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

Chapter 115 The Boundary Between Truth and Falsehood, The Boundless Lies

The torrential rain outside the window was like a heavy curtain.

It isolates you from all the noise of reality.

It was in an almost tyrannical manner.

It poured down.

Each time it hits the window glass.

It was like a heavy hammer striking Lin Zheng's nearly shattered rationality.

The apartment was completely dark inside.

Only the computer screen emitted a pale white light.

The light was dim.

But it was enough to make Lin Zheng's thin figure appear.

Projected onto the wall.

It forms a distorted silhouette.

He sat on the cold chair.

They remained in an almost frozen posture.

Like an abandoned sculpture.

The air was filled with the strong smell of tobacco.

Those were cigarette butts piled up like a mountain in the ashtray.

In the ever-rising moisture.

It emitted a tarry smell.

It was mixed in his mouth.

The lingering bitterness of coffee.

He hadn't closed his eyes for a long time.

Sunken eye sockets.

It was covered with fine blood vessels.

exhausted.

Like an invisible net.

It covered his face tightly.

Every pore.

They were all marked by sleepless nights.

He moved stiffly.

It makes a faint sound of bones grinding together.

These sounds filled the deathly silent room.

It appears exceptionally clear.

It was as if it were inside his body.

A creaking sound, as if the load was about to burst.

His brain is still functioning in one way.

Unnatural frequency.

Operating at high speed.

Trying to get from what just happened.

Catch any one of them.

Even if it's insignificant.

The unreasonable aspects.

However, each deeper investigation, each attempt to find a loophole, only pushed him deeper into despair.

He compared the photos with the "childhood photos" he found on his computer.

The little boy in the photo.

He grinned widely.

He stood in a place from his hazy memory.

In a non-existent Chinese-style pavilion and garden.

The red-painted railings of the pavilion.

The mottled stone carvings.

Even those far away.

That building was in his memory.

The old apartment building has long been demolished.

All are clearly distinguishable.

The picture is flawless.

The colors are so vibrant they're almost too vivid.

He recalled photos of his hometown.

Those photos usually carry a sense of age.

Some parts are out of focus.

The colors have faded somewhat.

But this photo.

It looked as if it had just been washed.

Even the names of his childhood friends, whom he had grown up with but had never mentioned before, now appeared like phantoms in his memory.

He tried calling an old friend, and a warm greeting came from the other end of the line. The familiar yet unfamiliar voice recounted their shared fond memories.

Every detail was precise and accurate, and every expression of emotion was sincere and natural, as if they truly shared a deep friendship that had lasted for decades.

This warm phone call was more chilling than the cold, hard documents; it was permeated with an impeccable falsehood, sending shivers down Lin Zheng's spine.

He searched the internet for every piece of social media activity related to "him".

From junior high school.

It was posted on a local forum.

A few words about physics competitions.

Naïve and immature insights.

By the time of the high school graduation trip.

Checking in on Weibo from a Hawaiian beach.

He is wearing a floral shirt in the photo.

Wearing sunglasses.

The backdrop is a clear blue sea and sky.

His smile was so radiant that he seemed like a completely different person from how he was at that moment.

Then, during university.

As a key member of the student union.

Photos of various club activities organized.

He spoke passionately on the podium.

They were full of enthusiasm during community volunteer activities.

His "electronic scan of his university graduation certificate".

Placed in the center of the screen.

Above is a portrait of him sitting upright, a scholar.

And the school badge with gold foil stamping.

Every single line.

Every single font.

Everything is perfect and impeccable.

Just like that.

It comes from the most authoritative institution.

no doubt.

Official database.

Like a cold machine.

It was revealed with absolute precision.

Every detail of his "past".

His student registration.

The enrollment time and major information are clear and accurate.

Grade Point Average (GPA) each year.

Even down to the smallest detail.

He had borrowed it from the library.

A list of every textbook and journal.

He couldn't imagine it.

This would need to be enormous.

What an incredibly sophisticated system.

That's how it was done in such a short time.

To construct a person.

From birth to now.

Every single detail.

even.

Including a person's interests.

A person's emotions.

Each document is stamped with a digital timestamp.

It possesses unquestionable credibility.

Such a massive amount of data, such perfect integration—what astonishing resources and technology must have been used?

He couldn't imagine what kind of being could, without leaving a trace, create such a complete, full, and flawless life for him out of thin air amidst the information deluge of millions of people.

Each investigation and comparison only plunged him deeper into the mire, pinned down by an invisible force, leaving him unable to move.

It seems even time itself...

They are all endorsing this "falsehood".

Lin Zheng suddenly covered his head with both hands.

Unconsciously, her fingertips were picking at her hair.

The fingernails are deeply embedded in the scalp.

A sharp pain shot through me.

The body is in extreme pain.

And trembled uncontrollably.

His shoulders were shaking violently.

It's like being acted upon by an unseen force.

It was shaking violently.

His low growl came from deep within his throat.

hoarse.

distortion.

It carried a primal despair.

"who I am."

"who I am?!"

The sound was completely drowned out by the torrential rain outside the window.

They appear so small.

So empty.

in the room.

Apart from his heavy breathing.

And the low hum of the computer fan.

There was nothing there.

He felt more isolated and helpless than ever before.

This is not because no one understands his situation.

Rather, it's because...

Everything he knew.

Everything he believed.

Everything has been overturned.

By a perfect one.

It cannot be refuted.

False history.

Complete coverage.

in case.

All of this "reality" is false.

So.

His existence.

His consciousness.

His thoughts.

How should it be defined?

He began to doubt himself.

Is he really crazy?

The image of Arthur flashed into my mind.

A face weathered by time.

And Evelyn's pair.

Calm yet melancholic eyes.

Every expression on their faces.

Every glance.

even.

Every tiny gesture they made while talking to him.

They all seemed like actors who had been meticulously rehearsed.

Do they know that too?

All of this.

It was just a game.

It was directed at him alone.

A grand and exquisite performance?

An investigation into the "antibiotic profit chain".

Those severed limbs.

Those flesh and blood.

Those heinous crimes.

Those pieces he pieced together himself.

"Gundam" carries an aura of death.

Was it the terrifying nightmare woven from his nerves on the verge of collapse?

He began to doubt all his senses and all his judgments.

Will it?

It was just his brain that was being deceived.

Or this strange world.

It was woven.

It's self-deception.

morbid hallucinations?

He had a stomach spasm.

A wave of nausea rose in my throat.

It is not due to physical discomfort.

Rather, it comes from the existence of oneself.

Completely negate.

All the "evidence" points to his mental illness.

Rather than the strangeness of the outside world.

This understanding.

Compared to being tracked.

Compared to being attacked.

It's even worse than facing death.

They are all even more terrifying.

Because it means.

He didn't even have the right to resist.

They were all taken away.

He felt like an insect trapped in a glass dome, futilely crashing against the transparent barrier. Each struggle only made him more acutely aware of his own insignificance and powerlessness.

He lost his footing, lost the ability to distinguish truth from falsehood, and even lost the courage to believe in himself.

This is more maddening than any physical torture; it directly stifles a person's will and destroys their very essence.

If his memories are all false.

That's his consciousness.

His thoughts.

His struggle.

What does it even matter?

He was caught in an existential crisis.

Even the anchor point of its own existence.

Everything became shaky and precarious.

His thoughts began to wander.

It became chaotic.

Countless blurry fragments.

It flashed through his mind.

That's the truth.

Or is it fake?

He could no longer tell the difference.

He even began to have doubts.

Everyone he knew.

Arthur and Evelyn.

Are they all working together to play this role?

Absurd and shameless characters in the show?

Their words and actions were impeccable.

An impeccable "memory".

Everything is perfect.

All of this gave him a deep feeling.

A bone-chilling cold.

This world.

It's like a giant one.

An inescapable stage.

And he.

Just that.

They were forcibly pulled onto the stage.

He was forced to act out a play he knew nothing about.

The only one.

Ignorant audience.

The script had already been written.

The roles had already been decided.

And he.

But they don't even know who they are.

I have no idea.

That feeling.

It's like the soul being forcibly ripped from the body.

They were cast into the boundless void.

Let the storm of lies rage on.

Ruthlessly torn apart.

His reason was lost in the storm.

Shaky.

Only a thin layer remains.

It seems like it could happen at any moment.

It collapsed completely.

Arthur's wrinkled face.

It gradually became clear in Lin Zheng's memory.

Lin Zheng was certain that Arthur deeply understood the helplessness of being crushed by immense power.

The reason he wasn't defeated must be that he found some kind of leverage, some kind of path to resist.

This thought was like a pebble thrown into a frozen lake of the heart, creating faint but continuous ripples.

That old detective.

His life.

It is filled with the pursuit of "justice".

It is also full of traces of being manipulated by "reality".

In his eyes.

There have been so many stories.

So many.

It was covered up.

The unknown "truth".

Lin Zheng realized this.

Perhaps, Arthur.

I have experienced such despair before.

Such.

A moment when the whole world "denies" you.

But he did not completely succumb to despair.

Fighting against this.

Vast and formless.

A world woven from lies.

this means.

Perhaps there is one.

Different paths.

To fight against this flawless lie.

To fight against this.

Using "perfection" to destroy a person.

Terrible methods.

That faint glimmer of hope.

Like a spark that has been rekindled from the ashes.

Deep in his heart.

Struggling.

It's pulsating.

This Mars.

It is not the intense heat of burning.

It is a kind of thing.

Icy.

Resolute.

Survival instinct.

It dispelled the turmoil within him.

That nauseating, vomit-inducing emptiness.

He closed his eyes.

I took a deep breath.

The air was filled with the smell of damp earth washed away by the torrential rain.

And the smell of decaying rust.

The sound of rain seemed to be slowly fading away.

It's no longer so harsh.

Instead.

It's in his heart.

A faint yet firm whisper.

That sound.

Like a stone rolling down a mountain.

slow.

But its momentum was unstoppable.

This isn't my madness.

This is a lie of the world.

This idea.

Like a solid steel needle.

It pierced his heart.

A giant bubble called "Self-Doubt".

The bubble burst.

What's overflowing is...

Cold.

Sober.

anger.

Those perfect resumes.

Those tender and affectionate conversations.

Those flawless group photos.

It was no longer a burden that crushed him.

Instead, it became...

Another piece of evidence.

One about...

There is something behind this.

How enormous!

How intricate!

Liars.

irrefutable evidence.

This is not just his problem.

This is not just his "illness".

This is one.

It was meticulously designed.

It was executed perfectly.

scam.

Everything.

All the details.

All of them.

Small acts of "sincerity".

They all point to one.

Undeniably.

It exists around everyone.

Yet no one noticed.

A massive and covert operation behind the scenes.

he knows.

I cannot give up on myself.

At least not.

that's it.

Dragged into a madness designed by others.

This is not his end.

This is not the meaning of his existence.

He wants to find the truth.

Even the truth.

A lie more perfect than this.

Even more cruel.

It's even more unbearable.

His thoughts.

To break free from personal difficulties.

It started with one.

More macroscopic.

A more detached perspective.

Examine the predicament he is in.

He no longer asks "Who am I?"

He started asking questions.

"who are they?"

"How did they do it?"

"What do they want?"

Lin Zheng was extremely exhausted.

He forced out a cold smile.

That smile was devoid of warmth.

Yet it carried a sense of resolute determination.

A kind of insight into the ways of the world.

No longer misled.

Sharp.

He muttered to himself.

Hoarseness.

Yet it was filled with unprecedented power.

"it is good."

Since reality refuses to tell the truth.

"Then I'll let the dead speak."

His gaze.

Refocus.

They are no longer confused.

Instead, it carried an unusual, cold light.

Stare directly at the machine on the table.

He had just angrily thrown it away.

Old-style flip phone with encryption.

A crack in the phone screen.

In the dim light.

Like scars.

It tells a story of silent resistance.

He picked up the hilt.

Used to assemble "Gundam".

A long, thin scalpel.

Blade.

Under the faint reflection of the computer screen.

It reflects a cold, metallic luster.

The blade was icy cold.

Sharp.

It feels realistic to the touch.

This is in his hands.

The only thing I can touch.

I won't deceive him.

Pure "reality".

He gripped the knife hilt tightly.

The knuckles turned white from the exertion.

The veins on his wrists were bulging.

Every muscle tense.

They all convey a certain message.

An unquestionable will.

This scalpel.

Countless times.

Precisely slicing open the cold flesh.

now.

He needs to use it.

Slice open the front.

This floor.

It seems perfect.

It is actually a false lie.

He stood up.

She slowly walked to the window.

The heavy rain continues.

It poured down.

The whole world is being washed away.

It became blurry.

He was standing between them.

Glass washed by rain.

Vaguely.

Looking towards this place.

The city shrouded in night.

The halo of streetlights.

It spread out in the rain and mist.

Like blurry eyeballs.

Icy.

Inorganic.

he knows.

In this city.

It hides countless secrets.

He hasn't realized it yet.

An unspeakable secret.

The secrets lie dormant in every corner.

Every block.

Each one.

Beneath the glamorous facade of lies.

And he.

I will do it in my own way.

From those.

The dead forgotten by the world.

tap out.

The deepest truth.

A faint flash of lightning.

It cuts through the night sky.

Briefly.

It illuminated Lin Zheng's face.

It was reflected in his eyes.

An unprecedented level of perseverance and clarity.

His shadow.

But it was in the flash of lightning.

Slightly distorted.

It felt like I had become one with it.

A deeper kind of darkness.

He became...

This is part of the darkness.

It also became...

That.

Tearing through the darkness.

The only crack.

Amidst the sound of torrential rain.

He felt.

An invisible one.

Something huge.

Deep within his consciousness.

Slowly.

Stretching out.

That wasn't madness, but rather a power that had been awakened and had been dormant for a long time.

In the endless darkness, he found the only direction: to become the one who would carve open the cracks with his own hands and touch the hardest core of the lie.