The floor beneath the Mother Node began to bend downward like molten glass.
The puddle of black sludge pinned under Murong Seven’s copper iron stake was not scattering. It was collapsing inward.
Scribe Lord Mo Sha’s face, half-melted and bubbling with oily froth in the center of the puddle, twisted into a smile of total, irredeemable madness.
“You audited my apprentices...” Mo Sha gurgled, his voice rising in an impossible, high-pitched screech that rattled the back teeth of every fighter in the vault. “You cleared the leylines... You defragged the steles... But you can’t audit the Void of Non-Being! I invoke the Tenth Edict of the Heretical Scribes... The Great Oblivion Paradox!”
VZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!
From the center of the puddle, a pinprick of pure, lightless blackness appeared.
It wasn’t darkness. It was the complete, physical absence of space.
A micro-black hole of packed void-ink.
