The Syntax of Reality

Magic is the Language of Creation. And everyone is mispronouncing it. ​In this so-called Era of Names, arrogant children play at "Mage," believing they command the heavens. They scrawl circles in the dust, chanting fragments of a language they do not understand. They treat the Names of Creation like blunt hammers—blindly unaware that the Gods are watching them with extreme hunger, waiting for the Hourglass of Eons to flip. ​And when that finally happens, the gears of their reality will instantly be rusted. I woke up in a fragile mortal shell that burns like a furnace every time I speak a Truth. And when my vessel inevitably failed, another fable began. ​I possess no grimoires, and no legions. I hold only a fountain pen, a broken pocket watch, and a jagged memory of the world before it shattered. ​While they struggle with superstition, I speak the Names with infinite precision. To speak a Name is to bleed. To alter the law is to burn. ​Ascension to divinity is a journey into the depth of unspeakable dangers. But I am not the only one who is ready to pay the price. ​Armed with a traumatized child soldier as my only anchor against the encroaching madness, I will not save this decaying corpse of a world, but ask a question : ​"The Universe was built on Seventy Names... Why do you only remember so few?"