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

A professional novel website offering the most comfortable reading experience.

The last rays of dusk were swallowed up by the shadows inside the fortress, and the piercing screeching of metal scraping against the ground echoed in Lin Zheng's ears. Several rough-skinned, malevolent-looking soldiers were shoving each other roughly, the harsh scraping of their armor and their impatient shouts making him feel uneasy.

He felt as if he were being gripped tightly by an invisible hand, each step as heavy as stepping on the edge of an abyss. Each step was accompanied by a dull thud from the soles of his shoes against the ground, as if each step was squeezing out what little courage and hope he had left.

Arthur Morgan, still recovering from his serious injuries, was being half-dragged, half-carried by two burly soldiers, occasionally letting out muffled groans of pain. His face was covered in mud and blood, his lips were cracked, his eyes were sunken, and each breath he took was shallow and hoarse, like a bellows struggling to exhale a faint breath of life.

The tattered trench coat, stained dark, dragged on the ground, leaving blurry bloodstains, like a twisted farewell, signifying past glory and present predicament.

Evelyn Reed was frantic, her eyes fixed on Arthur. She tried several times to break free, only to be met with more brutal shoving from the soldiers. Her struggles were like those of a trapped animal, futile and desperate, yet revealing an indomitable resilience. Her white coat, stained with mud and blood, had long lost its former pristine cleanliness, instead exuding a heartbreaking vulnerability that contrasted sharply with her defiant gaze.

Lin Zheng's heart pounded wildly in his chest, his mind replaying the horrific scenes before his capture, a mix of fear and helplessness washing over him. He took a deep breath, trying to force himself to remain calm, but each deep breath only inhaled more fear and despair.

However, the air he inhaled was filled with rust, damp mold, and an indescribable stench of decay, like countless rotten chunks of flesh piled together. The sticky, nauseating smell almost made him vomit on the spot. The odor seemed to penetrate his skin, seep into his bone marrow, and pollute every cell in his body, making him feel nauseous from the inside out.

He forced himself to look up. The dimly lit passageway was illuminated by a few dim, yellow lanterns. The flickering light distorted the surrounding walls into countless grotesque shadows. These swaying lights, far from bringing a sense of security, seemed like a group of whispering ghosts, dancing a bizarre dance, constantly devouring and spitting out distorted light and shadow, intensifying the terrifying atmosphere.

Lin Zheng's "True Deconstruction" ability was passively triggered, and the walls before him were no longer simple stones or steel. They were enormous chunks of flesh that seemed to "breathe" slowly, as if they were alive. With each contraction and expansion, a barely perceptible current of air surged, a mixture of old decay and a stench of blood. Their surfaces were covered with vein-like metallic patterns and twisted runes, which pulsed clearly in his eyes. Inside, dark red liquid flowed in pulses, emitting a deep, heart-beat-like resonance.

The runes shimmered with a morbid light in his eyes, like chaotic lines, devoid of fixed form, twisting and rearranging themselves second by second, forming dazzling yet chilling patterns. He felt an invisible "noise" eroding his mind; it wasn't sound waves, but pure mental pollution, a chaotic and disordered whisper, like an endless murmur, trying to drag him into an abyss of madness. This "noise" was like hundreds of whisperers simultaneously speaking incoherently yet clearly maliciously in his head, each word like a hooked blade, trying to tear apart his defenses of reason.

He instinctively attempted a "mental recalibration," trying to forcibly "format" this chaotic information, but each recalibration was accompanied by a severe headache. It was a struggle between compulsive consciousness and chaotic instinct; each "calibration" felt like forcibly pulling his mental consciousness from the abyss of chaos, and the immense resistance made him feel as if his brain was about to explode.

A dull thud resonated within his brain, and his vision distorted and stretched, as if an invisible hand were manipulating his optic nerve. His pupils dilated and contracted in the light, trying to capture the distorted truth, but his vision was like a crumpled painting, all the scenery losing its original proportions and clarity, leaving only blurry, nauseating patches of color.

He vaguely discerned that the runes were not the work of humans; they were complex and ancient, seemingly describing some ancient sacrificial ritual, or perhaps a grander and more terrifying law governing the flow of energy. It was more like an "energy conduction array," suggesting that something far more terrifying was at work deep within the fortress, drawing upon, transforming, and circulating some primal and powerful force.

Around a corner, he vaguely saw several "artworks" pieced together from twisted limbs and discarded machinery, exuding an aura of death and madness. These "artworks" were not ordinary corpses; their structure and textures subtly matched the runes he saw, as if their very existence was part of the fortress's structure, a node in the fortress's life cycle, each piece solidifying some kind of eternal pain and desecration.

He felt a chill run down his spine. This was not merely a warlord's stronghold; it was more like a living, malevolent organism, harboring deeper secrets. Its walls breathed, its ground pulsated, its "artworks" whispered—all of this constituted a vast, slow-moving, morbid ecosystem, and they were being slowly devoured by it.

His body was tense with fear, his muscles stiff, as if he might be swallowed by the endless darkness at any moment. He could feel every nerve sending out a piercing alarm, every pore resisting the pervasive malice, making it impossible for him to relax or escape.

He tried to catch a glimpse of Evelyn out of the corner of his eye, hoping for a sliver of comfort, but all he saw was the same fear and anger in her eyes, and her pale lips clenched tightly. Like him, she was bound in a cage of fear, yet she too radiated an indomitable flame.

Arthur's breathing grew increasingly rapid, occasionally punctuated by low, labored gasps, each one seeming to drain all his strength. His consciousness seemed to teeter on the edge of agony, every tiny movement a desperate, yet utterly helpless, struggle for survival.

Lin Zheng could even hear the sound of his own blood flowing, like waves crashing against his eardrums, making him feel like he was about to collapse. This sound wasn't the actual sound of blood flowing, but rather the abnormally sensitive reaction to his own physiological activities under extreme mental tension; every cell seemed to be screaming.

He instinctively raised his hand to press his temple, only to find his hands bound even tighter. The rough ropes cut painfully into his wrists, a clear reminder that he was now a completely subjugated prisoner.

His only consolation was that at least he remained conscious and hadn't been completely crushed by the mental noise. He also knew that this was just the beginning; the real challenges lay ahead, and he had to be prepared for them.

He felt his feet become sticky and slippery, each step making a heavy "plop" sound, as if he were stepping on rotten flesh soaked in some kind of liquid, making him feel uneasy and nauseous. This stickiness was not just a tactile discomfort, but more like a psychological erosion, as if he was sinking step by step into some kind of biological quagmire.

The damp air seemed to carry a faint, addictive, musty sweetness, which made his already confused thoughts even more sluggish and numb. This sweetness was not floral or fruity, but a cloying, industrial sweetness with a putrid and bloody undertone. It numbed his sense of smell, yet penetrated deep into his brain, silently eroding his will and gradually lowering his vigilance.

He tried desperately to discern whether it was a taste or some invisible substance acting directly on his nervous system to soften its resistance. The taste permeated every corner, penetrating every pore, making him feel as if every cell in his body was absorbing this corrosive sweetness, causing his thoughts to gradually become sluggish and difficult to concentrate.

He tried to capture the details of the eerie runes on the wall, only to find them twisting and writhing before his eyes like living things, changing imperceptibly with every blink, making it difficult for him to focus for long. These runes were no longer static patterns, but dynamic, living symbols; each writhing motion seemed to be issuing a silent invitation, tempting him to give up resistance and merge into their chaos.

This persistent visual and mental pollution made him feel as if his eyes were being burned, and a stabbing pain emanated from the depths of his brain, as if someone was trying to forcibly implant unfamiliar logic into his consciousness. This pain was not an external physical blow, but a torment from the depths of his mind, attempting to tear his soul apart, each strike carrying a clear malice.

He clenched his teeth, and even tasted a hint of blood on his tongue, a result of excessive tension and pressure in his mouth. He felt every nerve in his body tense, his blood roaring in his veins, and each heartbeat as heavy as a war drum, pounding against the edge of his impending collapse.

He told himself that he couldn't lose his mind here, no matter what. Losing his mind meant becoming completely part of these insane "works of art," another piece of flesh and blood in this living fortress. He absolutely couldn't allow that to happen; he had to retain a sliver of clarity as a last stand.

He told himself that he couldn't lose his mind here, no matter what. Losing his mind meant becoming completely part of these insane "works of art," another piece of flesh and blood in this living fortress. He absolutely couldn't allow that to happen; he had to retain a sliver of clarity as a last stand.

He had to live, not for himself, but for Evelyn and Arthur, for that faint but precious glimmer of humanity. He could not succumb to despair alone in such darkness.

He turned his head and saw Evelyn's tear-filled eyes. She held Arthur tightly, as if cradling a endangered treasure, her white coat disheveled and stained with dust and the blood seeping from Arthur's body. Though her face was streaked with tears, it was sustained by a powerful will, her eyes a mixture of sorrow, anger, and boundless love.

Evelyn whispered something to Arthur, her tone soothing yet pleading, each word an attempt to hold onto Arthur's fading life. Though her voice was weak, in the stench and whispers of the passageway, it was like a gentle breeze, briefly dispelling the fog in Lin Zheng's heart and bringing a touch of human warmth.

Her eyes burned with fire—indignation at injustice, hatred of violence, and deep concern for Arthur. Her movements were both resolute and fragile, like a small guardian spirit with boundless strength to resist the malice around her, using everything she had to build Arthur's final refuge.

Lin Zheng drew a faint strength from her presence, realizing that he was not alone. This connection, though silent, was more powerful than any language. It reminded him that in this hellish darkness, there was still a flicker of humanity that had not been completely extinguished, something he was willing to risk everything to protect.

Arthur's face was as pale as paper, his lips bloodless, and each breath he took was incredibly difficult, his breath coming in a wheezing, bellowing sound. His eye, which had once discerned countless truths amidst the hardships of life, was now cloudy and lifeless, tightly closed, his brow furrowed, as if struggling in agony, the flame of life flickering weakly within him, as if it might be extinguished at any moment.

His tattered trench coat, stained with mud and blood, stood in stark contrast to his growing cold body. This once formidable detective was now as fragile as a leaf battered by a storm; his life slipped mercilessly through his fingers, leaving only a broken shell and a dissipating soul.

Lin Zheng suppressed the churning pain in his chest and turned his attention back to his surroundings. He couldn't wallow in sorrow; he had to gather as much information as possible to find a glimmer of hope. His "realistic deconstruction" was activated again, allowing him to observe everything around him more closely.

He could "see" that the runes on the walls were not merely visual distortions; under "real deconstruction," they emitted a faint halo with a peculiar physical property. This halo was not illumination, but an overflow of energy, a kind of cyclical life force flowing silently within the fortress, like the faint electrical charge within a living organism.

Those ancient patterns were not mere decorations; they formed intricate circuits, connecting the fortress to the energy deep within the earth beneath its feet, like neurons transmitting information. These neuron-like pathways of light intertwined in his vision into a vast and complex network, each node connected to a different function—to absorb, transform, or transmit.

He perceived more deeply that this energy network shared the same origin as the root structure wriggling in the soil he had seen in the dimly lit cage. It was not a natural ecological cycle, but a purposeful, artificially constructed "transmission system." Its builders had far more complex purposes than he had imagined.

Through this system, the fortress draws power from ancient beings underground, nourishing itself and becoming a living, enormous organ that is "devouring" and "digesting" something. It is a completely unnatural existence, maintaining its morbid operation at the cost of life and sacrificed flesh and blood.

The faint, musty, sweet smell wafted through the air again. This time, Lin Zheng keenly realized it wasn't just simple decay. It was a specially treated odor that could affect the nervous system, causing mental confusion and then numbness. This was a meticulously designed biological weapon, intended to weaken the prisoners' resistance, making them easier to "accept" and "assimilate," turning them into part of this living fortress.

His "mental retraining" intensified with each confrontation, causing him excruciating headaches and even the appearance of tiny snowflakes in the edges of his vision. He felt as if his mind was walking on a tightrope, teetering on the brink of collapse, with each step fraught with the danger of falling into an abyss. The constant influx of chaotic information, like a raging storm, was trying to completely overwhelm him.

He could almost hear countless voices echoing in his mind, those "whispers" becoming clearer, trying to penetrate every crevice of his consciousness. Those voices were not language, but rather fragments of emotions and memories, and expressions of some primal and cold "law." It spoke of the operating logic of "existence" itself, about sacrifice, devouring, and the transformation of power, about the blurred boundaries between life and death, and the endless cycle.

With each resistance, Lin Zheng felt as if he were swimming upstream in the deep sea, his lungs burning and his muscles protesting. This was not just mental exhaustion, but a complete struggle against a force powerful enough to crush everything; he felt his body and soul being torn apart by this force.

But he couldn't give up. He clenched his fists, his nails piercing his palms. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, bringing a brief but sharp clarity. This pain reminded him that he was still flesh and blood, possessing the will to resist. This minor pain, however, acted like a shot of adrenaline, restoring a sliver of clarity and fighting spirit to him.

He couldn't allow his consciousness to succumb at this moment, becoming just another "artwork of flesh" within this fortress. He had to resist, he had to survive, even if only to see the truth of this bizarre world, to find a glimmer of possibility in this despair.

His gaze fell once more on Evelyn and Arthur, their fates inextricably linked to his own. He was fighting not only for himself, but also for the lingering spark of humanity within him. In them, he saw hope, saw the reason he could not give up—this was his final line of defense.

As he struggled, the group was shoved through a low archway into a spacious hall. The light suddenly brightened considerably, but it also felt more oppressive, as if the air density had increased, pressing heavily on everyone's hearts and making it hard to breathe.

The stench of decay and blood, several times stronger than before, swept in like a tsunami, assaulting the senses. This stench was no longer just a pervasive odor in the passageway, but a tangible, overwhelming impact, a mixture of an indistinguishable sweet and rotten smell, as if the entire hall were a pile of diseased organs, and every breath was a defilement of the soul.

In the center of the hall stands a colossal "artwork" composed of countless twisted limbs, broken bones, and discarded machinery. These are not simply stacked pieces, but meticulously designed and fixed to create a morbid and chilling spectacle. The limbs are of animal form, unrecognizable alien shapes, and even human figures. Pierced by metal cables and secured by gears, they seem to have been forcibly given new "life" in the midst of death, twisting and writhing in an eternal struggle. Their decaying flesh, combined with the rusty machinery, exudes an eerie and terrifying allure.

In Lin Zheng's "realistic deconstruction" perspective, the chaotic lines of these "artworks" became exceptionally clear. They were not inanimate objects, but deformed life forms intimately connected to this land and some ancient being, "breathing" with life. The runes on them, similar to those on the walls, were now flashing with an even more intense crimson light, connecting with each other to form a huge energy vortex, slowly rotating and emitting a low, unsettling hum. This sound directly affected his soul, making Lin Zheng feel dizzy.

The entire space was filled with a morbid vitality, as if it were waiting for the climax of some kind of ritual. Every slight tremor of the "artwork" was like a harbinger of an impending explosion, indicating that something unspeakable was about to happen in the near future, and they were the sacrifices of this ritual.

Just then, a colossal figure, seated atop a morbid throne made of corpses and machinery, slowly raised his head. His movements were slow and heavy, each one accompanied by the grating sound of bones grinding together and the sluggishness of some ancient machine starting up, as if he himself were a part of the throne.

His massive, twisted body exuded a suffocatingly powerful sense of oppression—a divine aura that transcended any living being, yet carried a heavy, decaying, and morbid weight. His appearance had undergone some kind of inhuman mutation; certain parts of his body had taken on an unnatural bronze hue, as if they were a combination of some kind of metal and flesh. Beneath his skin, one could even see metal conduits and pulsating blood vessels intertwined, creating a contradictory beauty that was both nauseating and full of power.

The scars on his face were grotesque and twisted, stretching from the corner of his left eye down to his jaw, further fragmenting his already indistinct features. Even more chilling was the fact that one of his eyes, a prosthetic, was embedded with an unknown black mineral that gleamed with an eerie light in the dimness. The mineral seemed capable of devouring all light, leaving only pure darkness and coldness. His other, bloodied and mangled real eye, however, stared at the intruder with a morbid fanaticism, its depths like a bottomless abyss, devoid of any human emotion.

With each resistance, Lin Zheng felt as if he were swimming upstream in the deep sea, his lungs burning and his muscles protesting. This was not just mental exhaustion, but a complete struggle against a force powerful enough to crush everything; he felt his body and soul being torn apart by this force.

But he couldn't give up. He clenched his fists, his nails piercing his palms. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, bringing a brief but sharp clarity. This pain reminded him that he was still flesh and blood, possessing the will to resist. This minor pain, however, acted like a shot of adrenaline, restoring a sliver of clarity and fighting spirit to him.

He couldn't allow his consciousness to succumb at this moment, becoming just another "artwork of flesh" within this fortress. He had to resist, he had to survive, even if only to see the truth of this bizarre world, to find a glimmer of possibility in this despair.

His gaze fell once more on Evelyn and Arthur, their fates inextricably linked to his own. He was fighting not only for himself, but also for the lingering spark of humanity within him. In them, he saw hope, saw the reason he could not give up—this was his final line of defense.

As he struggled, the group was shoved through a low archway into a spacious hall. The light suddenly brightened considerably, but it also felt more oppressive, as if the air density had increased, pressing heavily on everyone's hearts and making it hard to breathe.

The stench of decay and blood, several times stronger than before, swept in like a tsunami, assaulting the senses. This stench was no longer just a pervasive odor in the passageway, but a tangible, overwhelming impact, a mixture of an indistinguishable sweet and rotten smell, as if the entire hall were a pile of diseased organs, and every breath was a defilement of the soul.

In the center of the hall stands a colossal "artwork" composed of countless twisted limbs, broken bones, and discarded machinery. These are not simply stacked pieces, but meticulously designed and fixed to create a morbid and chilling spectacle. The limbs are of animal form, unrecognizable alien shapes, and even human figures. Pierced by metal cables and secured by gears, they seem to have been forcibly given new "life" in the midst of death, twisting and writhing in an eternal struggle. Their decaying flesh, combined with the rusty machinery, exudes an eerie and terrifying allure.

In Lin Zheng's "realistic deconstruction" perspective, the chaotic lines of these "artworks" became exceptionally clear. They were not inanimate objects, but deformed life forms intimately connected to this land and some ancient being, "breathing" with life. The runes on them, similar to those on the walls, were now flashing with an even more intense crimson light, connecting with each other to form a huge energy vortex, slowly rotating and emitting a low, unsettling hum. This sound directly affected his soul, making Lin Zheng feel dizzy.

The entire space was filled with a morbid vitality, as if it were waiting for the climax of some kind of ritual. Every slight tremor of the "artwork" was like a harbinger of an impending explosion, indicating that something unspeakable was about to happen in the near future, and they were the sacrifices of this ritual.

Just then, a colossal figure, seated atop a morbid throne made of corpses and machinery, slowly raised his head. His movements were slow and heavy, each one accompanied by the grating sound of bones grinding together and the sluggishness of some ancient machine starting up, as if he himself were a part of the throne.

His massive, twisted body exuded a suffocatingly powerful sense of oppression—a divine aura that transcended any living being, yet carried a heavy, decaying, and morbid weight. His appearance had undergone some kind of inhuman mutation; certain parts of his body had taken on an unnatural bronze hue, as if they were a combination of some kind of metal and flesh. Beneath his skin, one could even see metal conduits and pulsating blood vessels intertwined, creating a contradictory beauty that was both nauseating and full of power.

The scars on his face were grotesque and twisted, stretching from the corner of his left eye down to his jaw, further fragmenting his already indistinct features. Even more chilling was the fact that one of his eyes, a prosthetic, was embedded with an unknown black mineral that gleamed with an eerie light in the dimness. The mineral seemed capable of devouring all light, leaving only pure darkness and coldness. His other, bloodied and mangled real eye, however, stared at the intruder with a morbid fanaticism, its depths like a bottomless abyss, devoid of any human emotion.

That morbid gaze, like a predator staring at its prey, filled Lin Zheng with an unprecedented sense of suffocation, foreshadowing that they were trapped in an inescapable abyss. That look, like the coldest blade, pierced Lin Zheng's heart, stripping him of all courage, leaving only the fear of the unknown. The Highlord of Percy, the core and ruler of this fortress, had finally revealed his evil veil to them.