There are many things you expect when waking up in a monastery surrounded by masked monks, glitching timelines, and talking utensils. A divine chili cook-off overseen by a sentient spice elemental with legal authority? Not one of them. Yet here we are.
Let me backtrack before the chili hits the proverbial fan.
"I object!" I shouted.
Which, to be clear, is not a valid response to being handed a ladle.
"You have been summoned," intoned the Chili Judge, a seven-foot-tall flame-wreathed culinary enforcer in a judicial robe made of smoke and paprika, "to answer for crimes against seasoning."
The Spoon vibrated ominously. "Don't resist. Trial by Fireball is a sacred rite among the Flavor Tribunal."
"The what tribunal?"
Belladonna, floating three inches off the ground (still refusing to come down post-Soup Baptism), rolled her eyes. "Just go with it. Last time someone denied the challenge, they were turned into a cursed cumin cloud."
Fluffernox, perched regally atop a spice rack made of memory shards and bad decisions, gave an approving meow.
So that's how I ended up in an arena shaped like a giant cast iron cauldron, apron slapped across my chest by a monk with oven mitts for gloves, and a set of glowing ingredients labeled "Choose Your Doom".
The Chili Judge raised a flaming spatula.
"Glitch-Kael, Unauthorized Reincarnate and Accidental Pickle Prophet—"
"That last one was not my fault!"
"—you stand accused of violating the Culinary Pact of Flavor. Your crimes include:
Using soup as a love language.
Committing romantic tension via broth.
Allowing an unlicensed Spoon to bless stew."
The Spoon twitched. "They're just jealous."
"If found guilty," continued the Judge, steam curling from their nostrils, "you shall be sentenced to… cooking. With feelings."
Oh no.
Let's get one thing clear. I can handle godly magic, glitch prophecy, and half the harem being emotionally repressed warlords. But cooking with feelings?
That's emotional exposure, with seasoning.
"Trial begins!" shouted a monk.
A gong rang. It sounded suspiciously like a wok being struck with a ladle.
My opponent stepped forward: Mirielle, chaos witch, soup savant, and owner of the most disarming smile this side of divine warfare.
She winked at me. "Don't worry, Kael. I'll go easy on you."
"That's what terrifies me."
The arena shimmered. Ingredients flew into the air, floating in arcs of arcane fire.
"Prepare your Emotion Chili," intoned the Judge. "Your flavors must evoke one: longing, rage, or confusion."
I blinked. "Just those three?"
"They are the sacred trio of flavor."
"We don't get sweet?"
The Judge leveled me with a stare hot enough to sear toast. "Sweet is for gods."
The Spoon whispered instructions in my head like a spice-scented devil.
"Channel your repressed grief into the cumin. Let your unresolved romantic tension infuse the peppers. Do not let the paprika touch your sense of self-worth."
"Why do you know this?"
"I spent four hundred years as a kitchen deity in a forgotten pantry. Focus, child."
Mirielle was already summoning peppers from the void, twirling them with wand-like grace, infusing her broth with chaotic memory ripples.
Her cauldron shimmered with longing. Actual longing. I could feel it in my knees.
"Curses," I muttered. "She's cooking with feelings better than me."
Belladonna floated overhead, arms crossed. "You're holding back."
"I always hold back."
She gave me a look. The kind of look that says you're a glitch, a mess, and I might just care if you implode right now.
I took a breath.
"Fine," I muttered. "Let's make some damn emotional chili."
I reached into the Glitchspace.
It hummed under my fingers. Time warped. My own memories spilled forward.
My original name, lost and sealed.
The moment I was reborn wrong.
Every time someone called me chosen when I never chose this.
Belladonna's hand on mine during the memory ritual.
Mirielle's laugh when I confessed soup wasn't a spell.
Seraphina's silent prayer over my broken body after the Echo Duel.
I grabbed the peppers.
They flared into glitchlight.
The Spoon dipped into the pot like a conductor's baton.
I stirred.
And with each motion, something real poured in:
Regret. Defiance. Desire.
The chili hissed.
Steam curled into fractal runes, echoing my broken System status.
The arena went silent.
Even the Chili Judge narrowed their eyes. "You are… cooking. From your soul."
"I didn't ask for a soul," I muttered, wiping my brow. "I wanted toast and maybe a nap."
Time dilated.
Mirielle finished first, her chili radiating with bittersweet warmth. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes flicked to mine.
"You remembered," she said softly. "How it felt."
"I remember everything. That's the problem."
She stepped back.
My turn.
I stepped forward.
Presented my dish.
The Chili Judge sipped.
Paused.
Melted into existential fire and reassembled.
"This… is rage given form. Longing distilled. You have weaponized flavor."
"So… I pass?"
"You exceed. The tribunal sentences you to further growth. With seasoning."
I collapsed.
The Spoon clinked approvingly.
"You've cooked with your trauma. I'm proud."
Fluffernox awarded me a sash made of onion rings. It said "Flavor Criminal."
Belladonna touched down beside me. For the first time in hours.
She tasted the chili.
Her expression shifted. Melted.
Then she turned to me and said, very quietly, "You're still an idiot. But you're my idiot."
I nearly dropped the bowl.
Next Time on Kaelverse:
The System has a meltdown.
The Spoon is elected Chancellor.
Belladonna confesses something under starlight.
And Kael gets very close to kissing someone… until the Tribunal summons him again.
Chapter 96: "Kiss Interruptus: Spoon Edition" – Coming soon.