As The Echo of Wood approached the outer boundary of the Standalone Multiverse, the vibrant, flowing currents of the Primal Reality began to hit a resistance that felt fundamentally different from any physical barrier. It wasn't a wall of stone or a shield of energy. It was a Static of Mockery.
The sky around the Standalone had turned into a dull, flickering gray—resembling a television screen tuned to a dead channel. As Han’s ship drew closer, he began to hear voices. Not the telepathic shouts of the Censor or the harmonic chords of the Perfector, but a low, pervasive snickering.
"Look at him," the voices whispered, echoing through the hull. "The little carpenter playing at being a god. How 'earnest.' How 'predictable.' Does he really think his wooden ship matters in a multiverse of dat
