The story, dear reader, begins not with a whisper but with a splash—followed by the unmistakable sound of someone screaming about broth temperature.
"IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE SYMBOLIC, NOT SCALDING!"
That was Mirielle. High Priestess of the Order of Tranquil Stirring, Head Altar Servant of the Third Ladle, and—as of three hours ago—the self-declared Soup Baptismal Coordinator. (She had a badge. Made of macaroni.)
This, of course, was all my fault.
You see, sometime between Chapter 73's emotionally charged existential slap-fest and Chapter 78's accidental Spoon deification, the residents of the Echo Monastery developed a minor fascination with spiritual soup. Minor in the way a meteor strike is minor if it only destroys half a continent.
At first, it was cute.
Fluffernox would sit in a cauldron full of lukewarm broth and purr solemnly while chanting things like "Consume to become" or "This dumpling knows your sins."
Then the Monastery kitchens got involved.
Then the Spoon started glowing.
Then someone woke up speaking ancient stock cube tongues.
And now here we were: gathered at the main Echo Shrine courtyard, surrounded by one hundred and forty-two robed acolytes, three floating cauldrons of mysterious provenance, and Belladonna, who looked ready to commit several war crimes with nothing but eyeliner and rage.
"So," I said, surveying the congregation of Soup Zealots, "what exactly is the doctrine here?"
Mirielle beamed like she'd swallowed a candle.
"It's simple. Soup cleanses. Soup unites. Soup reveals the flavor of the soul."
Behind her, someone began humming in Gregorian noodle chant.
Spoon, from my pocket, vibrated like an overcaffeinated relic. "I'm either a god or a garnish. I can't tell anymore."
"You can't both be the savior and the seasoning," I muttered.
"Tell that to the worshipers." Spoon sighed. "One of them tried to blend me into miso."
Meanwhile, Belladonna had gone full chaos duchess.
"This entire thing is heresy!" she roared, snatching a ceremonial ladle and brandishing it like a sword. "You cannot just baptize people in bisque! That is not how metaphysical transformation works!"
A broth-soaked monk nearby whispered, "She fears the soup because she cannot stir it."
Belladonna growled and fireballed a decorative crouton into ash.
I, naturally, did what any emotionally-stable, prophesied chaos vessel would do in this situation.
I slowly backed into the soup tent and pretended to be a tablecloth.
Fifteen Minutes and One Failed Broth Sermon Later
"So, we gather now in holy sodium," Mirielle intoned, arms raised over the bubbling ceremonial stew, "to immerse our spirits in the sacred simmer!"
A volunteer—a bright-eyed fourth-year with too many piercings and not enough common sense—stepped into the cauldron. Fluffernox yowled. Thunder clapped.
"By the noodles of ascension," Mirielle declared, "do you accept the Spoon as your simmering light?"
The student nodded.
"Then arise, broth-born!"
She yanked a cord. The cauldron rotated. The student flipped dramatically, then slipped, screamed, and fell backward into the stock.
SPLASH.
The crowd gasped.
A moment of silence.
Then applause.
"HE HAS BEEN DUNKED!" someone shouted.
"BROTH BE PRAISED!" another echoed.
I was 87% sure this was how real religions started. And also 100% sure we were about to be smote by something with more authority than me.
Belladonna stalked over. Her heels clicked like judgment.
"Kael. Fix. This."
"Define 'fix.'"
She grabbed me by the collar.
"Undo the soup cult or I will personally debone your soul."
"That sounds deeply unappetizing."
She cast a warding rune in the air. It flared. Mirielle's soup sermon began floating.
"They've enchanted the soup!"
"Yes, Bell. It floats now. That's the problem."
"It's sentient."
At this exact moment, the Soup of Enlightenment opened an eye. A literal, glowing, perfectly cooked dumpling eye.
Spoon whispered, horrified, "...Mother?"
The Soup Baptism Escalates
Somehow, between the dumpling eye awakening and Belladonna launching her second fireball (this time at the sacrificial stew ladle), the soup ascended.
It levitated fully into the air, spun three times, and whispered in perfect Common:
"One shall simmer. One shall boil. One shall burn."
Then it erupted into light.
Half the courtyard screamed.
A third passed out.
Belladonna looked triumphant, until the floating soup followed her.
"DO NOT PURSUE ME, BROTH BEAST!"
Fluffernox leapt into the air, trying to intercept the divine consommé. He was immediately yeeted into the basil hedge.
Mirielle sobbed, mascara running like forgotten gravy. "It rejected my seasoning!"
Spoon sighed. "I warned you. Sentient soup has no master."
The soup hovered, gently rotated... and vanished.
Just poof.
Gone.
In its place?
A single ladle. Glowing. Embedded in the stone like a sword of questionable culinary destiny.
"Whoever stirs this spoon," said the air, "shall become the True Brothbringer."
Everyone turned to me.
Reader, I panicked.
"NOPE. I AM NOT LADLING PROPHECY."
Too late. Spoon had already begun glowing.
"Long live the Simmering One," someone whispered.
Next Time on Yes, I Was Reborn. No, I Don't Want a Harem. Stop Looking at Me Like That.
Chapter 81: "Dueling Philosophers, Soup Logic, and the Return of the Floating Soup Eye"
Kael tries to convince everyone that broth isn't a basis for government. Belladonna tries to assassinate a sentient spoon. Mirielle writes soup scripture. Fluffernox becomes a minor deity.
Spoiler: The soup wasn't done.