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

Lin Zheng sat in the back seat of the modified all-terrain vehicle, with Arthur, who was still unconscious, beside him. His faint breathing was barely audible.

In the dim, fading light outside the car window, the boundless outline of the wasteland stretched out, with wind-eroded boulders resembling the skeletons of prehistoric beasts. The air was thick with the stench of scorched earth and blood, a deep, primal aura of death.

As the wasteland of the Ochre Maze draws near, the ancient "dreams" grow ever more intense.

This "dream murmur" was no longer a gentle whisper, but a piercing scream that pierced the skull, mixed with countless fragments of consciousness. Lin Zheng felt his eardrums vibrate, his temples throb, and his blood vessels congest.

Deep within my brain, an unprecedented tearing sensation erupted, as if countless rusty steel needles were piercing my skull.

He clenched his teeth, his mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood, as if he were being thrown into a giant grinder, his soul being crushed and torn apart. This pain transcended the limits of the body, reaching the very root of his spirit. He felt himself being forcibly stripped of the definition of "human," torn into pieces, yearning to merge into the boundless darkness of the wasteland.

This was no ordinary pain; it was a silent tug-of-war between his consciousness and the surging primal energy. Each heartbeat was like a war drum, foreshadowing the brutality of the battle of will. His thought processes crumbled, and the memories, emotions, and logic that supported "Lin Zheng" shattered like threads melting in strong acid. A profound sense of despair began to grow within him.

Previously, "Dream Anatomy" could precisely deconstruct the remnants of a corpse's dreams, following a set pattern. His ability was like a surgical scalpel, accurately dissecting the mental traces of the deceased. But in the wasteland, this scalpel is dull and fragile, facing the raging waves of an invisible ocean.

The power emanating from the depths of the wasteland was wild and chaotic, and every bit of penetration felt like it would tear him to shreds.

It was a pure, unconscious violence. Lin Zheng's vision was distorted; the car's dashboard, Arthur's pale face, and even his own hands were covered with a blurry halo shimmering with ancient runes, attempting to inscribe incomprehensible laws.

Before his retina, the wasteland, his teammates, and even Arthur's wounds all shimmered with colorful, chaotic structural lines.

These structural lines are no longer a clear flow of data, but rather mutated, aggressive tendrils of thought, each coil attempting to drain his life force. They twist into malevolent shapes, whispering hymns of temptation and destruction, challenging the last line of defense of his sanity.

These intertwined lines formed an abstract scroll, writhing, expanding, merging, and separating, constantly assaulting his perception. Silhouettes of ancient creatures or the ruins of forgotten civilizations flashed within the scroll, accompanied by pain and ecstasy. These images flashed through Lin Zheng's consciousness at faster-than-light speed, attempting to pull his spirit into an inescapable vortex. He felt dizzy, as if a boulder was pressing on his chest, resisting this powerful assimilation force.

They are not the cold, systematic data streams of the city, which cannot be easily segmented and analyzed. The remnants of the city's dream, though chilling, are at least products of "civilization." The "dreams" of the wilderness, however, are primal wildness, an untamed chaos.

The structural lines before him were filled with an ancient, restless will; each one pulsated with a kind of savage vitality, not nourishing life, but devouring and dissolving. Lin Zheng felt a tingling sensation down his spine, as if countless tiny insects were crawling through his nerves.

This is neither logic nor purpose; it is simply the sheer existence of being that can crush the mortal mind. It is like a massive, invisible wall, blocking the center of his mental pathways and severing the connection with his own reason. The instinct for survival is twisted into a primal urge that makes him feel a morbid attraction.

He could feel this invisible force seeping into every cell, attempting to completely melt his consciousness. It was as if every molecule of his was being imprinted with the mark of the wasteland, recoded, and made a part of this land. Lin Zheng's vision blurred, his consciousness flickered like a candle in the wind, and a cold fear surged into his heart.

If he relaxes even slightly, the ancient dream lines will completely invade, erasing his self-awareness as "Lin Zheng." He will become an empty shell walking on this wasteland, driven by endless ancient "dreams." This ending is more terrifying than death, because it means utter nothingness.

But a near-self-destructive stubbornness was ignited within him; he instinctively resisted, attempting to find order amidst the chaos. This was a tenacity ingrained in his very being, a surgeon's instinct. His will was like a spark ignited in a desperate situation, carrying an indomitable light.

His fingertips tapped uncontrollably on his knees, mimicking the act of stitching. Each tap was accompanied by a silent recitation of complex anatomical structures in his mind, each repetition like an invisible stitching together of a broken spirit. It was a ritual etched deep into the soul, reconstructing chaos.

This is a habit he developed over many years of "building Gundams," a compulsive sense of rhythm that serves as his anchor against madness. That extreme pursuit of precision and logic has become his only weapon against primal chaos.

He gritted his teeth, the taste of blood on his tongue, forcing himself to focus amidst the vibrant chaos. He concentrated all his will on one point, trying to pierce through the layers of maddening fog. His spirit seemed to be forcibly shaped into a sharp awl, with a self-destructive resolve, chiseling open the chaos before him.

He attempted to use his "mental restructuring" talent, on the verge of collapse, to forcibly "format" and "sort" the flood of chaotic information. This process was like undergoing a mental craniotomy without anesthesia; he clearly felt every bit of his thoughts being cut and reorganized. Each successful "formatting" was accompanied by excruciating, convulsive pain. Data streams surged rapidly from the depths of his consciousness, forcibly cramming chaotic images, illogical colors and shapes into a comprehensible framework. He was forced to erect layers of iron-like walls of will within his own mental sanctuary, blocking the eroding primal whispers.

The process was excruciatingly painful; each successful "recalibration" of a fragment of information felt like cutting his own soul with a dull knife. This feeling was more devastating than any physical trauma. His soul wept and wailed, yet within this extreme pain, he discovered a self-destructive clarity. This was his only way to survive. With each recalibration, he felt something of his being worn away, but something new and more resilient was forged.

Sweat soaked his forehead and back, his body trembling violently from extreme pain and struggle. His limbs convulsed, his fingers turned white, and his nails almost dug into his palms. Every breath felt like swallowing a scalding blade, every heartbeat a harbinger of the next tearing apart. Arthur was unconscious, his faint breathing the only "normal" anchor Lin Zheng could grasp. He couldn't fall.

He felt his spirit being repeatedly polished by countless rough sandpapers, every inch emitting a painful groan. The precision and rigor he once took pride in were now forcibly modified to adapt to this barbaric existence. His mental landscape was redrawn, human sensitivity and vulnerability were suppressed, and replaced by a cold, resilient tenacity adapted to the wasteland. His mental world was like a rebuilt fortress.

But he persisted, and the chaos in his mind was gradually dissected and categorized, the original, vibrant structural lines becoming less turbulent. They still existed, but were channeled into rivers carrying warnings of danger. He couldn't completely eliminate them, but he could allow them to flow beyond the boundaries of his consciousness. This was an extremely mentally taxing operation, but he knew it was worth it.

His sanity was rapidly depleting, but he hadn't completely lost control, managing to maintain a precarious state of clarity. His eyes were bloodshot, yet held an unusual sharpness—the edge honed from struggling on the edge of the abyss. His thought processes were clearer and faster, but also colder, like an overloaded processor, each step fraught with the risk of collapse.

He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his eyes gradually clearing, though pale. A weary yet resolute expression replaced fear and struggle. His fingers stopped trembling, but his muscles ached from the mental battle. He had won a temporary respite, but knew this was only the beginning of a long war.

He realized that he could no longer passively "receive" and "interpret" the information of the wasteland as before. He had to become an "editor" and "filter" of information, redefining and filtering this chaos with his own will. This was not just a survival strategy, but a philosophical shift in the face of a new world. The combination of "dream anatomy" and "mental re-engineering" formed a completely new and aggressive mode of mental perception.

He must actively "filter" and "reconstruct" in order to understand and cope with this new world. This means that his mind will be constantly on edge, like a sword ready to be drawn at any moment. He will force himself to understand those inhuman and irrational ways of being, and may even need to "immerse" himself in some primitive way of thinking in order to grasp the essence of the wasteland.

He was forced to accept the rules of the Ochre Labyrinth, transforming from a "fugitive" into an explorer "surviving in the unknown." This transformation was painful and swift, activating a wilder, more ruthless survival instinct within him. He knew that from this moment on, his fate would be inextricably linked to the secrets of the wasteland.

The modified all-terrain vehicle drove past broken road signs, approaching a vaguely marked, abandoned border checkpoint deep in the wasteland. The wind howled, whipping the vehicle around. The checkpoint's outline resembled an ominous tombstone, dilapidated yet exuding an unsettling vitality. The surrounding rocks were an eerie ochre color, like bones stained with blood. Jeremy frantically adjusted the scanner frequency on the dashboard, trying to detect unusual energy fluctuations, but to no avail.

Jeremy slowed the car, the engine revving low. The roar was jarring in the desolate landscape. The atmosphere inside was tense; an unseen force was creeping closer. Lena's weapon gleamed coldly, her eyes sharp as a hawk's, her body tense as if preparing for battle.

Lena picked up her weapon, preparing for a quick initial reconnaissance. She took a deep breath, adjusting to the oppressive air of the wasteland. Her movements were steady and precise, displaying the efficiency and vigilance of an experienced soldier. She gently opened the car door, and with a faint metallic scraping sound, quickly blended into the desolate night, disappearing silently from sight.

Lena picked up her weapon, preparing for a quick initial reconnaissance. She took a deep breath, adjusting to the oppressive air of the wasteland. Her movements were steady and precise, displaying the efficiency and vigilance of an experienced soldier. She gently opened the car door, and with a faint metallic scraping sound, quickly blended into the desolate night, disappearing silently from sight.

Lin Zheng stared at his trembling hands, which had become weapons in his struggle against madness. He stared intently in the direction Lina had disappeared, an indescribable anxiety welling up inside him. He knew Lina was skilled, but everything here was beyond his comprehension. The pulse of the wasteland quickened, like a colossal beast awakened. The dark entrance to the abandoned checkpoint was more like a bottomless maw, waiting to devour any intruder.

A mixture of rust, dust, and the stench of rotting, unidentified creature seeped in through the cracks in the car window. The stench was intense, a blend of death, dampness, and a sweet, nauseating smell. It wasn't just a olfactory assault; it was an erosion of reason. Lin Zheng suppressed his discomfort, trying to decipher the information. This smell resonated eerily with the primal "dreams" swirling in his mind.

The odor intertwined with the chaotic "dreaming" that kept echoing in Lin Zheng's mind, bringing a suffocating sense of oppression. He could even "see" the path of the odor's spread, carrying a viscous, grayish-green energy flow, trying to penetrate every pore of his body. This was a more aggressive mental attack than before, targeting every aspect of his physical senses. His breathing became rapid, his heart pounded wildly, and his body instinctively reacted violently to this pollution.

Lena nimbly leaped off the modified all-terrain vehicle, a modified firearm and portable reconnaissance equipment in her hands. She moved swiftly along the perimeter of the checkpoint, the laser rangefinder's red dot scanning the walls and ground. An eerie silence reigned, broken only by the occasional whistling of wind carrying sand against the walls. It was a chilling stillness. She inspected the outer perimeter wall and abandoned sentry post, finding most of them collapsed, only the steel frame remaining.

She carefully and quickly surveyed the abandoned checkpoint, inside and out. Lina's gaze pierced the darkness, capturing every detail. She saw that the checkpoint's doors and windows were broken, and the barbed wire creaked. The interior was a mess; tables and chairs were overturned, documents were scattered, and everything was covered in a thick layer of dust and mold. Everything seemed hastily abandoned.

The walls of the checkpoint were covered with eerie rust, resembling a tangled network of veins. They snaked upwards, forming unsettling patterns. She reached out to touch them, feeling a cold, sticky sensation on her fingertips; the sweet, fishy smell in the air was even more intense here.

She quickly discovered some non-human footprints in the soil, large and twisted, like a hybrid of some kind of bird of prey and mammal. These footprints were about the size of a hand, with sharp claws on the forelimbs and heavy hooves on the hind limbs, deeply imprinted into the dry, hard soil. Their intermingling indicated that more than one creature had lingered there. Lena crouched down and examined them closely with her flashlight, discovering that the footprints were not recent, but were remarkably well-preserved and chilling. The dust of this wasteland should have erased all traces, but these marks seemed to have been permanently solidified by some force.

These footprints, deeply etched into the soil, each carried an ominous weight. She could sense a raw, primal power, a savagery unlike anything known in nature. These creatures seemed to move without regard for any obstacles, leaving behind traces that were both heavy and arbitrary.

Even more disturbing, she found some grotesquely shaped, gnawed remains. In a corner of the checkpoint, Lina illuminated a pile of white bones with her flashlight. These bones had strange protrusions and holes, smooth surfaces, but clear bite marks. The remains piled up like a nauseating altar, the stench of decay lingering in the air. Lina forced herself to eat and picked up one piece for a closer look.

The bones weren't human skeletons, nor did they resemble any known wilderness animal bones. They were more like alien creations, a fusion of insect exoskeletons and vertebrate skeletons, with some parts exhibiting a translucent crystalline structure. The dried bloodstains on them were a deep, almost black, color. She could see interlocking bite marks and tiny gnaw marks on the remains, indicating that at least two different types of predators had shared the feast here.

The surface bore sharp claw marks, and the flesh was dried, a sickly grayish-green. This grayish-green had an ominous sheen, suggesting it wasn't ordinary biological decay. She even saw tiny holes on the inside of some bones, as if they had been eaten by parasites.

Even the metal structure showed signs of dissolution, as if corroded by a strong acid. She noticed clear, deep corrosion marks along the torn iron door's edge, as if a highly corrosive liquid had been splattered on it. This reminded her of the stomach acid of some abyssal creature.

This was a stark contrast to the company's efficient, meticulous, and virtually traceless cleanup methods. The company's cleanup teams always managed to make the scene look as if nothing had ever happened. But what they saw before them was a raw, savage chaos, an undisguised carnage. This filled Lina with extreme unease, because the threat they faced was far closer to the primal laws of nature than she had imagined.

Everything seemed more primal and bloody, foreshadowing a more brutal threat. This threat was not merely physical, but a subversion of the civilized order. She felt a chill rise from her spine, not from the cold, but from an instinctive fear of the unknown and powerful. She realized that they had crossed not only geographical boundaries, but also the invisible wall between civilization and savagery, reason and chaos.

Lena realized that this place harbored extraordinary creatures, a wildness beyond the company's control. These creatures were not bound by any human laws, following the oldest survival methods of the wasteland, becoming the true masters of this land. Lena gripped the gun handle tightly, her palms sweating.

She tried to trace the marks, but they quickly vanished into the desert sands, seemingly erased by an unseen force. This added to the mystery and eeriness. She followed the marks for dozens of meters, but after a few wind-eroded boulders, all traces abruptly stopped, as if they had disappeared into thin air.

Meanwhile, Lin Zheng attempted to read the lingering dream by sensing the residual smells or energy fluctuations within the checkpoint through the car window. Although the window shielded him from some pollution, the intense, corrosive energy still seeped into his consciousness. He closed his eyes, extending his mental power to its limit, trying to capture information from the chaotic "dream ramblings." He felt the air inside the checkpoint was thick and oppressive, as if countless screams of pain were frozen in time. He saw blurry images: grayish-green flesh and blood, twisted bones, and a huge, invisible entity whispering ancient incantations above the remains.

All he perceived was a vague, primal, and hostile fear and chaos, which rapidly depleted his sanity. This hostility stemmed from the "soul" of the land itself, its rejection of the intruder and its greed for life energy. His spirit was once again pulled to the brink of collapse; the world blurred, and countless eyes stared at him in the darkness. He heard countless buzzing sounds echoing in his ears, like a swarm of hungry insects building a nest in his brain.

His "mental recalibration" was passively triggered again, forcibly categorizing this chaotic information as "primitive erosion." Each recalibration brought excruciating pain, but also stimulated his nerves, sharpening his thinking. He was forced to build a firewall in his mind, classifying all noise as "threats," quantifying their level and nature. It was an instinctive self-protection. He felt this forced "diagnosis" rapidly depleting his mental reserves.

He felt these erosions surging in like a tide, trying to devour all his senses and reduce him to a part of chaos. A sharp pain shot through his skin; it was the wasteland's "dreaming" attempting to break through to the physical realm. He struggled to breathe, his mouth filled with the taste of rust, and everything before his eyes trembled. He gritted his teeth, his tongue tasting blood again. The physical pain, ironically, helped him focus, allowing him to perceive the boundaries of "humanity" more clearly.

But he tensed again, breaking down the information into manageable fragments in his mind to avoid a mental breakdown. He was like a surgeon performing a delicate and risky dissection on his brain. He knew he was waging a fierce tug-of-war with an invisible force, and victory only meant a temporary survival of sanity.

A musty, stale smell of blood mixed with a cloying sweetness of rotting flesh permeated the crumbling structure of the checkpoint. The odor seeped through the gaps in the metal and glass, like something alive entwining in his nostrils. Lin Zheng could distinguish different layers: there was the stench of aged, decaying blood, the traces of fresh hunting, and even the distinctive scent of a strange creature. It was an ancient aura, a blend of life and death.

Scattered across the ground were dried, dark brown patches, a shocking sight, like scars on the earth. These patches gleamed eerily in the dim light, and Lin Zheng's spiritual perception told him that they were not ordinary soil or oil stains, but biological remnants containing powerful energy. They were like silent paintings, recording bloodshed and struggle.

Lina returned to the modified all-terrain vehicle, her face deathly pale, her eyes filled with deep vigilance. Her breathing was rapid, her steps steady. She switched off the overhead tactical spotlight, plunging the vehicle into darkness, the dim light from the instrument panel illuminating her tired, wary face. Lin Zheng felt an even stronger chill emanating from Lina than before. Her uniform was stained with dust, and the air carried a faint smell of blood mixed with the cloying, rotten stench unique to the wasteland. She quickly packed away her reconnaissance equipment, her movements clean and efficient, yet a barely suppressed tremor ran through her.

She tossed a fragment of bone, stained with dried flesh and blood, onto the ground. The fragment landed on the modified ATV floor with a crisp, dull thud. The bone, with its eerie curve, was grayish-white with ominous dark red edges, and covered in fine scratches. Under Jeremy's probing gaze, the dried flesh on the bone was horrifying, as if it had just been peeled from some monster. It emitted a faint, unsettling, sweet, metallic odor.

The bone fragment, with its inhuman curves and shape, and jagged bite marks along its edges, was particularly gruesome in the dim light of the carriage.

She looked at Lin Zheng, her voice low and hoarse, every word filled with uncertainty and unease.

"These things... are definitely not any of those mentioned in the company files."

Her gaze swept across the carriage, settling on the unconscious Arthur, her worry deepening. That bone fragment was like a silent warning.

"What place have we stumbled into?"

Lin Zheng stared at the twisted, biting marks on the bone fragments, which perfectly matched the primal malice he had just sensed on a spiritual level. An unprecedented chill ran through his soul. The danger of this wasteland was far more profound and primal than they had imagined. It was not merely an abandoned ruin, but a living, hostile, and chaotic land. They had become explorers of the unknown, facing an ancient threat that transcended common sense and technology. Lin Zheng clearly realized that this battle for survival had only just begun.