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.

Kazuki recognized the taste of almonds too late—subtle but unmistakable beneath the rich tonkotsu broth. Aiko had outdone herself. The poison was as meticulously measured as her lipstick, the table set with their wedding china like this was some grotesque anniversary.  

Of course she’d use the good dishes for my murder, he thought. She’d probably complain if I bled on them.

His phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a notification that would’ve made him laugh if his throat weren’t already closing:

LIFE INSURANCE PAYOUT PROCESSED: ¥500,000,000.  

Aiko sipped her wine, watching him over the rim of the crystal glass. "Is the broth to your taste?" she asked, as if inquiring about the weather.  

Kazuki set down his chopsticks with deliberate calm. "Bit heavy on the cyanide, darling." His fingers had gone numb, the tingling spreading up his arms like static. Just like our honeymoon in Okinawa, he almost joked—back when her coldness had still been intriguing instead of lethal.  

The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was Aiko toasting his corpse with his own prized Pappy Van Winkle. Classy, he thought, before the irony killed him faster than the poison.  

REBIRTH IN BLUE FLAMES

Lucian the Worthless woke up vomiting into what appeared to be Dean Illhousen’s screaming face.  

This can’t be a hangover, he thought deliriously as the tin bucket beneath him contorted, its surface stretching into a perfect, shrieking replica of the academy’s headmaster. His vomit—sparking blue like cheap fireworks—splattered across enchanted cobblestones that immediately began dissolving.  

Oh. I’m magic now. And apparently catastrophically bad at it. Why is my puke corrosive—

"NOT AGAIN!" wailed Bucket-Illhousen as Lucian’s half-digested lunch crystallized into tiny screaming homunculi. Around him, the Advanced Alchemy class erupted into chaos.  

The boy with hedgehog-quill hair erected a forcefield—not around himself, but protectively around his notebook. The girl Lucian had accidentally turned cerulean last week started taking bets with manic glee. Three seniors in the back developed spontaneous new phobias of dishware.  

"Twenty gold says he blows up the lab!" Cerulean Girl crowed.  

"No way," Hedgehog-Boy shot back. "After yesterday’s pudding incident? The cafeteria’s doomed."  

Pudding incident? Lucian barely had time to wonder before the energy crackling in his palms surged outward—  

The world exploded in azure hellfire.  

ACADEMY AFTERMATH

Professor Montague’s beard was still smoldering when the emergency council convened.  

"Report," growled Headmaster Illhousen—the real one, currently picking shards of enchanted tin from his robes.  

The Divination professor wrung her hands. "Every scrying orb shows that... that child’s face!"  

The Demonology chair shuddered. "The latrine demons have unionized!"  

From the corner, the Alchemy department head rocked back and forth, muttering about Newton’s First Law being turned into interpretive dance.  

Montague slammed charred fists on the table. "It’s the Worthless Cycle! Every century, one appears—"  

"Except this time," came a voice like smoke and knives. Vespera, the Black Flame Archmage, emerged from the shadows holding a scroll that reeked of burnt feathers. "The God-Child has bonded with him."  

The temperature in the room plummeted.  

Illhousen went parchment-white. "You don’t mean—"  

"Lilith is awake," Vespera confirmed.  

As if on cue, a duck crashed through the stained-glass window singing Never Gonna Give You Up in perfect A-flat.  

THE GOD-CHILD COMETH

Lucian blinked soot from his eyes. The academy’s west wing now resembled a modern art installation titled Why Magic Should Require Licenses.  

Well, he thought, plucking a piece of smoldering lectern from his hair. At least I can’t possibly make this wors—  

"Papa!"  

The voice was sweet. The sight was not.  

A toddler no older than three emerged from the wreckage, rose-fire eyes gleaming beneath a fringe of soot-streaked hair. Completely unharmed. Utterly unnatural.  

Lucian’s magic reacted before he could—a bungled diaper-changing spell that somehow:  

- Teleported the Crown Jewels  

- Transmuted them into edible gummies  

- Made them rain from the sky in a glittering cascade  

The child—Lilith—caught the dissolving diadem midair. "Again?" she asked hopefully, watching as the crown melted into her skin like chocolate.  

Somewhere in the distance, a chorus of professors screamed in existential dread.  

Lucian’s stomach dropped. Oh. I’m the disaster isekai protagonist.  

Lilith giggled and slipped her hand into his. Her shadow waved at him cheerfully.  

Without her moving a muscle.