The silent, conceptual explosion left a stillness so profound it felt like the universe itself had held its breath. Andrew lay for a moment in the black, viscous liquid, his body trembling with the aftershocks of wielding such immense power.
The raw psychic exhaustion was a deep, bone-weary ache that threatened to pull him into a genuine, permanent slumber, but he fought it, pushing himself up on his hands and knees. The air, which had been thick with the oppressive weight of negation, now felt crisp and clean, imbued with a hopeful calm that was a direct result of his victory.
The rhythmic drip was gone. The towering, inverted spire, the anchor of the Herald of Nothing, was no more. In its place was a vast, shimmering crater on the surface of the black liquid. The Herald hadn't been destroyed; it had been unmade. Its very process, the core concept of its existence, had been nullified by Andrew's act of creation.
