Echo Monastery: Welcome to Emotional Purgatory.

In which Kael learns that spiritual growth involves stairs, sarcasm, masks, and deeply personal hallucinations.

I had a theory.

No, not the "maybe this world is a simulation built by a narcissistic sentient magic system" theory. That one's been peer-reviewed (by me), tested (on me), and proven catastrophically correct.

No, today's theory was: if an ancient monastery built into the side of a cliff requires you to climb 999 stairs to reach it, then either enlightenment is cardio-based or the monks are just jerks.

My thighs had opinions. None of them printable.

"Only seven hundred more," Belladonna chirped ahead of me like a dainty apocalypse in boots. She wasn't even sweating. Of course she wasn't. Princesses don't perspire, they radiate condescension.

Behind me, the Spoon bounced smugly on my shoulder like a holy talisman of suffering. "Your glutes are underdeveloped," it observed.

"Shut up, Spoon," I gasped. "You don't even have glutes."

"That's because I achieved Nirvana in the third age of cutlery. You, meanwhile, are a wheezing regret burrito."

Valid. But still rude.

When we finally reached the top, I collapsed dramatically at the monastery gates. I was expecting a fanfare. Or at least water.

Instead, a monk in a porcelain mask loomed above me and said solemnly:

"You're late."

The Echo Monastery was older than nations and twice as dramatic. Built into a cliff's face like some brooding introvert's dream vacation home, it overlooked an abyss so deep it had its own ecosystem of existential dread.

The monks here were all masked. Not just for fashion (although points for aesthetics), but because the Echo Order believed that identity was the enemy of enlightenment. You couldn't grow if you clung to who you'd been.

…which was ironic, considering I was being haunted by approximately forty-seven alternate versions of myself.

Each monk's mask was unique—some serene, some cracked, some covered in gilded sigils. Mine? Still looked like it had been designed by a blind hedgehog on drugs.

A bell chimed as we entered the courtyard. Not metaphorically. A literal floating bell orbited overhead, glowing faintly with System energy. Probably judging me.

"Welcome, Echo Candidate," said a masked figure in robes so starched they crunched. "Your training begins now."

"Cool," I said, still wheezing. "Can it begin after lunch?"

I was escorted to my training cell, which looked suspiciously like a glorified broom closet with philosophical ambitions. No bed. No furniture. Just a meditation mat, a candle, and the crushing weight of introspection.

The door slammed behind me.

"Great," I muttered. "Now what? Sit here until my trauma manifests?"

"Nope," said a voice from the candle.

I jumped.

"Hello again, meat puppet," the voice drawled. "I'm your spiritual guide."

"…Spoon?"

"Nah," said the voice. "I'm what happens when your trauma gets bored and becomes sentient.*"

The candle flickered. Then burst into glitchlight. And from the flame, a blurry, shadowed figure emerged—wearing my face.

Except… not. He was older. Colder. Clad in black. Eyes like mirrors reflecting things you shouldn't see. The same voice. The same mouth. But this Kael didn't smile.

"Let's get started," he said. "You're going to face all the versions of yourself you tried to ignore."

I ran screaming into the hallway five minutes later.

Belladonna stood there, completely unfazed. She'd already charmed two monks, requisitioned tea, and found a library.

"What now?" she asked, sipping calmly.

"My reflection just told me I'm a coward with abandonment issues and then tried to hug me," I hissed.

"Ah," she said. "Standard first session."

A new monk appeared behind her. "The Echo Manifest is destabilizing," he intoned. "Your aura is glitch-reactive. If you do not complete the rites, your mind may shatter."

"Coolcoolcool," I said. "So... spa day? Hot tub hallucinations? Emotional support ferret?"

"You wish," said the Spoon. "Next phase is the Hall of Broken Kaels."

"Pardon?"

"Literal hall. Full of alternate timeline versions of you. It's like a motivational poster from hell."

"…Okay," I said, squaring my shoulders. "Fine. Let's do it."

Belladonna raised an eyebrow. "That's surprisingly mature."

"No, I just want to get this over with so I can nap before dinner."

That night, as the monks chanted and glitchlight flickered through the stained glass windows, I sat alone in the training hall. Candlelight. Cold stone. A mask in my lap and too many thoughts in my head.

I wasn't ready. I never had been.

But maybe—just maybe—that was the point.

The Spoon nudged me. "Proud of you, idiot."

"Thanks," I muttered. "You're still banned from spiritual metaphors, by the way."

"Understandable."

Outside, the wind howled across the cliffs like the cry of a soul searching for itself.

Inside, I inhaled.

And stepped into the next storm.

Next Time on Kael vs Enlightenment, Featuring Spoon:

Chapter 54 – "Hall of Broken Kaels"

Kael fights himself, has a breakdown, earns spiritual XP, and probably still won't meditate properly. Also: Harem King Kael enters the chat. Send help.

Ready when you are.