried to bless the wine, accidentally summoned sentient pasta, and had to chase it around the courtyard with a sacred colander.
I found myself seated at the Glitch Table™ between Spoon and a floating vegetable prophet named Parsnipius.
"Your echoes resonate beyond timeline boundaries," Parsnipius said solemnly. "Also, your aura smells like thyme."
Spoon cackled. "That's the basil robe. He's wearing clarity."
I buried my face in my hands.
And then it happened.
A second Kael entered the room.
Wearing my face.
Wearing my robe.
Glitching slightly.
The crowd gasped.
Fluffernox yawned.
The other Kael looked around and said:
"Wrong timeline. Whoops."
Then he vanished.
No one commented.
Seraphina simply murmured, "Two Kaels. Must be Tuesday."
Later that night, after I'd escaped the breadstick gauntlet and narrowly avoided being anointed with soup oil again, I climbed the monastery rooftop and collapsed onto the tiles.
Belladonna joined me.
She didn't speak.
Just sat beside me, watching the glitch-lights shimmer in the sky like dying stars learning how to laugh.
"I didn't ask for this," I said.
"I know."
"They keep worshipping me."
"They're lost."
"I'm barely holding myself together with sarcasm and soup."
She turned to me. "Then let's hold you together. One spoonful at a time."
...
I might've cried.
Just a little.
But don't tell anyone.
And somewhere beneath the monastery…
The Mask of Echo pulsed. The fifth shard stirred. The Tribunal whispered.
The System updated quietly:
"Kael: Alignment Shift Detected. Status: Becoming."
And Spoon, in the darkness, whispered to no one at all:
"The soup knows."
Next Time on Kaelverse:
The Fifth Mask awakens.
Belladonna makes a decision.
The System breaks… emotionally.
Kael confronts the memory that started it all.
And a soup prophecy finally comes true.
Chapter 99 – "Mask of Echo: Fifth Shard of Emotional Stability (Not Included)"