The first world the Chaos God ever made was a dumpster fire. Literally. It accidentally built the continents out of celestial kindling and then sneezed.
"Oops," said the Chaos God, as the oceans evaporated in a puff of divine snot.
The other gods facepalmed so hard they created the first earthquakes. "You're the worst," groaned the Goddess of Order, flicking a still-burning continent at its head.
Undeterred, the Chaos God tried again:
World 2: Forgot gravity. Everything floated away, including the carefully designed civilizations that were supposed to worship them. For millennia afterward, passing comets would occasionally crash into floating cities full of confused but well-preserved skeletons.
World 42: Invented ducks before legs. (The screaming still haunts the cosmos.) The limbless abominations flopped about in eternal torment until the Goddess of Mercy finally put them out of their misery. To this day, waterfowl instinctively fear the color purple - the shade of Mercy's cleansing flames.
World 86: Got distracted halfway through creation and accidentally manifested the concept of memes three billion years early. The resulting psychic damage gave several elder gods permanent twitches.
World 333: Finally nailed it! Perfect mountains! Breathable air! Working plumbing! Then tripped over the cosmic rug and spilled primordial soup everywhere. The sticky residue became the foundation for all later evil in the multiverse.
But here's the kicker—every failure stuck. Like cosmic duct tape, each disaster piled up until the Chaos God could've bench-pressed the sun while reciting bad poetry backwards. Its power grew with every botched creation, every unintended consequence, every "oh crap" moment left unresolved.
It waited.
It plotted.
It ate the other gods' leftovers while they weren't looking, savoring their frustration when they returned to find half-eaten universes in the divine fridge. The Goddess of Order's famous "World-Shaped Cake" had been particularly delicious.
Then—
"PLEASE JUST LET ME DIE," sobbed a certain salaryman poisoning himself via terrible life choices.
The Chaos God perked up from where it had been doodling rude shapes in the cosmic background radiation. On the mortal plane, it saw Kazuki Tanaka - a soul so saturated with defeat it practically glowed in the dark. Here was a man whose failures had failures, whose bad luck had its own zip code.
"Oh heck yes," it whispered, rolling up its sleeves. "This guy's gonna be hilarious." The god could already taste the chaos - like burnt popcorn and poor decisions. It reached for the soul with gleeful anticipation...
But then it paused. Rushed work led to sloppy results, and this one deserved proper attention. Instead, it waited. Let the moment mature like a fine cosmic wine.
Millennia passed. The other gods forgot. Kazuki's soul drifted through the afterlife, gathering interesting stains.
Then—
A whisper. A dying man's curse. The perfect alignment of cosmic failures. The soul had marinated beautifully, absorbing flavors from every plane of existence it had brushed against.
The Chaos God grinned, sharp enough to split realities.
"Hello," it crooned to Kazuki's shattered spirit, plucking it from the ether with infinite care. "Let's break something together." And with a snap of its fingers that echoed across dimensions, the game began.