Lucavion moved like ink spilling over a sacred script—fluid, inevitable. He descended the slope from the rise, his form a whisper in the saturated air. The eastern zone awaited. Not just with the promise of a relic, but with the kind of energy that made his bones remember being alive.
The terrain changed almost immediately.
Trees—tall, ancient, and draped in moss—greeted him like silent sentinels, their branches woven together high above to form a natural cathedral of verdant light. The pillar of vitality still pulsed in the distance, a heartbeat of gold and green that colored everything in hues of renewal. The wind here smelled different—earthy, rich, and tinged with something unmistakably alive. Not merely oxygen. Essence.
