Here is the part where I remind you that I never, ever intended to become a messiah.
Not once did I look into the swirling glitch void of reincarnated chaos and say, "You know what this reality needs? A Spoon God. Led by me." I wasn't even holding the Spoon at the time. Fluffernox was.
And yet.
Somehow, I woke up to twenty-seven robed initiates chanting outside my bedroom, waving ladles in unison while reciting the First Stirring of the Broth.
"In the beginning," they intoned, "there was the Soup, and the Spoon moved across its surface."
Reader, I wanted to scream. Instead, I pulled the blanket over my head and began plotting which window to leap out of. Probably the one not guarded by a four-foot-tall soup cauldron.
"Spoon," I hissed. "We have a problem."
Spoon, who was sunbathing on my bookshelf under a heat lamp like some divinely gifted kitchen utensil with seasonal depression, yawned audibly.
"Correction," it said. "You have a problem. I have worshippers."
"You're a utensil. You can't have followers."
"Tell that to the Fork Confederacy."
Yes. Apparently, the forks were mobilizing now. There was mention of a splinter group called the Serrated Heretics. There were charts.
But first, let me rewind slightly.
This all started with soup.
Day One: The Accident Soup
We were having a lovely, almost-normal afternoon in the Echo Shrine kitchen. Belladonna was pretending not to hover ominously near me while slicing carrots with the precision of a trained assassin. Mirielle was humming while reading a recipe backwards because she said the spells tasted better when deconstructed. Seraphina was suspiciously absent.
And I was... trying.
Trying to make soup. To do something simple. To not be a walking trauma-magnet with a prophecy complex.
I tossed in herbs. A little flame. Echo energy rippled by mistake. The pot glowed. Fluffernox dove in. There was a minor explosion. When the steam cleared...
...everyone in the room had been spiritually moved.
"I saw my childhood," Belladonna whispered.
"I saw my future wedding dress," Mirielle said, dreamy-eyed.
Fluffernox burped sparkles.
The Spoon stirred itself and declared, "Let there be flavor."
And thus the first sermon was born.
Day Three: Soup Converts
Word spread.
People arrived from other dorms. From the nearby village. From unrelated academic departments. A visiting professor cried tears of miso-based enlightenment.
I tried to explain it was a fluke.
"The Spoon speaks through him," a masked initiate said reverently. "He boils truth."
They built a shrine. Out of soup bowls. Mirielle blessed the broth. Belladonna began scheduling rotational prayers.
"This isn't normal," I whispered.
"Neither is being a vessel of the Echo," Spoon replied. "We're already in the deep end. Might as well add noodles."
Day Five: Public Sermon, Accidental Pilgrimage
Against all reason, the cult grew.
They called themselves the Stirred. They gave me a title.
Not just Echo Vessel. Not just Kael the Unfortunate. No.
They dubbed me High Simmering Prophet of the Glitch-Pot.
Reader.
They printed it on a banner.
"Kael," Belladonna said slowly, "this is getting out of hand."
"Now it's out of hand? Not during the daily 'Stir the Spirit' chant? Or the hymn they wrote about my eyebrows?"
She opened her mouth.
And then someone outside screamed, "HE BOILED FOR OUR SINS."
I rest my case.
Day Seven: Fork Resistance
Then came the Forkers.
A rogue faction of satirical scholars who took offense to the Spoon's divinity.
They launched pamphlets. Literal fork-shaped pamphlets.
"Down with Slurpery!" they cried. "Equal utensil representation in divine culinary matters!"
They stormed the Echo Shrine with salad tongs.
A food fight broke out.
I was hit in the face with holy aioli.
Fluffernox set someone's pants on fire.
Belladonna tried to stage a coup. Mirielle tried to mediate. The Spoon declared diplomatic immunity.
Spoon Cult vs Fork Rebellion: Day One.
Day Eight: Divine Intervention (via Soup)
I called an emergency council.
By which I mean I locked myself in the broom closet with the Spoon and cried into a mop.
"I'm not a prophet," I mumbled.
"Clearly not," said Spoon. "You're more of a... divine accident."
"Thanks."
"Look," Spoon said. "You didn't start the cult. You just... fed it."
"Not helping."
"Fine. Then help yourself. Tell them the truth. Dissolve the cult. Or redirect it. Or fake your death. That's always popular."
I wiped my face and exited the closet.
I gathered them all in the Grand Stirring Hall (formerly the library).
I stepped onto the soup ladle podium.
And I said:
"My children of broth. I love you all. But I am not a god. I am not even a decent cook. I once set toast on fire with a sneeze. I can't be your salvation. I am your glitch."
Silence.
Then applause.
"The Glitch speaks in riddles!"
"A true divine paradox!"
"Our unworthy prophet confesses!"
Reader.
They made it worse.
Day Ten: Final Attempt
I tried everything.
Reason. Chaos. Dramatic collapse. Even got Fluffernox to fake an exorcism.
Nothing worked.
So I did the only thing left.
I gave in.
I wrote a sermon.
I preached about broth and pain and the way the System stirs us all whether we're ready or not.
And in that moment, I think I understood.
They didn't want a god.
They wanted sense.
And if they had to find it in soup and spoons and glitch-ridden boys who broke the rules of reincarnation, so be it.
So yes.
I accidentally started a religion.
Again.
Next time on Yes, I Was Reborn. No, I Don't Want a Harem. Stop Looking at Me Like That:
Chapter 80 – "Mirielle Hosts a Soup Baptism and Belladonna Sets It on Fire"
You think I'm joking. I wish I was joking.