Glim woke up on a soft, warm rug in the corner of a quiet room that smelled of old paper and contentment. This was not the terrifying afterlife he had anticipated. He peeked one eye open.
He saw the terrifyingly beautiful assassin-woman cleaning a knife. He saw the intimidatingly regal princess-woman writing in a book. He saw the alarmingly intense wizard-man staring at a golden turnip on a table. And sitting in a comfortable armchair, trying his best not to look at Glim, was the Master.
Glim immediately squeezed his eyes shut and pretended to still be unconscious. It was his second-best survival skill, after apologizing.
The atmosphere in the "Tome and Trinket" had shifted. For weeks, the dual relics—the Purifying Teabag and the now-merciful Crystal Turnip—had been projecting a powerful, stable field of tranquility. But Glim's presence was a dissonant note in that perfect chord.
He wasn't hostile. He wasn't aggressive. So the fence's "De-Escalation Field" and the turnip's "Negation Aura" had no effect on him. He was a being of pure, unadulterated, passive misery. A black hole for happiness. And the Aura of Unconditional Okay-ness was being slowly but surely drained as it tried in vain to cheer him up.
The first sign was subtle. The air, which usually felt warm and comforting, now had a slight, persistent chill. Brother Tepin, the Minister of Praise, found that his hymns of joy were coming out in a mournful minor key. The flowers the Cobblestone Crushers had planted outside began to wilt slightly.
Valerius Zathra noticed it first. He frowned, putting down his quill. "The ambient serenity is fluctuating," he diagnosed. "The spiritual resonance of the sanctum is... dampened. It is the creature. Its innate misery is acting as a constant psychic drain on the harmony of this space."
Aurelia looked up from her notes. "A pity bomb, just as you said, Sage. Its very existence is a form of passive, spiritual sabotage. What is the Master's plan? How does he intend to 'heal' it and neutralize the threat?"
They all, as was their habit, looked to Lyno.
Lyno was deeply uncomfortable. The sad little rat-creature in the corner was radiating waves of pathetic energy that reminded him far too much of his own inner state. Having him here was like having his own anxiety given flesh and fur and dumped on his rug. He just wanted it to go away. Not to be banished or hurt, just... to be somewhere else. Or at least to cheer up a bit.
The creature—Glim—let out a tiny, sleeping sob. A single tear rolled down his furry cheek.
At that moment, the Crystal Turnip on the table-altar flickered, its warm golden light dimming for a fraction of a second, as if it had just sighed in exasperation.
"The relics are being strained!" Valerius declared, alarmed. "This is more serious than I thought! The creature's entropy is actively countering the Master's ambient order!"
This was a new kind of crisis. It wasn't an attack they could fight, or a mystery they could solve. It was a problem of overwhelming sadness. And none of them, for all their power and intelligence, had the first clue how to solve it. Seraphina couldn't stab sadness. Aurelia couldn't issue a decree against it. Valerius couldn't reason it into submission.
Lyno, feeling the oppressive gloom in the room and the even more oppressive stares of his followers, did what he always did when things got too complicated: he sought a simple, comforting solution.
"Ren," he called out, his voice quiet. "Could... could you maybe make some soup?"
It was a simple request, born of a desire for the comfort that only a hot bowl of soup on a gloomy day can provide.
Ren, who had been anxiously watching the sad little creature from his kitchen, heard the Master's call. It was a command. A new culinary challenge. The Master's sanctum was afflicted by a plague of metaphysical sadness. He, the Sacred Chef, was being called upon to create the antidote.
He didn't know what kind of soup to make. So he looked at the pathetic, sobbing creature on the floor. He felt a strange kinship with it. He knew what it was like to be a vessel of pure misery. And he knew what he, in that state, would want.
Not a grand, heroic soup. Not a complex, challenging soup.
He would want the soup his own grandmother used to make for him when he was a small, sad boy. A simple, humble chicken and vegetable soup.
He set to work. This time, his cooking was not just an act of devotion. It was an act of profound, weaponized empathy. He chose the ingredients not for their rarity, but for their 'kindness.' A chicken that, according to the Imperial goose farmer, had lived a happy, contented life. Carrots that were sweet, not bitter. Onions that would make you cry, but in a good, cathartic way.
He simmered the broth for hours, pouring all of his own melancholic understanding into the pot. He was not trying to banish the sadness. He was trying to give it a warm, comfortable place to rest.
When the soup was ready, the aroma that filled the bookstore was different from any that had come before. It was not the nostalgic bliss of the grilled cheese or the serene focus of the shortbread.
It was the smell of being understood. The smell of knowing that it's okay to be sad, and that someone cares. It was the scent of pure, unadulterated comfort.
Ren brought out a small bowl and a spoon. He didn't take it to Lyno. He knew, instinctively, who this was for. He walked over to the corner where Glim was still pretending to be asleep.
He knelt. "Here," he whispered, his own sad eyes meeting Glim's, which had just fluttered open in terror. "For you."
Glim stared at the steaming bowl. His entire life, no one had ever offered him anything but scorn or, even worse, pity. This was... different. This was kindness. With a trembling hand, he took the bowl. He tentatively took a sip.
And for the first time in his miserable demonic existence, Glim felt... warm.
The soup was a hug in a bowl. The savory broth, the soft chicken, the sweet carrots... they didn't erase his sadness. They simply sat with it, acknowledged it, and made it feel less lonely. It was the most compassionate thing that had ever happened to him.
His weeping didn't stop. In fact, it grew louder. But it was not the sound of despair. It was the sound of catharsis. A great, shuddering release of a lifetime of misery. He cried his little heart out, sipping the soup between sobs.
And as he did, something miraculous happened.
The oppressive chill in the air vanished. The Crystal Turnip on the table flared back to its full, golden radiance, its aura stronger than ever. Brother Tepin's hymn lurched back into a triumphant major key.
The spiritual entropy had been reversed. Ren, the sad chef, had single-handedly healed the soul-wound of the pathetic demon with a bowl of soup.
Valerius watched, his mind utterly blown. He had been completely wrong. Again. The Master's call for soup hadn't been for himself. It had been the solution!
"Of course..." he whispered, scribbling furiously in his chronicle. "He saw the spiritual affliction. And he knew that the only counter to a weapon of pure sadness... was a weapon of pure comfort. And he knew that only Ren, the vessel of culinary empathy, could forge such a thing. He did not confront the 'pity bomb' himself. He deployed... his grief counselor."
He looked at Ren, no longer as a simple chef, but as a new, vital part of their divine hierarchy.
"The Mind, the Hand, the Voice, the Worshipper..." Valerius murmured, completing the council. "And now... The Heart."
Ren, the boy who cooked feelings, had just been promoted. He was no longer just the Sacred Chef. He was now the Grand Healer of Emotional Afflictions, First Custodian of the Master's Comfort, and the only person in the universe who knew how to make a demon feel loved.