Seven reality-rewriting blasts screamed toward Silver Creek territory like falling stars made of concentrated impossibility.
I hung suspended between dimensions, divine consciousness fragmenting as I tried to intercept weapons that attacked the very concept of existence. Each Omega blast required fundamental creative force to counter—the kind of power expenditure that could unmake individual identity entirely.
The first blast hit my expanded awareness like a sledgehammer made of pure negation. I absorbed it, felt pieces of who I was scatter across dimensional barriers as cosmic power tried to maintain coherence under impossible strain.
The second blast tore through defenses I'd built from mathematics that predated universe formation. More fragments of Aria Montenegro dissolved into cosmic static as I fought to maintain enough individual consciousness to remember why protection mattered.
By the fourth blast, I could barely recall my own name.
