The Saintly Disaster

In which I trip, heal a noble's broken leg, accidentally become a holy icon, and meet the fourth girl I definitely won't fall for. Probably.

Let the record show that I was hiding.

Hiding is a noble and ancient art, especially when one has three fiancées, two exams, one very sentient dorm beast, and zero remaining will to live. The library, despite its population of dust-mummified scholars and lethal falling book traps, had become my sanctuary.

"Kael Reinhardt," the librarian had whispered earlier, sliding me a cup of cinnamon tea with both pity and awe, "You're back. The banned section's aura has been lonely."

I thanked her with the dead eyes of a man who once summoned an elder god by opening a cookbook.

And then I nestled myself between Volume VI: Passive-Aggressive Conjuration and a stack of courtly etiquette books written entirely in passive voice. If a fireball spell exploded next to me, I wouldn't have blinked. If a professor burst in and declared I was needed to lead a war, I would have handed them my dorm key and told them to take Fluffernox too.

What I did not expect was trumpets.

Literal magical trumpets.

And the faint, unmistakable scent of sanctity.

"...please no," I whispered.

From across the reading hall, light began to bloom. Not metaphorically. Actually. Bloom. Radiant beams pierced the stained glass, forming halos on polished stone. Students stood. A dove fluttered past my ear like this was some kind of divine musical.

And then she entered.

She wore silver and white robes that shimmered with enchantments more expensive than my entire life. Her long hair was the color of moonlight made smug. Her eyes were bright with too much sincerity. Her every step left faint glowing footprints that vanished like dreams.

"Saint Mirielle of the Fifth Light," someone breathed reverently.

"Send me back to hell," I muttered. "At least the demons didn't sparkle."

Of course, Mirielle walked directly toward me.

Of course, I tried to escape.

And of course, I tripped.

Over nothing. Not a bag. Not a book. Just my own existential weight.

I crashed into a table. A cascade of books fell. Somewhere in the chaos, a second-year noble screamed. A loud crack echoed as someone's ankle twisted at an ungodly angle.

And then—

Blue light erupted from me.

Not the sarcastic, biting shimmer of my usual magic. This was pure. Warm. Like celestial tea. The injured student gasped. Their leg snapped back into place with a holy shimmer.

Everyone stared.

I stared.

The System pinged.

SYSTEM NOTICE: UNIDENTIFIED HEALING SURGE DETECTED.

YOU ARE A WALKING ANOMALY. PLEASE REFRAIN FROM FURTHER MIRACLES.

Oh no.

Mirielle's lips parted in gentle astonishment. "Are you the Echo?"

"Lady, I'm barely conscious," I replied.

But it was too late. The crowd was already forming. Whispers surged like fire.

"He healed Cedric!"

"No incantation—just presence! Is he divine?"

"I saw his hair glow. It glowed!"

"Someone sketch this! Get the campus artist!"

I backed up. The light receded. My hands were empty again, thank every deity I actively offended.

Mirielle didn't chase me.

She simply placed a hand over her heart and bowed, her voice soft as mist. "We've been waiting for you, Kael Reinhardt. You don't have to pretend anymore."

Pretend what?

I locked myself in the library's forbidden section. Again.

The shelves were blessedly silent, if you didn't count the one that sometimes sobbed softly at night. I stared at my shaking hands.

I had healed someone. With no spell. No intent.

I wasn't that kind of mage.

But the System's words haunted me. Walking anomaly. Please refrain from further miracles.

The last time the System gave me a message like that, it was right before I accidentally seduced a dragon.

Someone knocked.

"Go away," I said.

The knock turned into a voice. Gentle. Melodic. "I brought pastries."

Dammit.

"Fine," I said. "Enter at your own risk. The shelves are... emotionally volatile today."

Mirielle stepped in, carrying a paper bag and wearing the expression of someone who genuinely believed we could be friends. Or saviors. Or martyrs together.

"I thought you might want to talk," she said.

"I don't talk. I deflect, monologue, and sometimes scream into voids."

"Fair," she said, and handed me a doughnut.

It was, infuriatingly, the best doughnut I had ever tasted.

"So," I said, between suspicious bites, "You're the fourth fiancée?"

"I was told you'd say that with horror."

"You were told right."

She laughed—light, graceful, like the breeze had manners. "I didn't ask for this either. My temple received a vision. A name. Yours."

"Were they drunk?"

"I asked that too."

She sat across from me, not too close. A respectful distance. It made it harder to dislike her, which was inconvenient.

"I don't want sainthood," she said. "I want freedom. Real magic. Real people. Not miracles and thrones."

That made me pause.

I looked up.

And for one dangerous second, I saw her as a person. Not a title. Not a contract. Not another curse in a dress.

Just someone... tired.

"I can't be your chosen one," I said.

"I don't want one," she said. "Just... someone who gets it."

We sat in silence. Me, the walking anomaly. Her, the would-be saint. Both eating forbidden pastries in a cursed library.

I almost liked her.

Which meant I was probably doomed.

We emerged twenty minutes later to find the Blessed Kael Club had already been formed.

They had pamphlets. Candles. A banner that said "Let Him Trip Into Your Heart."

I very nearly turned around and threw myself into the haunted bookshelf.

"Run," Mirielle whispered.

We ran.

As we reached the dorm stairs, gasping and wheezing like sacrilegious fugitives, a voice whispered from the shadows behind a column.

"You really don't know what you are, do you?"

A cloaked noble stepped forward, half their face hidden, their aura humming with magic I didn't recognize.

They said only two words, and the world tipped sideways.

"Echo Vessel."

Next Time on Yes, I Was Reborn. No, I Don't Want a Harem. Stop Looking at Me Like That:

Mirielle tries to smuggle Kael out of his own fan club.

A cult begins holding prayer circles in the garden.

Kael nearly gets assassinated by a pastry.

And the System glitches again—with a new prophecy error.

Because of course it does.