Let's get one thing straight:
I didn't mean to shatter reality again.
Not this time. Not intentionally. Not in a "whoops-I-spooned-the-fabric-of-time" kind of way.
No. This was supposed to be a calm day. A soup day. Maybe some light divine trial prep, a mid-tier existential crisis, and Belladonna yelling at me in passive-aggressive sonnets.
But noooo.
The fourth shard of the Mask of Echo had to go and trigger a full-blown memory cascade. And what, you ask, is a memory cascade?
Let's see:
My forgotten childhood, check.
My first death? Oh yeah.
A soup-based baptismal duel in front of several chanting cultists? Naturally.
Belladonna's hand brushing mine in moonlight like we weren't in the middle of a glitchpocalypse?
All that crammed into five seconds of mental whiplash.
So yeah. The System crashed.
And by "crashed," I mean had a nervous breakdown, spawned a flaming popup labeled "DO YOU WISH TO UPGRADE TO TRAUMA PLUS?" and tore a hole in reality.
Yes. A portal.
Right in the air. Like a stress zit on the face of causality.
Leading straight to—drumroll please—
The Fifth Memory Shard Vault.
A place specifically labeled in Spoon's Guide to Emotional Implosions as:
"Vault most likely to trigger sobbing, self-confrontation, mask recombination, and light spoon warfare. Proceed with snacks."
Naturally, I went in.
The vault door was… how do I put this...
Imagine if a philosophy major and an architect got drunk on glitchlight and decided emotions were a load-bearing structure. That's what it looked like.
A surreal, swirling arc of memory marble and logic stone, etched with flashing images of other Kaels:
— One getting married.
— One dancing.
— One spoon-dueling a cucumber.
— One crying alone in a bed that looked suspiciously like mine.
"This feels... personal," I muttered.
The Spoon, glowing softly beside me, agreed in the worst way:
"Only the bearer of the Mask may proceed. Also, only the bearer who is prepared to emotionally collapse in three... two... one..."
One.
I stepped through.
The world peeled away like reality's wallpaper.
Suddenly I stood on a floor made entirely of black puzzle-piece tiles, shifting with every anxious heartbeat.
Above: a sky of broken glass, refracting memories like a disco ball of trauma.
And at the center—oh joy—was a throne of masks. Hundreds. No, thousands.
Each with a different expression:
Joy.
Grief.
Panic.
Smugness.
One that was just aggressively judgmental.
And one that looked exactly like my face during algebra class.
And sitting atop it?
Kael.
Another me. Of course.
Draped in black robes threaded with glitchlight. Eyes shimmering with corrupted timelines. Hair perfect. Smile awful.
"About time," he said, voice like honey poured over static. "We've been waiting for you."
Oh great. A formal version of me.
Inner Voice Spiral: Initiated.
Okay, don't panic. It's just another manifestation of suppressed identity. You've been through worse. Like the time you got declared a divine pickle. Or the time Belladonna made prolonged eye contact and your soul left your body. Deep breath, buddy.
"Is this the final shard?" I asked, heroically resisting the urge to cry or throw the Spoon at him.
The Kael on the throne smirked. "This? Oh, no. This is where we vote."
The throne exploded—figuratively and also literally—reconfiguring into a circular council chamber.
Because of course it did.
Welcome to the Parliament of Kael.
Each chair around the glowing memory-thread table was occupied by—you guessed it—me.
Let's take attendance, shall we?
Scholar Kael: Robes, notebooks, massive glasses. Likely stressed.
Warrior Kael: Buff, brooding, somehow bleeding for aesthetics.
Soup God Kael: Glowing. Hovering. Smelled like rosemary and enlightenment.
Villain Kael: Wine glass, raised eyebrow, sarcasm levels lethal.
Harem Kael: Winking. Posing. Possibly oiled.
Three Baby Kaels in a trench coat: Don't ask.
And one empty seat. Mine.
I sat. And sighed.
"So… lemme guess," I said. "This is a metaphorical manifestation of my fractured identity? A test to determine whether I'm emotionally ready to reassemble the Mask and transcend my glitch-broken state?"
Scholar Kael blinked. "Yes. That. But also we might just want to mess with you."
Harem Kael raised a hand. "I brought mood lighting."
Villain Kael stabbed a breadstick into a spectral map of my timeline. "If he fails the vote, he gets deleted."
"Oh good," I deadpanned. "High stakes and carbs."
The Spoon floated into the center of the table, spinning like a divine gavel.
"Opening statements. My client is under emotional duress, spiritually unstable, existentially pickled, and frankly adorable. I demand soup."
A bowl appeared. Because of course it did.
Not just soup. Memory Soup.
The most dangerous of all broths.
Steam rose in slow swirls of memory-light. Inside it, I saw:
Belladonna reaching for my hand during the masquerade.
Seraphina laughing beneath the moon.
Fluffernox curled in my lap, purring.
My parents, long lost, smiling at me.
My first death. My last one. And the part where I chose not to die again.
The soup burned. But I didn't pull away.
Deliberation Begins.
Round One: Harem Justification.
Harem Kael stood. His teeth sparkled. "Your Honor, I submit: Belladonna's cheekbones. That is all."
Scholar Kael sighed. "Romantic entanglements are a core structural element of most serialized narrative arcs—"
I cut in: "I never asked for a harem."
Every Kael:
"We know."
Oof.
Round Two: Divine Potential.
Soup God Kael held up a ladle of destiny.
"Let him ascend. Let him flavor fate. The people need paprika."
"I don't want to be a god," I said.
"Too late," murmured Villain Kael. "You're already glitching the narrative."
Warrior Kael grunted. "Godhood's just responsibility with better lighting."
Baby Kaels cried.
Spoon hovered. "Objection sustained. He's an unwilling vessel with excellent bone structure."
Round Three: Emotional Reckoning.
The table grew quiet.
Royal Kael (the one from the throne) leaned forward. "You've died. You've broken. You've lost pieces of yourself in every echo."
I stood.
"I broke when the Tutorial killed me.
I broke when I realized I wasn't supposed to exist.
I broke when Belladonna saw me—and I didn't know if I deserved to be seen.
I broke when my friends believed in me and I didn't know how to hold it."
"And yet?" asked Royal Kael.
"I'm still here," I whispered. "Because someone has to be. And if I'm going to exist, if I'm going to be a glitch—then let me be the one that chooses who I am."
Silence.
Then—the masks began to hum.
The Vote.
Warrior Kael: Aye.
Scholar Kael: Aye.
Soup God Kael: "By the Bouillon Brotherhood, AYE."
Villain Kael: Abstains. Approves silently with a toast.
Harem Kael: "AYE WITH EXTRA CHEEKBONE ENVY."
Baby Kaels: Soup-smeared thumbs up.
Then it was just me.
Kael.
Just Kael.
I looked at the soup. At my selves. At the shard, floating now above the table like a final question.
And I chose.
Fifth Shard Acquired.
Shaped like a tear.
Warmed by choice.
Forged from staying.
The mask reassembled in my hands—whole, imperfect, mine.
Reality cracked. The council room shattered into dawnlight. The sky cleared.
The Spoon floated beside me and whispered:
"Well. That was dramatic. Ten out of ten. Would mask again. Ready to commit light treason?"
I smiled.
Mask complete.
Heart trembling.
Future uncertain.
Let's do this.
Next Time on Kaelverse:
Trial of Echo Sovereignhood!
System lawyers with godlike briefcases!
Romantic interruption during critical testimony!
Belladonna may or may not duel a bureaucrat with poetry!
The Spoon takes the stand!
Bring soup. And a napkin.
Because the Mask just voted yes.