The wind shrieked over the new world as if remembering what had been torn apart to make it.
Great obsidian spires reached for the skies, fissured and dripping thin streams of blue power. Glass trees glimmered, their branches repeating whispers of old code.
The land began to heal, but it wasn't natural. It didn't choose to recover—it was being forced to. Something deeper was rewriting the world, stitching the pieces back together in ways that didn't make sense.
In Eclipse Fork, nothing followed the rules of the old world anymore. The air felt strange, the ground hummed with buried code, and even the trees seemed to whisper things they shouldn't know. This was not a recovery. It was something else pretending to be.
The sky itself was chaos—day and night pushing back and forth like two incompatible writing attempting to write themselves out. Clouds twisted into impossible fractals, and lightning would tend to split upwards rather than downwards.
