Let me be very clear up front: I was not emotionally prepared to watch one of my fiancées declare war on a stockpot.
And yet.
There we were. Midday sun bleeding through stained glass like divine soup steam, monks and cultists packed into the Echo Shrine's Great Hall, sacred ladles hanging from the ceiling like relics of long-forgotten culinary deities. A chalk rune circle burned on the floor. Fluffernox had a referee whistle. Spoon was wearing a robe. And Belladonna, future Empress and known threat to everything breakable, stood twenty feet from an aggressively enchanted cauldron.
Which was boiling itself. With intent.
"I demand a Trial by Soup," Belladonna announced.
I opened my mouth. I closed it. I opened it again.
No sound came out.
Mirielle, standing to my left and gently holding a prayer ladle, whispered, "Is that legally binding?"
Spoon, from his honorary referee podium made of upside-down pews, nodded solemnly. "Under the Echo Cult's Article IX, Subsection 'What the Hell, Sure,' all sentient soup vessels may invoke trial by combat."
The soup burbled.
The cauldron rippled.
Belladonna took a stance. "Let the record show that this affront to my culinary dignity—"
"You tried to bless soup with actual fire magic," I muttered.
"—this affront," she hissed, "must be answered."
ROUND ONE: THE SIMMERING BEGINNING
A monk rang a sacred chime. The Soup Eye blinked from the ceiling.
And the cauldron charged.
Let me reiterate: it charged. Like, full-body lunge. Somehow. Belladonna dodged with a pirouette that would've made our fencing instructor spontaneously combust from joy. The cauldron retaliated by sloshing hot broth in her direction, narrowly missing her boots.
"Is it... making strategic broth decisions?" I whispered.
"That stockpot knows vengeance," Spoon replied. "It remembers being scalded."
Belladonna summoned a gust of wind with her glove-sigil, redirecting a volley of projectile soup ladles. The cauldron countered with a geyser of split-pea fury, landing a glancing hit.
Her hair steamed. Her ego steamed harder.
"You dare!" she yelled, lifting her ceremonial soup-sword.
(Yes, that's a real thing now. Don't question it.)
ROUND TWO: FLAVOR OF VENGEANCE
The cauldron began spinning.
I swear to every glitch god listening, it levitated and twirled like a ballerina of doom. Broth arced into the air. Steam spiraled into sigils. Every monk gasped in synchrony.
"It's invoking the Ritual of Reduction," said Mirielle, clutching her ladle like a crucifix.
"It's reducing me to ash," Belladonna snapped.
She tossed off her cloak. Lightning flashed behind her. (There were no windows. Don't ask.)
Then she leapt.
Blade met pot. Spells collided with spices. At one point, the stockpot grew arms made of steam and tried to slap her. Belladonna dodged, kicked it in the lid, spun off a pew, and landed in a pile of sacramental dumplings.
"I'm getting real tired of being menaced by cookware," she muttered.
"You blessed it with an ancient fire spell," Spoon called.
"To give it flavor!"
The pot roared.
ROUND THREE: HERBS OF WAR
Belladonna snapped.
"ENOUGH. I am a descendant of emperors! A conqueror of kingdoms! I will not be bested by a glorified soup bucket!"
The stockpot shimmered. Mockingly.
Belladonna's hands ignited. She hurled spell after spell: Glacial Glaze, Basilic Barrage, Consommé Collapse. The pot dodged every single one like it had plot armor.
"The soup is... learning," said a monk.
"Of course it is," I mumbled. "We're raising sentient food now. Next week, the rice will unionize."
Mirielle was crying. From stress or laughter, I couldn't tell.
Fluffernox blew the referee whistle.
"Match point!" he meowed.
Belladonna took a deep breath.
Then, in a move that will live in infamy among the monastery's culinary scrolls, she dropped her sword, stepped forward—
—and hugged the pot.
Steam hissed. The crowd gasped. The pot shuddered.
"There is flavor in forgiveness," she whispered.
The soup settled.
And the pot... bowed.
POST-MATCH CHAOS
Spoon announced, in his most solemn voice, "By ancient rite and newly invented rule, Belladonna has tamed the spirit of broth."
Everyone clapped.
Even the cauldron.
(I don't know how. But it clapped.)
Belladonna stood victorious, slightly singed, soaking wet, and glowing with the smugness of someone who just out-emoted a kitchen appliance.
She turned to me.
"Next time," she said, pointing a broth-soaked glove, "you duel the cursed cookware."
"Absolutely not."
"Coward."
Spoon started composing a hymn. Fluffernox attempted to eat a commemorative ladle. Mirielle fainted from spiritual joy.
And me?
I just wanted to go lie down and pretend none of this ever happened.
Too bad destiny had other plans.
Next Time on Yes, I Was Reborn. No, I Don't Want a Harem. Stop Looking at Me Like That:
Chapter 83 – "Your Next Mentor Is a Fermented Turnip (And She Has Notes)"
Because obviously. We've run out of normal teachers. Welcome to fermentation wisdom, spirit rot, and a goddess who smells like vinegar.