The Decaying Dream of America: I Assemble Corpses and Confront Madness

Chapter 114 The Perfect Lie, Proof of No Solution

The air outside was filled with the unique smell of decay and metal that was characteristic of Emerald Dream City.

Occasionally, the sound of ship horns could be heard from the distant port.

The voice was deep and hoarse, as if it came from the depths of the city.

Inside the rented room, only Lin Zheng's heavy breathing could be heard.

There was also the low hum of the computer fan.

He hadn't slept all night; his eyes were sunken and bloodshot.

Those eyes were like two scorched pits, within which burned two uneasy flames.

Arthur's warning, laced with sarcasm and weariness, was now being etched into the depths of his mind like a carving knife.

"There are some truths you might not want to know."

He did not hesitate at all.

There was no energy left to ponder the deeper meaning of that sentence.

He simply rushed into the room mechanically.

He tapped his palm on the cold computer case a few times.

The black reflection of the screen illuminated his pale and distorted face.

It was more like a canvas waiting to be torn apart than a living human face.

My hands trembled slightly from not having slept all night and from the deep fear in my heart.

He turned on his computer.

The sound of keyboard typing was unusually sharp in the silence.

Like joints rubbing against each other.

Each sound struck his eardrums.

A blank page in the browser unfolded before his eyes.

Like a boundless abyss.

He took a deep breath.

He typed his name, Lin Zheng, on the keyboard.

He added keywords such as "university", "high school", and "family".

He attempted to conduct a comprehensive search, a search for his own existence.

He pressed the Enter key.

He was hoping for some kind of revelation, some kind of evidence that could confirm the turmoil in his heart.

Any tiny flaw, an illogical date, or even just a blurry photo.

These could all become the only lifeline he could grasp at this moment.

Search results appeared at an astonishing rate.

The official student information system showed his student registration, with clear and accurate enrollment date and major information.

He clearly listed his major at Emerald Dream University, his annual GPA, scholarship records, and even the list of books he borrowed from the library.

He checked the electronic scan of his university graduation certificate.

His photo and official seal were on it.

Everything was perfect and flawless.

The official database is like a cold machine, accurately revealing every detail of his "past".

Each document is digitally timestamped, giving it unquestionable credibility.

He went to his "high school" and "middle school" official websites.

I found my name in the list of graduates and clicked on it.

Then he saw the graduation photo from that year.

In the photo, young Lin Zheng stands in front of the teaching building, his smile youthful yet filled with anticipation for the future.

The accompanying text describes him as a former physics competition participant in his class.

She also won a prize in a school-wide speech contest.

He tried hard to recall those scenes, attempting to feel the joy of being praised.

But in his mind at this moment, these were just unfamiliar and distant pieces of information, devoid of any warmth.

He even searched for historical news about his "community".

The reports about community activities, neighborhood disputes, and school district boundaries all perfectly matched his "existing" family background and the environment he grew up in.

He checked his ID and driver's license information on the government's citizen service website.

Even the property's tax records are verifiable.

Although that wasn't his name, but rather the names of his "parents".

These data are as if they were patiently and precisely woven together by an invisible hand.

Each node is interconnected, logically consistent, and flawless.

He then opened a social media account that he hadn't used in a long time.

That place is filled with "his" life trajectory.

Each carefully edited travel photo features a backdrop of California's sunny beaches.

It could be the magnificent scenery of the Grand Canyon, or the library of a prestigious university.

He looked at the photos of himself with various "friends".

Their faces were all different, but they all wore friendly smiles.

In the photo, his smile is so bright it's almost blinding.

He looked completely different from the sunken, distorted face he saw in the mirror.

In the comments section below, "old friends" with nicknames featuring cartoon avatars enthusiastically reminisced about the stories behind the photos.

"Remember that time we went surfing at Santa Monica Beach? You almost got swept in, hahaha!"

One comment reads.

Next to it was a "classic" photo of him awkwardly choking on water, yet still grinning broadly.

He stared at the photo, trying to recall the surfing experience.

But my mind was blank, with only a lingering sense of unfamiliarity.

He had never learned to surf and had no recollection of ever being to Santa Monica Beach.

Another comment mentioned, "That time at the Grand Canyon, you almost fell in while trying to take a picture. You're such an adventurer!"

The accompanying photo shows him standing on the edge of a cliff, arms outstretched as if embracing the world.

But he is clearly afraid of heights and doesn't even dare to go near the windows of tall buildings.

He stared at that face, at those eyes that were exactly the same as his own, but now there was only endless unfamiliarity.

That adventurous spirit, that curiosity about the world, is completely at odds with his current cynicism and weariness.

He clicked on the profile pictures of his "friends" one by one, looking at their posts about their lives.

Everyone lived so authentically and so vividly.

Their daily lives and emotional expressions are all meticulously detailed.

The captions below their profile pictures read: Wang Ming (childhood friend), Li Hua (college roommate), and Zhang Qian (from the next class).

They were so familiar, yet so strange.

This perfect falsehood sent chills down his spine.

It doesn't look like a poorly edited photo or a bad performance.

It was as if the whole world had cooperated in staging a play about him.

He was the one who was kept in the dark and forcibly dragged onto the stage.

His breathing became heavy.

It felt like a huge rock was blocking my chest, making it hard to breathe.

He stared intently at the flawless records on the screen.

They were like cold mirrors, reflecting the chaos and fear in his heart.

The past that he once regarded as his support is now undeniably negating everything he has experienced.

He felt trapped in a cage built of data and images.

Each iron fence radiated a light called "reality," leaving him nowhere to escape.

This "truth" is so profound and logically consistent that his rebuttal seems so pale and powerless.

With trembling hands, he tapped on a seemingly familiar number on his old-fashioned, encrypted flip phone.

The contact list clearly reads "Childhood friend—Wang Ming".

The old-fashioned, encrypted flip phone emitted a faint light in the darkness.

It appears so fragile, like a leaf floating in a cold torrent of data.

His fingertips trembled on the physical keyboard of the old-fashioned flip phone with encryption.

After a long wait, the call was connected.

"Hey? Lin Zheng? What's wrong? Thinking of your older brother in the middle of the night?"

A cheerful and familiar voice came from the other end of the phone, with a hometown accent that made me feel warm and welcome.

The familiar, homey atmosphere that enveloped him only made his heart sink even more.

Lin Zheng's Adam's apple bobbed up and down, but he couldn't utter a word.

His mind raced, trying to find any flaw in those imagined conversations.

A single word deviation, a pause in tone.

Any part that can prove this to be false.

"Why aren't you saying anything? Did the professor scold you again?"

The other party jokingly retorted without any hesitation.

"I always told you to learn from your brother and not be so rigid in everything you do."

"Oh, by the way, your parents asked about you last week, saying you've been too busy lately and they can't get through to you on the phone."

In an instant, Lin Zheng's nose tingled with emotion.

parents.

That familiar title was like a lightning bolt that shattered the unfamiliar fragments of memory in his mind.

A small opening was briefly torn open.

But soon, the perfect lie came back together.

He tried to voice his doubts, but found that the words of questioning stuck in his throat and he couldn't form a coherent sentence.

He couldn't say, "Are you really my childhood friend? Did we really have these memories?"

He knew that doing so would only make the other person think he was crazy and then hang up the phone.

What he needs at this moment is neither pity nor estrangement.

He forced a stiff smile, suppressing the violent trembling in his heart.

The smile didn't even reach his eyes.

"Nothing."

"Well—I suddenly feel a bit homesick."

His voice was hoarse and weak, carrying an obvious weariness.

"Hey! Come back if you miss home! You stayed there to work right after graduation, how long has it been since you came back?"

Wang Ming laughed heartily.

"The last time you came back was around Chinese New Year, right? We drank so much, you were throwing up like crazy, haha. I had to carry you back to your house, and your mom said I'd corrupted you."

When Wang Ming talked about "Chinese New Year," about "big drinking," and about the details of his mother's scolding, every detail was so real and so vivid.

He could even picture Wang Ming's mocking expression at the time, as well as the excruciating headache he had after a hangover.

No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't recall any real details of that New Year's celebration or that big drinking session.

Memories seem to be separated by a transparent film.

He can see it, but he can't feel it, touch it, or experience it.

That wasn't his reality; it was merely "information" existing in his mind.

He abruptly hung up the phone, his forehead already covered in a fine layer of cold sweat.

The cold night wind seeped in through the cracks in the window, but it couldn't cool the burning fear and absurdity in his heart.

He tried dialing a few more numbers, all of which were "old friends" with whom he had "close interactions" on social media.

Every call followed a similar pattern.

The other person spoke sincerely and warmly, recounting memories they "shared".

Every story is full of detail, and every joke has a familiar feel to it.

It was as if they had truly shared those years.

"Back in college, you sneaked out of the lab in the middle of the night to bring her a late-night snack in order to woo that physics major, but you got caught red-handed by security. I could laugh about that for a year!"

A college roommate described it vividly.

His voice was filled with a nostalgic smile.

Lin Zheng remembered that he had never been so infatuated with any senior female student, let alone done something so outrageous.

His university life consisted of nothing but the library and part-time jobs.

His life trajectory is like two films that have been forcibly cut and spliced ​​together.

Although the visual transitions are perfect, there is a sense of disharmony and disharmony within the image.

The more friendly their voices were, the more a chill rose from the soles of Lin Zheng's feet.

It is a pure, boundless sense of unfamiliarity.

It does not come from fear, but from utter nothingness.

He felt as if he were tightly wrapped in a huge net.

This web is woven from countless flawless lies.

It was so real, so flawless, that he could neither prove its existence nor break free from it.

He felt himself being swallowed up by this "perfect" falsehood, and the boundaries of his reason became blurred.

He looked like a drowning person.

Each struggle sent icy water gushing into his lungs, accelerating his descent.

He kept asking himself, was he the one who was crazy, or was the world crazy?

The certainty about himself that he once firmly believed in was now torn into countless pieces, floating in the void.

He began to try to refute these memories using some basic logic.

If he really had those social connections and those outstanding academic achievements, why has he ended up in the situation of "building Gundams"?

If he really did surf on Santa Monica Beach, why did his impression of the sea consist only of gray waves and biting cold?

He tried to find a crack in this logical contradiction.

But every effort is blocked by more comprehensive external "evidence".

His past "part-time job" records and "dropout" certificate were merely a "last resort" after a "difficult choice".

It fits perfectly into that false narrative.

The cursor on the computer screen was blinking, like a mocking eye.

It pulsates, sending out a silent invitation.

They invited him to succumb to this false world made up of data and lies.

Lin Zheng felt more isolated and helpless than ever before, as if he had been abandoned by the whole world.

He muttered to himself in a low voice, his voice filled with longing for the truth and anger at the lies.

He didn't know what to believe, nor did he know who he really was.

His brain seemed to have been forcibly equipped with two operating systems.

It was his instinct, his true perception.

The other set is an impeccable "perfect lie" constructed from countless pieces of "evidence".

Two systems were clashing violently in his mind, vying for the right to define "reality".

Every bit of computing power consumed stretched his already taut nerves.

He knew that if this conflict continued, he would completely break down, suffer a mental breakdown, and become a sacrifice to this lie.

He remembered the cigarette Arthur lit in the basement.

The firelight shone briefly and brightly in the darkness before going out completely.

He slammed his fist on the table, and the screen went black instantly.

The room fell into a deathly silence.

The only sounds were his heavy breathing and the pounding of his heart.

Like two drums pounding wildly, echoing in the empty rented room.

In the silent darkness, Lin Zheng raised his face, which was soaked with cold sweat, his eyes filled with a determination that transcended fear.

If everything he knows is a lie, if the foundation beneath his feet is not real, then he will find the cracks and tear the lie apart completely.

He silently picked up the knife from the corner of the table.

That was a scalpel he often used when working on "Gundam assembly".

The blade is slender, and its edge reflects a faint metallic luster in the darkness, like a cold flash of lightning.

The cold, metallic touch unexpectedly gave him a sense of real security.

This was the only tangible, undeceiving, and pure "reality" he could touch.

He gripped the knife hilt tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force.

This knife has sliced ​​through cold flesh countless times.

Now he will use it to cut through the perfect lie before him.