Before I died, I was a low-level operations engineer who could be laid off at any moment. After death, I transmigrated into the recently deceased young master of a noble family in another world. The bad news: I was lying helplessly in swaddling clothes, and my whole family thought I was a good-for-nothing idiot.
The good news: that life-saving biological "cognitive core" in my head came along too. A life-saving protocol with a six-year countdown appeared in my vision. Since I couldn't move, I put it to work building a database while I idled.
By the time I could stand, the entire wizarding world had been turned upside down.
Others painstakingly cultivate for ten years just to kindle a tiny flame. I only need one look to find the logical dead loop in a spell array. High-level magic is treated as an ancient miracle too sacred to behold, but to me, it's just a pile of badly written, bloated low-level code.
Capture, parse, decompile, optimize, rebuild.
No matter how deep your thousand-year heritage or how secret your art, if you dare cast it in front of me just once, I'll have it entered into my local database the next second.
While my peers are still struggling to memorize magic runes, I've already crafted automated spellcasting by hand. While old monsters are still chanting at length, my overclocked forbidden spell hits them in the face with zero delay. Spellcasters across the world kneel and cry out that it's a miracle. Now that I've rebuilt magic into its simplest form, what can you possibly do about it?
