Kapitel 2: 2. The Divine Debugger
The forest was merciless.
By the time dawn broke, his hoodie was caked in mud, his legs scratched raw from undergrowth, and his throat dry enough to ache with every swallow. But exhaustion was nothing new. He had lived on caffeine and deadlines for years. What gnawed at him wasn't hunger or thirst—it was the gnawing question of what the hell just happened last night.
He crouched in a clearing, watching the dew cling to the grass like glistening code fragments. His hand trembled as he replayed the moment: the wolf, the syntax glowing in the air, the line he erased like deleting a bugged function.
"…If magic runs on code, then there has to be more."
He raised his hand, focused, and whispered the simplest test he could think of."Print hello."
Nothing.
He exhaled a shaky laugh. Of course, no compiler. No terminal. He wasn't holding a laptop—just raw will and intuition.
But the thought lingered. If monsters had syntax written around them, maybe the environment did too. He scanned the clearing. For a long time, nothing stirred. Then a ripple shimmered above the grass, faint and elusive, like a transparent overlay.
He leaned closer, squinting.if (sunrise) → dew.glow();
His pulse quickened. It was real. The world wasn't painted with invisible brushstrokes of magic—it was running scripts.
Hands trembling, he reached out, brushed the floating text, and instinctively added a new line.while (dew == true) → heat = false;
The grass froze, dew refusing to evaporate despite the morning sun. It gleamed brighter, sparkling like diamonds. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the half-panicked laugh that escaped.
He hadn't cast a spell. He'd written one.
A rustle in the distance snapped his focus back to reality. He wasn't alone.
The sound grew closer—muffled voices, footsteps crunching through brush. He stiffened, panic searing through his veins. His mind flashed with headlines: man found delirious in woods, babbling about magic. But then he remembered—this wasn't Earth.
From the trees emerged three figures. Farmers, by the look of them. Rough homespun clothes, weathered faces, carrying baskets strapped to their backs. One of them—a woman with a lined face and steady eyes—froze the moment she saw the glowing patch of frozen dew before him.
She dropped her basket.
"By the gods…" she whispered.
The others followed her gaze. The dew still sparkled unnaturally, defying the sun. His heart thudded. To him, it was just a crude script. To them—
"The light of Aelion," one man breathed, falling to his knees. "We are blessed!"
His mouth went dry."…Wait. What?"
Before he could explain, the woman stepped forward, eyes wide with reverence. "Stranger… how do you command the dew? No druid of our village can call such beauty."
He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. How do you explain debugging syntax to people who think chanting equals spellcasting?
Think fast.
"It's… uh… optimization," he blurted.
Blank stares.
"…Divine optimization," he added lamely.
The two men immediately bowed lower, whispering prayers. His stomach flipped. This was absurd. He wasn't a god. He was a guy in a hoodie who still had coffee stains on his sleeve. But the woman's gaze was sharp—not worshipful, but questioning.
"You carry no staff. You wear no robes. Who are you?"
He hesitated. Telling the truth—I'm a programmer, I debugged your reality by accident—was impossible. Lying outright felt dangerous. But maybe… a half-truth.
"I'm… someone who sees the world differently," he said softly. "Where you see ritual, I see… errors. And when I fix them, things work better."
The woman's expression wavered between confusion and awe. But to his horror, the kneeling man suddenly pressed his forehead to the ground.
"Oracle!" he cried. "The village will rejoice—we are saved!"
"Saved?" he echoed, unsettled.
The woman finally explained, her voice taut with grief. "A sickness spreads in our town. No herb or prayer can ease it. If you are truly blessed… if you can fix what is broken… then please. Come."
He froze. His logical brain screamed to refuse. He wasn't a doctor. He wasn't a healer. He was just… a programmer.
But the other half—the one that had stared down broken systems and found elegant solutions—tightened like a fist in his chest.
If sickness here was a "bug"… could he patch it?
The walk to the village was tense, filled with whispers behind him. The farmers kept sneaking glances at him as if expecting wings to sprout from his shoulders at any moment.
The village itself was a cluster of thatched roofs and wooden fences, tucked against rolling hills. Children peeked out from doorways. The air carried a sour tang—rot, sweat, and something worse.
They brought him to a hut where the air was heavy with the stink of fever. On a mat lay a boy no older than ten, his skin pale, sweat soaking his clothes. His breaths came shallow and uneven.
The woman knelt beside him, tears brimming. "If you can… please."
He swallowed hard, crouching next to the boy. His hands shook as he hovered them over the child. You're not a doctor. You can't do this. What if you kill him?
But then he saw it.
Above the boy's chest hovered faint red glyphs, flickering erratically like corrupted code.if (infection == true) → health--
His breath caught. It wasn't medicine. It wasn't physiology. It was bad scripting.
"…This isn't right," he whispered. "The loop is infinite."
The villagers exchanged confused looks. He raised his hand, hesitating. If he changed this, what would happen? But the boy's shallow breaths made the decision for him. Carefully, he inserted a line:if (healing == true) → infection = false;
The glyphs pulsed, then dissolved.
The boy gasped, his chest heaving as color flushed back into his face. His eyes fluttered open.
The woman let out a strangled cry, clutching the boy to her chest. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Blessed oracle!" she sobbed.
All around, villagers crowded into the hut, gasping, crying, dropping to their knees. Words tumbled—divine gift, chosen one, healer sent by Aelion.
And there he stood, hand still trembling in the fading glow, heart pounding.
He wasn't divine. He wasn't holy. He had just patched a corrupted loop.
But as the boy sat up weakly, the weight of dozens of reverent eyes fell on him.
For the first time since arriving in this strange world, he realized:He had power.
Not with swords. Not with muscles. But with logic. With code.
And to them… he was no programmer.He was a god.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein