Soon, Lyerin stood at the edge of the massive tree, his eyes narrowing as he looked out over the vast and wild land that surrounded his tribe's statues.
His arms rested at his sides, his fingers occasionally clenching as if mimicking the tension building in his mind.
The places he'd visited replayed vividly in his head—the shimmering Crystal Cliffs, the deceptive calm of the Sea of Sapphire Grass, the haunting melodies of the Starlit Swamp, and the twisted chaos of the Abyssal Hollow. He let out a slow breath, his voice low, almost inaudible.
"It must be them," he muttered, his words carrying the weight of a decision that had been simmering for hours. His tone sharpened, a hint of exhilaration creeping into it. "The Abyssal Hollow beasts. Twisted, chaotic... they don't belong here, but they thrive. They're wrong in every conceivable way, and that's what makes them... perfect."