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

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Deep within the canyon, the night was as dark as ink, leaden clouds obscuring all starlight and moonlight, leaving only the flickering crimson light of the tribe's torches, illuminating the eerie silhouettes of giant cacti. These colossal figures seemed to originate from the ancient wilderness, twisted and solemn, carrying a silent sense of oppression.

These cacti tower into the clouds, like twisted totem poles, their dark green skin covered with nodules and thorns. They are not plants, but more like some kind of living, slowly breathing architecture. Their skin is not smooth, but covered with a hard shell composed of cuticle and ancient minerals, like petrified leather mixed with coarse gravel, rough and cold to the touch, as if settled over millions of years. The fine cracks on the shell are like ancient scars, occasionally slowly opening to reveal dark red tissue inside, like rotting flesh. From these cracks, a faint, ominous glow shines through, like a dying pulse beating desperately, releasing an unsettling sign of life. Their roots—more like some kind of huge, muscular vine—deeply penetrate the valley floor, intertwined and breathing. Each imperceptible pulsation makes the air in the entire canyon heavy and oppressive, like the low growl of the earth itself in its slumber.

A suffocating stench filled the air: the earthy smell intensified by the decaying matter within, mixed with the sticky, sweet tang of putrefaction, and an indescribable, ancient, musty aroma. This bizarre odor seemed to combine the pungent smell of sulfur, the stench of rotting corpses, and the viscous feel of some kind of fermented syrup. This mixture was extremely eerie, as if it could penetrate flesh and bone, bringing waves of nausea with every breath, like forcibly instilling the lingering taste of death itself, causing both physical and psychological torment.

The surrounding silence was chilling, a deathly stillness that seemed capable of extinguishing all life, yet it was torn apart by deep, rhythmic roars. Each roar carried a primal, incomprehensible call, mingling with the unique, weeping and wailing noise characteristic of the wasteland, creating a terrifying symphony of the wilderness. These roars were not monotonous screams, but varied in frequency and tone; some were like the desperate cries of imprisoned beasts, their voices shrill and mournful; others struck like thunder, carrying destructive power, as if proclaiming the savagery, despair, and untamable nature of this land.

Further away, the low, faint beat of drums drifted in, like the prelude to some kind of sacrificial ritual, mingling with the primal, night-piercing howls of tribal warriors and the slow, heavy footsteps of some colossal creature. The sound seemed to surge directly from the depths of the earth, shaking the ground, vibrating the bones and souls of everyone present, creating an indescribable resonance. Occasionally, the crunching of a deformed creature devouring its prey pierced the night, amplified infinitely in the silence, accompanied by the desperate screams of the victims. Each impact felt like a cold, sharp awl, piercing the thin walls of reason, making every breath incredibly difficult, as if an invisible hand were gripping the throat, each inhale filled with suffocating terror.

Lin Zheng felt his eardrums vibrating violently; each heartbeat felt like a death knell ringing in his ears. The occasional, crisp, horrifying sounds of breaking bones were the relentless devouring of their prey by the deformed creatures. The sounds were amplified to an appalling degree in the silent canyon, like countless cold awls piercing the thin veneer of reason, pushing them to the brink of madness.

Under this pressure, Lin Zheng's true deconstruction ability was passively triggered. The world in his eyes instantly transformed into a complex array of structural lines. These lines were no longer rigid, static physical structures, but rather teeming with life-like movement. They were like countless tiny veins, shimmering with energy, intricately interwoven to form a magnificent yet terrifying picture of life. He looked up at the twisted and mottled canyon walls, where the thick structural lines clearly outlined the silhouette of an indescribable, gigantic creature, like an ancient deity or demon.

The outline resembled an ancient serpentine form, or a bizarre mountain range formed by countless intertwined tentacles. A mere glance sent a sharp pain through the depths of his mind, as if his consciousness were being forcibly torn apart by some force. This was a visual shock to something primal, chaotic, yet possessing an immense, despairing power. It didn't originate from the external scene, but from Lin Zheng's own insight into the nature of energy and matter. He was horrified to discover that the internal structural lines of the giant cactus were connected to the massive outline on the rock wall, as if they were symbiotic or parasitic. The pulsating points of light on their skin pulsed slowly and powerfully like blood vessels, as if the entire canyon were a living, breathing behemoth in its slumber, and they were the tiny beings about to be devoured.

Lin Zheng finally understood that this Ochre Maze State was once a mining area on the edge of the Central Rust Zone. However, after industrial decline and the complete collapse of the mining communities, the tribes here, worshipping an ancient consciousness deep within the land, maintained a fragile balance with the mutated creatures through flesh and blood sacrifices. This canyon was likely the vein of that ancient consciousness, flowing with the flesh and blood sacrifices of generations of miners and wanderers. These huge, twisted cacti grew wildly by directly absorbing this power.

Lin Zheng didn't know what this ancient consciousness was, but its influence was clearly far beyond ordinary. It didn't intervene with overt, direct force, but rather subtly eroded and silently altered the material structure and life forms of this land. The blood, sweat, and profound despair of the miners who once struggled to survive on this desolate land, along with the broken bones and fear of the later wanderers, all became nourishment for it, gradually merging into this distorted, almost pathological ecosystem. This was an invisible devouring, a slow but thorough assimilation process, twisting the originally natural laws into a bloody cycle rooted in pain and distortion. Every decay of life, every desperate cry, nourished this unspeakable entity lurking in the darkness.

Lena and Jeremy clung tightly to each other, their bodies trembling uncontrollably. They couldn't "see" the true structure of the world like Lin Zheng, but the increasingly oppressive atmosphere and maddening noise around them had plunged them into an unprecedented, soul-deep fear. Lena's nails dug deep into Jeremy's shoulders, her fingertips icy cold, while Jeremy, as if all his strength had been drained, could only stiffly hold her back with his limp arms, his body trembling with terror. Their gazes were unfocused and empty, completely unable to comprehend the intricate structural lines Lin Zheng saw, but the continuous, agonizing screams and cracking bones in their ears, along with the decaying yet strangely vibrant aura permeating the air, brought their minds to the brink of complete collapse.

They whimpered softly, as if they would be utterly crushed by the malice of this desolate wasteland at any moment. Lena's breathing was rapid and unsteady, each inhale like chewing on the despair filling the air, carrying a faint smell of rust. Jeremy kept his eyes tightly shut, trying to shut out this terrible and real reality, but the sharp, drill-like sounds still pierced his eyelids, reaching the deepest part of his brain. What they were experiencing was not merely simple fear, but a complete upheaval of the very foundation of their lives, a pure, primal instinctual resistance of living beings to death and distortion.

Although Evelyn felt a chill that seeped into her bones, so cold it almost made her tremble, her grip on Arthur remained perfectly steady, displaying astonishing composure. Her eyes were filled with fear, but deep within those eyes, Lin Zheng caught a glimpse of steely will—the instinctive protectiveness of a healer, an unwavering commitment to a patient in dire straits. She carefully checked Arthur's weak breathing, shielding him from the horrifying sights with her own body, even as she trembled uncontrollably. Evelyn held the barely breathing Arthur tightly, her face deathly pale, but beneath this deep fear, her eyes shone with an unprecedented unwavering light. It was a mixture of a healer's instinct and a powerful protective desire, sublimated in extreme despair, forming a vow to never abandon protection, even in the face of the world's malice.

In utter terror, Lina gripped Lin Zheng's arm tightly, pointing to a massive silhouette faintly visible in the darkness. Her voice trembled so much it was almost inaudible. "Look... what's that?" she asked with difficulty. The silhouette, like the gaping maw of a monstrous abyss beast, foreshadowed their impending entry into an even more terrifying core region. The distorted shape appeared particularly grotesque against the faint glow of the blood moon, like a living temple awaiting sacrifice, radiating a chilling aura of death. Every step closer seemed a promise to the unknown abyss, a silent surrender to one's own destiny.

The long trek was no longer just a simple physical exhaustion; it was more like a severe torment of the soul. Lin Zheng's steps were unusually heavy, his boots sinking into the decaying gravel. He felt as if countless cold hands were clawing at his ankles from the ground, trying to drag him into the darkness. The surrounding air grew increasingly heavy, not just in terms of physical density, but also in the indescribable, deep-seated sense of oppression, as if the entire world was silently sinking. Everyone walked unsteadily, their bodies and minds on the verge of collapse. Each breath felt like the last exhale squeezed from their lungs, burning with pain. Exhaustion weighed heavily on everyone's hearts like heavy shackles. Reason became a luxury, like a sacred communion, in this wasteland. Every ounce of reason lost meant a closer step into the abyss of madness, a closer step into being completely swallowed by the despair of this land.

The long trek continued in the darkness, each step dragging their weary bodies, each step feeling like treading on soft, sticky mud, heavy and almost suffocating. They had left the depths of the giant cactus canyon, where the eerie whispers and writhing structural lines seemed to still linger beneath their skin, leaving a layer of cold, bristling hairs. The pungent, rotten smell of the air gradually faded, replaced by a dry, bloody odor and the metallic rust, occasionally mingled with a faint, burnt smell, mixed with the slightly sweet scent of opioids—all smells particularly prevalent in the mining area. On the horizon, the sky gradually changed from dark red to deep purple, finally sinking completely into pure black, with only the leaden clouds above still faintly emitting a dim light, shrouding the entire world in oppressive despair.

When the team, exhausted and staggering, reached the edge of the abandoned mine, everyone was stunned by the breathtaking sight before them. The pitch-black night had completely enveloped the earth, and a huge, blood-red moon hung high in the sky, casting a thin, eerie light onto the distant horizon. At the edge of the horizon, the outline of a colossal fortress, constructed from wrecked cars, twisted steel debris, and dilapidated shipping containers, was faintly visible in the moonlight. Its bizarre and twisted shape resembled a giant beast crouching on the ground, waiting to pounce, or a steel tomb that did not belong to the human world but had crawled out of the depths of hell, radiating a chilling aura.

"That...that's the 'temporary base of Lord Percy' that Brutus spoke of." The tribal warriors in the group howled wildly, like wolves that had caught the scent of blood. They roughly drove the protagonist group forward with their spears, their voices filled with bloodthirsty excitement. Brutus, riding his massive, muscular mutated beast, came to the rear of the group. A savage and cruel smile played on his lips, and his single eye, gleaming with a bloodthirsty light in the moonlight, scanned everyone with malice. His thick finger pointed deliberately to a towering watchtower on the outer edge of the fortress. Lin Zheng looked up, his heart sinking, a sense of foreboding washing over him.

The watchtower was draped with countless dried, deformed human and mutated creature "flesh specimens." Cruelly fixed to rough wooden stakes, they appeared particularly gruesome in the dim moonlight, each seemingly telling a story of suffering before death. Some of the twisted limbs and severed bodies still retained the posture of desperate struggle before death, their withered faces etched with eternal fear and pain, their sunken eye sockets seemingly still silently accusing their perpetrators. One child's disfigured body, pierced through the chest with a rough wooden stick, its mouth gaping wide, seemed to be silently calling for its parents; another was a deformed, mutated humanoid creature, its body cruelly torn in two, its dried internal organs strangely solidified into a flower-like grotesque structure. This was not a random arrangement, but rather a carefully selected "work of art" with a perverse sense of humor. Lin Zheng even discerned an extremely bizarre "aesthetic" in it, a ritualistic presentation based on extreme pain and despair.

Dried bloodstains snaked down the wooden stakes, emitting a suffocating stench. Some mutilated limbs swayed in the wind, like dying ghosts struggling silently. Under the blood moon, they cast long, twisted shadows, like silent guards watching over the deepest entrance to hell. This was another side of the tribe's flesh-and-blood sacrifice; they used bloody offerings as road signs and warnings. It was the most primitive and brutal manifestation of the "Flesh and Blood Union" in the ochre region, but its underlying sacrificial logic remained highly consistent with their earlier practices. The tribe used this bloody display to intimidate outsiders, and at the same time, through this terrifying spectacle, offered sacrifices to the ancient consciousness slumbering deep in the wilderness, seeking some kind of protection and blessing.

These creatures, suspended in mid-air, whether once human or mutated beings, were offered their flesh and drained souls as sacrifices, sustaining a certain "life force" of the evil being deep within the wasteland. This was not merely extreme physical torture, but a slow, agonizing death on the spiritual level, a complete destruction of all hope. Lina and Jeremy were too terrified to speak, only able to utter trembling sobs that escaped their tightly closed lips, sounding particularly jarring in the silence. Evelyn's face was even paler than before, her lips almost devoid of color, yet she still held Arthur tightly, her eyes gradually shifting from initial fear to rage—an uncontrollable, soul-deep hatred for this cruel atrocity.

This horrifying scene, like a sledgehammer weighing tons, shattered the last glimmer of hope within the protagonists, plunging them into the abyss of despair. Brutus's voice, filled with threat and naked pride, echoed through the air like a summons from the depths of hell: "Lord Percy awaits fresh playthings!"

Lin Zheng felt as if countless sharp and chilling whispers were corroding his ears. The "flesh specimens" in his eyes transformed into distorted light and shadow, intertwining, howling, and wailing. Their pain materialized into a torrent, almost overwhelming his already crumbling defenses of consciousness. His temples throbbed, as if his brains were about to gush out of his skull. His stomach churned, but he didn't even have the strength to vomit; only a dry, bitter taste remained in his throat. That belief that "living itself is a form of resistance," like a fleeting glimmer of light in an abyss, erupted with an astonishing, weak yet tenacious power in the instant before he was about to utterly sink.

He knew he had to survive, not only for his companions, but also to prevent the evil of this wasteland from ultimately succeeding. This was not merely a simple survival instinct, but a silent declaration of war in despair. Lin Zheng's sanity had almost plummeted below the threshold. Those "flesh specimens" writhed and screamed in his eyes in the most bloody and primal structural forms, almost threatening to devour him completely. He felt himself about to be completely assimilated, dominated by the endless malice deep within this wasteland, losing himself.

However, in this extreme despair and on the verge of collapse, a firm belief flashed through his mind that "living itself is a form of resistance," which ignited his last will to survive. He clenched his teeth, forcibly activated the mental reprogramming process, and forcibly "formatted" the chaotic and terrifying scene in his eyes, focusing his attention intently on Brutus standing not far away.

The entire process lasted a mere few seconds, seemingly an eternity. A blinding white light flashed before his eyes, followed by a rapid reconstruction of information like a stream of data, accompanied by a deafening roar within his brain. A severe headache nearly made him faint; he felt his brain being torn apart, reshaped, and pieced back together by countless invisible arms, each pull bringing unbearable pain. The pain exceeded the limits of physical endurance, more like a violent tremor and tearing of the mind. Sweat streamed down his face and neck, soaking his collar and flowing down his body. Through his blurred vision, the once distorted and terrifying "flesh specimens" were no longer abstract fears, but slowly reverting to their most primal and brutal physical forms. Their pain was still clearly visible, but he could face them with a detached calm, viewing them as the embodiment of the enemy's power, not as a source of madness capable of consuming him. He forced himself to detach from those agonizing details, seeing Brutus as a purely analyzable threat, not as a barbarian inflicting pure terror. This immense shift in psychological burden kept him teetering on the edge of sanity, preventing him from utter madness. He now had to operate like a meticulously calculated, emotionless machine, searching for even the slightest opportunity to exploit.

The mental re-engineering brought immense pain, as if his spirit were being utterly torn apart and reassembled, countless fine threads weaving through him. The phantom pain shot from his fingertips straight to his spine, cold sweat cascading down his forehead like a waterfall, dripping into his eyes, the stinging pain blurring his vision. He knew he had to stay conscious to find even the slightest glimmer of hope in this despairing place. Just as Lin Zheng's mental re-engineering was nearing completion, and the distorted scene before him began to stabilize, he saw Brutus's smile become even more twisted and profound in the moonlight, as if concealing a malice deeper and more terrifying than the bloody "flesh specimen" before him. And this malice, at this moment, seemed to tangibly lock onto these "fresh playthings," making each of them feel the chill of being about to be dissected, and despair enveloped them once more.