When the Void Broodmother fired, the universe didn’t produce a sound.
True oblivion was entirely silent. The continent-sized monstrosity tightly packed its deep-sea throat, and from the center of its three-hundred-mile sky-slit erupted a pillar of total non-existence. It was ten thousand feet across. A solid, massive stone metal tube of packed negative breakdown, hurtling downward through the shattered high sky at relativistic speed.
It didn’t light up the sky. It deleted light itself. Along the metal tube’s terrifying flight path, photons ceased to exist before they could bounce off matter. That left a tube-shaped tunnel through the heavens that was blacker than the grave of an extinct universe. The space-time continuum within that hall was unraveled down to its raw sharp-angled fabric, crumbling the boundary between past, present, and future into cold static.
The sky wake of the dropping beam was total.
The column punched through the upper thermosphere. Then, the surrounding air pressure collapsed to total zero. The resulting pressure differential tore jagged storm fronts across three continents, generating hurricane-force gales that stripped ancient glaciers from the Northern Frozen Wastes and pulled huge boulders from mountaintops, drawing them toward the dark column like dry leaves caught in a roaring chimney pipe.
