At last, Yin Kuang gave up. Though he had no idea exactly how much time had passed, it must have been a long while. He had searched in both directions, and the cells on either side were all empty. There was no sign of Long Aotian anywhere. How should he put it? Maybe it really was true that meeting a master depended on fate.
Another reason Yin Kuang had no choice but to stop looking for Long Aotian was that he could no longer endure the environment of the Celestial Prison. Like everyone else, he had been affected by its absolute silence—his attention scattered, his ears rang, he heard things that were not there, and he even began hallucinating. He had relied on self-hypnosis to keep running through the prison corridors in search of Long Aotian. But everything had its limit. The prolonged self-hypnosis, coupled with the negative effects of the soundless environment, had left Yin Kuang increasingly restless, agitated, and unable to control his emotions. He knew perfectly well that this was an extremely, extremely bad sign. If he did not stop now, then once his emotions spiraled out of control and his reason was lost, he would be finished!
Already lightheaded and unsteady, Yin Kuang staggered like a drunk and braced himself against the bars of a cell. He felt the strength continuously draining from his body, his sense of direction and balance collapsing. Strange rumbling and crackling sounds filled his ears, while streams of colored light flowed before his eyes. Yin Kuang had the urge to let out a roar. But he held it back. Shouting might help him focus for a moment, but it was only temporary—a poison to quench thirst. Sometimes, shouting could become addictive. Once he shouted once, he would need to shout again,