The ink-wash world of the Mind Spectrum was a maze that stretched only about three kilometers in every direction, yet to Xiao Ming, it felt as if he had been wandering for an eternity.
He was like a blind man trying to catch a dragon's tail; he knew the exit was somewhere close, but his senses were clouded.
Every second that passed felt like a heavy stone being added to his shoulders.
He could see the sky above—if one could call that swirling river of gray gas a sky—fracturing like a cheap porcelain bowl dropped on a stone floor.
The cracks weren't just above him anymore. They were zig-zagging across the ground and through the air, turning the once-still painting into a shattered mirror.
It was clear that the fire was singeing his eyebrows, (a phrase used to describe a danger so close and urgent that there was no time to lose.)
"Found it!" Xiao Ming screamed, his voice vibrating with a sudden surge of excitement.
