A wave of pressure slammed into Andrew, not like a physical blow, but like a sonic boom of pure, unadulterated noise. It wasn't just a sound; it was a concussion of displaced air, a violent ripple that vibrated through the dust-covered ground and up into his bones. The thud was immense, guttural, a sound that felt more like a heartbeat than a footstep.
The Memory Weaver's form flickered erratically as the soundwave hit, and a cascade of fragmented images flooded Andrew's mind. They were disjointed, chaotic—flashes of forgotten cities collapsing into dust, the silent screams of long-lost dreamers, the immense, crushing weight of a memory being erased. It was a cacophony of emotional and conceptual despair, channeled directly into his consciousness.
