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.
World 42: Invented ducks before legs. (The screaming still haunts the cosmos.)
World 333: Finally nailed it! ...Then tripped and spilled primordial soup everywhere.
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.
It waited.
It plotted.
It ate the other gods' leftovers while they weren't looking.
Then—
"PLEASE JUST LET ME DIE," sobbed a certain salaryman poisoning himself via terrible life choices.
The Chaos God perked up.
"Oh heck yes," it whispered, rolling up its sleeves. "This guy's gonna be hilarious"
Instead, it waited.
Millennia passed. The other gods forgot.
Then—
A whisper. A dying man's curse. A soul so saturated with defeat it glowed.
The Chaos God grinned.
"Hello," it crooned to Kazuki's shattered spirit. "Let's break something together."