The Syntax of Reality

NOTE: original-work, human-written, ai-translated, proofread, quality-checked. Magic is not a miracle. It is a language, and the world is failing its literacy test. I woke up naked in a freezing basement, surrounded by twelve fanatics and a rift bleeding black smoke. The "Order of the Severed Tongue" had performed a forbidden ritual to summon a demon. Instead, they pulled me out. They think they summoned a Prince of the Abyss. But in truth I’m just a scholar with three years of missing memories and a body so frail that speaking a single spell makes me bleed. I had no magic, no grimoire, and no legions. But the demon they summoned took one look at me, screamed in absolute horror, and fled back to hell. Now, the cult thinks I am a God in human skin. If I tell them the truth, their rusted vibro-knives will carve me apart. If I slip up, the Church Inquisitors upstairs will find me, and they will burn me as a heretic. If I stop acting for a single second, I die. My only weapon is a terrifying "Itch" in my brain that demands arrogance and a fluency in a Dead Language that turns reality into wet clay. I must fake godhood, rewrite the laws of physics with a perfect precision, and lead a cult of madmen through a neon-gothic dystopia. I am not the God they wanted, but I must become it. The history books say the Creator spoke the Universe into existence. They are wrong. The Creator screamed. And I am the only one listening.