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

The scorching torches twisted the shadows into grotesque shapes. The rough, stone-paved ground was uneven and riddled with years of blood and dried grime. A nauseating stench filled the air—the stench of decaying flesh, the rust of metal, and some indescribable, primal evil, like aged earth churned by the breath of a giant beast, carrying a compound smell of putrefaction and sulfur that pierced the lungs, instilling an instinctive fear. Lin Zheng was roughly shoved by several dark-skinned tribal warriors, their bodies draped in dried plants and animal bones. Each step felt like a blow from a heavy hammer, nearly suffocating him. He managed to lift his eyes. The entrance to the fortress, in the night, resembled the fangs of a monstrous beast, pieced together from abandoned car wrecks, rusted containers, and twisted steel, exuding an aura of savagery and decay, like a life-devouring monster opening its bloody maw.

"Welcome to Lord Percy's hall, you little insects." Brutus Grubb's voice carried a clear mockery. He stood at the head of the procession, several times taller than a normal person, riding a similarly bizarre, muscular mutated creature, like a moving mountain. The mutated creature's skin was bluish-gray. With each breath, the exoskeleton-like armor exhaled a foul, hot stench, making the surrounding air thick and oppressive. Brutus's single eye gleamed with a wild light in the flickering firelight, and the battle axe he held slammed heavily into the ground with a dull thud, like the tolling of a prisoner's death knell.

Under the threat of Brutus Grubb and the pungent odor surrounding him, the world in Lin Zheng's eyes began to transform into chaotic structural lines. These lines were no longer simple material compositions, but rather flickered with ominous energy, writhing and intertwining like living things, each line seemingly whispering past pain and future despair. With extraordinary clarity, he could "see" the extent of the rust on the metal that formed the fortress, the freshness of the biological matter remaining in the containers, and the primal and malevolent aura permeating the air. It was not merely a gas, but a spiritual pollution, like invisible "noise" filling the space, attempting to erode the consciousness of every living being within it. This ability—dream anatomy—surged passively under the stimulation of this environment, placing an unprecedented burden on his senses.

His gaze, precise as a scalpel, sliced ​​through the scene before him. He discovered that the fortress walls were not simply piles of rock or metal, but an unsettling mixture. Many wall modules, especially those composed of twisted chunks of flesh and animal bones, seemed to be breathing at an incredibly slow pace, as if they themselves were alive. Lin Zheng's "Realistic Deconstruction" ability detected that this "breathing" was accompanied by a subtle, irregular energy pulse. If one listened closely, one could almost discern a faint "whisper" within that low pulse—a multitude of fragments of struggle and fear converging into an incomprehensible call of collective consciousness. This voice seemed to resonate directly in his mind, devoid of language, only pure, chilling intent.

These whispers carried a powerful allure, attempting to pull him into deeper chaos. They described an "eternity" beyond death, a "harmony" where the individual dissolves into the collective. However, Lin Zheng clearly "perceived" that they contained utter annihilation and devouring. This sent chills down his spine; he realized this was not merely physical imprisonment, but a mental hunt. He desperately used the power of "mental recalibration" to barely maintain his sanity on the edge of sensory overload, temporarily isolating the whispers from his mental defenses to prevent his consciousness from being completely captured.

"Take them away! Let's see how long he can hold out!" Brutus Grubb commanded, accompanied by the rough roars of several tribal warriors, their faces radiating primal, bloodthirsty excitement. Lin Zheng felt himself being supported on both sides, his body staggering forward. His vision began to blur under the strain of exhaustion and mental pressure. Brutus Grubb's sinister grin magnified infinitely in his field of vision, and the distorted scenery around him seemed to be spinning around him, as if the whole world had lost its center of gravity and was crashing down on him.

The next moment, he was shoved into a small, dark cell by a brute force. The iron door slammed shut, cutting off all light and sound, leaving only the cold air and an even stronger, more nauseating stench—more damp and foul than outside. Lin Zheng's body convulsed from the impact, his back slamming against the rough wall, sending a sharp pain through him, but he gritted his teeth and didn't utter a sound. His consciousness was forcibly pulled back from the brink of madness, and the belief that "living itself is a form of resistance" erupted like a fleeting glimmer of light in an abyss, illuminating the depths of his almost desperate soul. He knew he couldn't completely collapse, or it would mean utter ruin.

Lin Zheng forced himself to activate "Mental Re-engineering." His mind felt as if countless fine threads were threading through, tearing, and reassembling it, each node bringing unbearable pain, as if his brain was being dismantled into its most basic particles and then forcibly reshaped. The once blurry and distorted scenes before him began to be "formatted," the structural lines of those despairing "flesh specimens" becoming clear. He could now "examine" them with a cold, analytical gaze, rather than be consumed by them. He concentrated all his mental energy, dissecting Brutus Grubb's form—his power, his movement patterns, his aura—into a stream of data in his mind, attempting to understand the weaknesses and habits of this barbaric commander.

Sweat slid down his cheeks, mingling with grime, finally dripping onto the cold, damp ground, evaporating into a faint warmth carrying the scent of earth and blood. His hands trembled involuntarily, his teeth biting his tongue, trying to use the pain to stay conscious, but his brain was racing, analyzing every detail he had just witnessed, trying to organize the chaotic information into an orderly logic, constructing a network for survival. As his vision cleared, it was also filtered through a hazy, almost digital lens, the world deconstructed into countless complex, analyzable structural units. He saw fine, root-like structures writhing in the soil of the cage, these structures glowing with a faint green light, originating from the same source as the "whispering" energy pulses on the walls inside the fortress, as if from somewhere deeper, a chilling, unspeakable ancient consciousness was seeping up through them.

"Listen... to that sound," Lin Zheng murmured, his throat so hoarse he could barely make a sound. He felt that primal, cold energy from underground creeping up through the cracks in the ground, trying to envelop him. It wasn't a direct threat, but a temptation, an invitation, inviting him to utterly lose himself in the most primal fear, dragging him into an endless abyss. He had to resist, he had to stay awake.

From the distant cells came the groans and struggles of others, accompanied by low gasps and fearful sobs. Evelyn Reed's voice, filled with suppressed anxiety, pierced the darkness like a flickering beam of light: "Arthur, hold on! We must find a way out! We can't give up!" Lin Zheng could "hear" the subtle energy fluctuations in her voice; she was struggling to maintain her composure and protect Arthur Morgan beside her. But accompanying her voice were even fainter, lifeless breaths—the breaths of Arthur Morgan, mortally wounded, his life force rapidly draining away, each breath a struggle squeezed from the depths of hell.

"Don't... don't worry about me," Arthur Morgan's voice was weak and hoarse, heavy with gasps, each word like flesh and blood squeezed from his lungs, "Go find... your... path. I... cough cough... can't go on." His words were filled with desperate exhaustion, and a sense of helplessness and resignation in the face of death.

Evelyn Reed didn't respond, but the defiant and protective tone in her voice, like a burning flame, only highlighted the severity of Arthur Morgan's injuries and the immense pressure she was under. In the darkness, Lin Zheng seemed to see the old detective who had once used his sharp insight to see through lies, now tortured to the point of near death, while the forensic pathologist, armed with professional knowledge, stubbornly played the role of guardian in the face of brute force and despair, using his own body and will to withstand the terror and despair before him.

At the same time, he also "sensed" the tremors emanating from the cage where Lina and Jeremy were located. It wasn't a physical struggle, but a deep, almost solidified fear. Their mental fluctuations were chaotic and fragile, like candle flames about to be extinguished, teetering precariously in the darkness. Lin Zheng's heart sank. He knew that in this environment, mental collapse was far more deadly than physical torture. Their mental defenses were not as robust as his and Evelyn Reed's, and they were undoubtedly undergoing the most severe test.

"This...is not a mining area." The word flashed through Lin Zheng's mind, not in the geological sense of a mining area, but with a deeper, more primal meaning. He had learned from "Corpse Dreams" that deep within this land lay not just rocks and minerals, but some ancient, dormant beings with twisted consciousness. Now, the pulsation emanating from the soil beneath his feet confirmed his vague deduction, even painting a clearer and more terrifying picture of it.

This energy, unlike the direct life force felt in the canyon, was deeper, colder, carrying an insatiable thirst that absorbed and assimilated all living things. It was like an ancient, cold pool of blood hidden within the earth, flowing slowly and steadily upwards, ultimately eroding every life that came into contact with it, turning them into part of this vast, grotesque "dream," stripping them of their self and reducing them to utter sacrifice. It was a complete stripping away, distorting even the meaning of existence.

He could "see" that the ground beneath the fortress, the colossal plant life that made up the entire canyon, and the rocks beneath the surface were all interconnected. Everything was like the claws of this enormous, ancient being, slowly and silently eroding the boundaries of reality, pulling everything into its distorted laws. This infiltration was not a sudden outburst, but rather a slow and steady process, like boiling a frog in lukewarm water. It had been going on for countless years, completely warping the ecosystem of this land, making all life a part of this terrifying system.

In the darkness, Lin Zheng's "realistic deconstruction" became almost the only means to keep him conscious. It was like a cold beam of light piercing through layers of fog. He began to "see" the cage itself. The walls, made of rotting flesh, industrial waste, and bones, displayed a complex mesh structure under subtle energy pulses, each "wire" shimmering with an evil light. He could even "see" that the surface of these walls was covered with an extremely faint but persistent layer of spiritual energy—the fear and despair of countless dead, and some ancient, primal will. They were etched onto the walls like malevolent curses, constantly tormenting the imprisoned lives.

He "saw" the materials that made up the cage; they weren't ordinary industrial waste, but bore unusual "traces." Some of the shipping container remains, under this "realistic deconstruction," had metallic patterns on their surfaces that weren't naturally formed, but rather bore rough, totem-like engravings, radiating a faint, unsettling energy fluctuation, as if some ancient ritual had once been performed there. And those twisted chunks of flesh, their original biological structure was clearly visible, but forcibly squeezed and stitched together, leaving behind a trail of desperate pain—they were living specimens, still "wailing."

"They...are all 'speaking'." Lin Zheng's throat felt like it had been sanded, and he managed to utter a sound, each word tinged with extreme exhaustion. These "whispers" were like countless tentacles reaching out from all directions, trying to touch his mind, explore his secrets, and ultimately assimilate him.

The phrase "Lord Percy awaits fresh playthings" flashed through his mind again, accompanied by Brutus Grubb's repulsive grin. If these chunks of flesh were "offerings," then what were he, and everyone else imprisoned here? They weren't "players," not pawns, but "props" to be waited for, sacrifices to be placed on the altar. This realization chilled him to the bone, and an unprecedented sense of despair gripped his heart.

The surrounding darkness seemed to take on a tangible form, a spiritual abyss deeper than physical darkness spreading beneath Lin Zheng's feet. The ancient aura emanating from the earth intensified, gently touching his spirit like a tentative tentacle, attempting to penetrate his consciousness and drag him into endless madness. He could "sense" that it wasn't a simple physical erosion, but a more sophisticated process of "analysis" and "assimilation" targeting his spiritual core, attempting to completely strip him of his self-awareness and transform it into a part of it.

He tried to resist, treating the aura as "data" that needed to be analyzed. However, the power of that ancient consciousness far exceeded his current understanding. It was not simply "noise," but a kind of "logic," a distorted "order" completely different from his existing worldview. This "order" was all-pervasive, even attempting to cover up and rewrite all the "data" he already had in his mind—about reality, about science, about humanity—making him completely lose himself.

He felt his memories beginning to blur. Images of his family, his aspirations for studying abroad—those distant emotions that had once sustained him—now seemed ethereal and distant, like faded old photographs, corroded by some invisible force. A powerful will of "slumber" and "sacrifice," emanating from this land, began to take root deep within Lin Zheng's consciousness. It whispered, recounting the "truth" of existence in this world—endless pain, despair, and being passively sacrificed were the ultimate value and only destination of life. It told him that resistance was futile, and struggle would only bring greater suffering.

"No..." Lin Zheng gritted his teeth, veins bulging on his forehead, his eyes bloodshot with pain. He couldn't become assimilated "data," he couldn't allow his soul to be completely lost. He needed to find his "original code," to find the self that still yearned for the truth even in despair, the "Lin Zheng" who refused to succumb. He concentrated his remaining mental strength and activated "Mental Re-engineering" again. This time, it wasn't about analyzing external chaos, but about forcibly building his own "firewall" to isolate that corrosive will. Each re-engineering was accompanied by excruciating, tearing pain, but he knew it was his only way out.

The sounds outside the cage, Brutus Grubb's sharp, one-eyed stare, Evelyn Reed's faint calls, Arthur Morgan's dying breaths, and Lena and Jeremy's fear—all of these became his "anchors" against the spiritual devouring, the ropes he desperately clung to, the ropes that held him together to maintain his existence. He needed to keep this "clear-headedness," this "self," and he couldn't give it up until he found a chance to escape this place.

He "saw" Evelyn Reed still trying her best to protect Arthur Morgan. Evelyn Reed's white coat was torn open, stained with dirt and blood. Her usually neat hair was disheveled, and her bangs were soaked with sweat, but her arms, tightly holding Arthur Morgan, remained unmoved, as firm as a rock. She was using her body to shield the wounded old detective from some of the brutal physical contact and mental erosion. Her eyes were filled with anger, a pure hatred for injustice and violence, but the calmness bestowed upon her by her profession had not completely disappeared. She was still quietly comforting Arthur Morgan, trying to maintain his weak vital signs, constantly giving him mental support, hoping to awaken a sliver of his will to live. Lin Zheng could "sense" the faint spiritual energy emanating from Evelyn Reed. Although it could not withstand any physical attack, it was like a faint light, persisting in the darkness, radiating an indomitable vitality.

"How much longer can she...they...hold on?" Lin Zheng's heart tightened, a sense of powerlessness welling up within him. But he knew that, currently imprisoned in solitary confinement, there was very little he could do. He had to save himself first before he could have a chance to help them.

His gaze unconsciously returned to the soil, where the ancient presence seemed even more active. It wasn't just "listening," it was "responding." It responded to his resistance, to his "awakening," attempting to crush him, to completely erase his traces as an independent individual, in a more intense and oppressive way. But Lin Zheng, with his ability to "recomplicate his mind," painstakingly captured certain "nodes" of this will, like ancient incantations, or rather, some forgotten "protocol," operating methodically.

"This is... the logic of sacrifice." A startling thought flashed through Lin Zheng's mind, striking his heart like lightning. The corrosive power beneath his feet, the information of "flesh and blood" he encountered in the "Corpse Dream," and those "remnants of dreams" filled with fear and despair all conveyed the same message: pain and death are not the end, but a kind of "flow," a transformation and cycle of energy, the cornerstone that sustains the operation of this world.

He "saw" that deep within that soil, it was not monotonous soil, but a complex network composed of countless tiny, twisted energy structures. These energies, like countless tiny, cold roots, were extending in all directions, resonating with the "whispers" of the fortress walls and echoing the blurry, indescribable outline of a colossal beast on the distant horizon, as if together they were constructing a vast and malevolent life form.

This is the "operating mechanism" of this land, a force older and more fundamental than the "flesh-and-blood capital alliance" and the "American Dream" corporation. This force concerns the lowest cost of "existence" itself—maintaining "stability" and "continuity" through the constant sacrifice of life. All living life, from the smallest insect to the largest human being, will eventually become part of this mechanism, returning to the most primal "roots" to become its nourishment.

Lin Zheng felt as if he had fallen into a deeper, more distorted logical loop. He wasn't fighting a single enemy, but rather touching upon the fundamental "agreement" of this world, built on sacrifice, touching upon the world's "true laws." Although he had temporarily stabilized his mind, this "clarity" allowed him to see a more despairing truth. He was neither prey nor fighter; he was a "cog" embedded in a grand "operating mechanism."

At this moment, he was no longer merely struggling for survival; he saw a higher level of "imprisonment." Like all other lives, he was a "cog" in this grand sacrificial ritual, passively moving towards his predetermined end. His "dream anatomy," "realistic deconstruction," and "mental recalibration" were merely "torture" that allowed him to briefly "see through" the truth, but could not change anything, forcing him to face his inescapable fate with painful clarity.

He couldn't perceive the world outside the cage. But the darkness he found himself in, and the primal, chilling aura beneath his feet, foreshadowed greater danger, deeper imprisonment, and even ultimate sacrifice awaiting him. He needed to find a way to break this "promise" as soon as possible, even if there was only a sliver of hope, he had to grasp it. Otherwise, he would become yet another nameless sacrifice to the vast and ancient consciousness deep within this wasteland.