Sceptile Tribe's Sacred Land.
Emerald-green motes of light continued to flow from the center of the vortex into Xinhai's body. The rain of light kept falling, but it was no longer as dense as before.
The motes emerging from the trees began to dwindle, and the glow along their trunks gradually dimmed.
The small trees around the outskirts were the first to stop releasing light. Their trunks returned to their original dark brown, and the leaves in their canopies no longer trembled.
Next came the ancient trees eight or nine meters tall, quieting one after another.
The vortex gradually dispersed, and the curtain of light slowly faded.
The valley returned to silence. Only the pale green motes still floating in the air continued to drift beneath the moonlight, like the final lingering notes of the ritual.
The moss on the platform became greener and thicker after being nourished by the rain of light.
Those motes seeped into it, making the ancient platform seem as though it, too, had been reborn.
Xinhai remained seated cross-legged at the center of the platform, his eyes tightly shut.
His breathing was long and steady, his chest rising and falling faintly with each breath.
The emerald-green aura around him had gradually receded, leaving only a barely visible glow beneath his skin.
He sensed the changes in his body. His Meridians had widened, his Qi had become more solid, his body lighter, and his senses sharper.
He could hear leaves falling to the ground in the distance. He could feel every subtle shift in the airflow as the breeze brushed over his skin. He could smell the distinctive fresh scent of grass and wood carried by those pale green motes in the air.
He immersed himself in that wondrous state, feeling the unceasing vitality within him