I was born at exactly 9:00 a.m. in the Kingdom of Twaggel.

  The royal astrologer called it “an auspicious hour.” He was later found crying under a table, whispering “the stars are wrong” and chewing on a slipper that wasn’t his.

  Three hours of screaming, vomiting, and at least one lawsuit later, Queen Elenwynn Twaggel finally spat me out with a sigh that said "I've made a terrible mistake."

  “Is it over?” she asked, hair wild, soul slightly departed. “Please tell me it’s over.”

  It was not.

  King Vaelric Twaggel, my father, stood in the hallway the entire time pretending to be regal while drinking soup directly out of a scroll. No one questioned him. He was the king. And mildly terrifying. And also, technically illiterate—though no one dared mention it since he once banned the word “alphabet” from court proceedings.

  Now, you'd think with four royal children already, one more wouldn’t cause much drama.

  Let’s meet the siblings:

  Prince Edmarion – Firstborn. Already fighting wars in the womb. He came out swinging and demanded a sword before his first diaper change.

  Princess Veliryn – Composes blood-themed haikus. At age six. Her doll collection is… concerning.

  Prince Halvren – Smiles like he’s calculating your tax fraud. Constantly asks people what their net worth is and nods solemnly no matter what they say.

  Princess Merasyl – Hasn't spoken in years. Might read minds. Or just hates us all equally. Once made a noble cry just by blinking.

  And then me.

  The Fifth. The Spare. The Blame Dump. The “Oops.”

  Everyone smiled when I arrived. For five whole minutes.

  Then the sky blinked.

  A nearby village danced itself into destruction. A forest sang a hymn, then exploded.

  A faraway king turned into a chicken. A chicken turned into a king.

  Larry—the castle’s ugliest guard—got a girlfriend… and then cheated on her. With a rock. Named Pebblina.

  Naturally, everyone blamed me.

  Even as a literal potato-sized newborn, I apparently radiated "apocalypse energy."

  You’d think I was born wearing a “Blame Me” banner and a tiny T-shirt that read: “Ask Me About Your Inevitable Doom!”

  Rumors spread faster than the royal lice (Princess Veliryn’s words, not mine). The nobles avoided me. The maids side-eyed me. Even the royal parrot refused to learn my name.

  He just called me “that thing” and occasionally squawked “Unholy burrito!”

  And the Queen and King? Publicly, they acted like I sneezed sin.

  But in private? Oh, we’ll get there.

  I first noticed the royal weirdness at one year old. Yes, I was already self-aware. Reincarnation perks. Don’t question it.

  Or do. But good luck getting answers from me, a literal toddler who can’t poop without sounding like a tuba in distress.

  Let’s talk about Arth—the world we live in.

  Think Earth, but with elves, dwarves, mermaids, and tax-evading centaurs. The usual.

  Humans here are called the Greater Race. Sounds fancy, right? It’s not. It just means we have more land and worse fashion.

  Royal tunics? Made of curtains. Noble capes? Stiff enough to qualify as furniture.

  Don’t even get me started on the ceremonial hats. One of them made a child cry in three different provinces.

  Now, onto my favorite character: the maid.

  Her name? Iserra. Twenty-six. Clumsy. Talks to plants. Got sold into service because her noble father lost a bet. On cabbage racing.

  Yes, cabbage racing. Apparently, it’s a thing. You grease the cabbages, slap googly eyes on them, and then bet on which one rolls down a hill first.

  If I were her, I would’ve buried that man six feet under—twenty times. With the cabbage.

  She reminds me of myself back on Earth. Sweet. Overworked. Undervalued. Possibly traumatized by produce.

  Today, she burst into my room like a flustered tornado with bad aim.

  “Oh geez, why aren’t you ready yet!?”

  “I’m a toddler,” I replied, mentally.

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  “Geez, I have to take care of you! It’s exhausting.”

  “I’m literally a toddler.”

  “Whatever. Big day today! You're going to church to get your blessing!”

  The blessing—a sacred ceremony where children receive a skill from a god. Or gas. Depends on the diet.

  Narrator Voice: “Blessing: a sacred rite of passage. Why am I explaining this? You live here!”

  Me: "Isn’t this your job?"

  Narrator: “Joke’s on you, I’m a PCB designer. This is a hobby. Wait… how can you hear me the narrator?”

  “Gugu gaga.” Narrator: “Don’t act like you’re a toddler.”

  Me: “I am a toddler!!”

  Anyway, Iserra finally managed to dress me in a pink outfit so frilly it violated multiple fashion treaties.

  If frills were lethal weapons, I could’ve declared war.

  “Here we go, our prince is ready!”

  Me: “I want to puke so hard right now.”

  Announcement: “Their Majesties, King Valeric and Queen Elenwynn, approach!”

  The room fell silent. My parents entered like statues on parade. Cold. Silent. Judgy.

  The Queen wore a gown made of 400 dead butterflies. The King’s cloak had a taxidermied weasel stitched to the hood. For luck, apparently. No one ever asked why.

  Queen: “Leave us.”

  Iserra bowed and scrambled out like she owed someone money.

  The second the door shut—bam! Their icy faces melted.

  King: “Look at my beautiful boy!”

  Queen: “You sweet chaos nugget!”

  They were obsessed. Probably because I hadn’t exploded the castle. Yet.

  King: “Today, we prove to the world you’re not the devil!”

  Spoiler alert: It didn’t go well.

  At the church, the ceremony began with pomp, sparkle, and several nobles pretending to like each other.

  The pope looked like he bathed in gold leaf and regret.

  They baptized me. Holy water, check.

  Then my head touched it.

  The water turned black.

  Like tar.

  Gasps. Whispers. “The devil!” “The end!” “Larry cheated with a rock again!”

  The pope panicked, then gasped with joy.

  A bright light beamed from the ceiling. Everyone fell silent.

  A statue at the altar began to move. Glow. Flex.

  A god had arrived.

  It was him.

  The Fat God from Chapter 1.

  Still glowing. Still majestic. Still shaped like a busted beanbag chair that had seen some things.

  God: “Majesty… this child holds the essence of chaos and revenge. Fear not, mortals. I shall not bless this child. That would be… irresponsible.”

  Everyone gasped. Then they celebrated. They thought he had come for them.

  The pope was thrilled. “He came because of me!” he said, wiping tears with money.

  Literal gold coins. From his robe. The man was basically a vending machine for narcissism.

  But then… the cheers stopped. Eyes turned to me.

  The kid who broke the water.

  The curse.

  The devil.

  King Valeric stood.

  “I heard the words of a god. I hereby banish the Fifth Prince to the Crime City of Darneth. He shall be given that cursed domain… and a stipend.”

  Wow. A stipend? Thanks, Dad.

  Nothing says “we love you” like minimum wage and a city full of murderers.

  Escorted back to the palace, my parents hugged me in secret.

  Queen: “We’ll send food.”

  King: “And bodyguards. Maybe.”

  Narrator: “And thus began the tale of a boy born under bad signs, sent to rule a city of criminals. But is he truly the devil—”

  Me: “That won’t be necessary.”

  Narrator: “Wait, how are you interrupting me again—”

  There he was.

  Floating.

  Sparkling.

  Still glowing like a disco ball left on ‘divine.’

  God (smiling): “Heh. Let’s see what kind of chaos you bring, little prince.”

  To be continued… Assuming the narrator survives the next chapter.