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

Lin Zheng was roughly shoved into the hall by Brutus' soldiers. He staggered a few steps, almost falling. The previous passage, though dark and narrow, at least offered a sense of the cold boundary between steel and stone, making it somewhat understandable. However, everything here instantly exceeded his comprehension. The light here suddenly brightened considerably, but not with a hopeful brightness; instead, it was a morbid, pale light, tinged with the afterglow of blood, like a thin mist repeatedly crushed by endless pain and decay, enveloping the entire space in a suffocating oppression.

The air was no longer just heavy; it became viscous and suffocating, as if every molecule was soaked in some thick, indescribable liquid, making it difficult to breathe, each gasp carrying the illusion of impending drowning. A stench of decay and blood, many times stronger than that from the depths of the passage, mixed with an unusually sweet industrial odor and an unidentifiable, putrid smell, rushed towards him like a tangible shockwave, directly blocking Lin Zheng's mouth and nose. This odor not only stimulated his sense of smell but was also like an invisible tentacle, deeply drilling into his lungs, entangling his soul, making him clearly perceive that this odor indicated that the hall was not an ordinary building, but rather a collection of some morbid, slowly functioning giant organs. Each deep breath felt like defiling his soul, inhaling decay and despair into his body.

In the center of the hall, bathed in an eerie light, stood a colossal "artwork" throne that sent chills down one's spine. It was not constructed of conventional building materials, but rather from countless twisted and deformed limbs, broken bones, and discarded industrial machinery. These horrifying components were not randomly piled up, but rather woven together in a morbid yet precise "design," creating a scene both chilling and eerily magnificent. Among them were the fangs and claws of wild beasts, the proliferating tissues of unidentifiable alien creatures, and even clearly visible human limbs and torsos. They were brutally pierced by hard metal cables and forcibly fixed by gears and pistons, causing every inch of flesh and machine to be combined in a way that defied nature.

In Lin Zheng's perception, these limbs were not merely inanimate objects; they seemed to be forcibly endowed with new, struggling "life" on the verge of death by some powerful and twisted force. The decaying flesh and rusty machinery achieved a morbid fusion here, radiating an eerie and terrifying allure that made one both want to escape and irresistibly bewitched by the abyss-like spectacle. At that moment, Lin Zheng's "realistic deconstruction" vision overloaded, revealing with exceptional clarity the chaotic lines and energy flows within these "works of art" deep within his consciousness.

He saw that none of the throne's components existed in isolation; they were intricately and morbidly connected through complex biomechanical structures to the ley lines beneath, and to some ancient entity buried deep within this wasteland of flesh and blood. The entire throne, along with the surrounding "artworks"—some standing, some suspended—were simultaneously undergoing a slow, heavy "breathing." The flesh-like runes on them, similar to those on the passageway walls, were now erupting with a crimson light far more intense and frenzied than ever before, meandering across their surfaces like blood vessels. These runes interconnected, forming a vast and complex network that converged above the throne into a vortex of energy, rotating slowly and rhythmically, emitting a deep, resonant, yet chilling hum.

This buzzing sound was not merely a sound wave; it penetrated the physical barrier, impacting Lin Zheng's soul and spirit, bringing a violent dizziness and nausea. He felt that the entire space was filled with this morbid and frenzied vitality, as if controlled by some immense will, awaiting the climax of an unknown ritual. Every "work of art" composed of limbs and machinery was trembling extremely slightly, yet with a sense of foreboding, accompanied by the light of runes, like the convulsions of a giant beast before its awakening, foreshadowing the arrival of some enormous explosion.

Amidst the whispers of this morbid life, a massive figure, as large as a small mountain, sat atop the grotesque throne constructed of corpses and machinery. As if awakening from a deep slumber, it slowly and heavily raised its head. Every subtle movement of itss carried the chilling creaking of bones and the sluggish, dull thud of ancient machinery starting up, as if it itself had become one with the throne, with this living fortress of flesh and steel.

His imposing, yet distorted physique, born of countless mutations, exuded an overwhelming sense of oppression that surpassed any comprehension Lin Zheng could comprehend. This pressure wasn't merely a manifestation of power; it carried a decaying, morbid heaviness, like the accumulated sins and pain of millions of years, pressing heavily on the hearts of everyone present. His appearance was beyond human comprehension; certain key parts of his body, such as his shoulders, arms, and thighs, displayed an unnatural bronze hue, as if forged from steel through intense heat and repeatedly soaked in blood and flesh—cold and hard.

This color wasn't simply skin; it was more like a perfect fusion of metal and flesh, with thick metal conduits and bulging veins intertwined beneath, rhythmically pumping some dark, life-giving fluid. This contradictory beauty, both nauseating and brimming with wild power, created an unforgettable visual impact. The scars on his face were even more grotesque and twisted, each one like a mark left by some mysterious ritual, stretching from the corner of his left eye to his jaw, further fragmenting his already indistinct features, making it impossible to discern his original appearance.

What was even more chilling were his eyes: one had been replaced by a prosthetic eye inlaid with an unknown black mineral, which gleamed with an eerie and profound light in the dim light, as if it could devour everything around it, leaving only pure darkness and coldness. His other eye, which had originally belonged to a human, was now completely mangled and bloodied, but in that murky true eye, there was a chillingly morbid fanaticism, staring straight at the intruder, as deep as a bottomless abyss, devoid of any ripples of humanity or emotion, only naked predatory desire and investigation.

That predatory yet morbidly scrutinizing gaze filled Lin Zheng with an unprecedented sense of suffocation, as if a cold blade would pierce his heart without warning, instantly stripping him of all courage and will to resist, leaving only the purest fear of the unknown and despair. This great lord of the flesh-and-blood wasteland, the true core and sole ruler of this living fortress, finally unveiled his evil and terrifying veil to them, these uninvited guests, and the aura he exuded constantly proclaimed his power and madness.

The cloying, industrial scent in the air, tinged with decay and blood, thickened under the intense mental pressure, almost solidifying into a tangible substance. Lin Zheng realized this wasn't just a smell, but some kind of biochemical product designed to affect the nervous system and weaken resistance.

His "mental retraining" was so intense under this invisible erosion that his head felt like it was being pierced by countless needles, each breath triggering a sharp pain. The echoing "whispers" in his ears were no longer indistinct; they struck directly into the depths of his consciousness, chaotic emotions and cold laws intertwining to form a distorted picture of sacrifice, devouring, and power conversion. This resonance from the depths of the fortress, through the vascular metallic patterns and runes, and the slight tremors of the ground beneath his feet, constantly reminded him that he was being digested by a massive, living system.

Pasi's hoarse voice echoed throughout the hall, carrying a chilling, bone-grinding quality. Every syllable vibrated in the air, assaulting Lin Zheng's eardrums and his mental defenses.

His prosthetic eye, inlaid with black mineral, coldly scanned Evelyn's white coat and medical kit like a scanner. A sickly smile slowly crept onto his face, revealing bloodshot teeth at the corner of his mouth.

"Doctor, I've finally waited for you," Percy declared, leaving no room for doubt, as if Evelyn's arrival was destiny.

Evelyn instinctively took a step back, her gaze sweeping over Arthur, who was being roughly shoved by soldiers behind her. Her body stiffened, her eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and fear.

The medical kit was carelessly torn off by the soldiers and thrown to the ground, scattering the medical equipment inside. The crisp sound of the impact was particularly jarring in the empty hall.

Percy's gaze did not linger long on Evelyn's body, which had stiffened with fear. His prosthetic eye, inlaid with black mineral, merely swept over Evelyn's white coat before his deep pupils, devoid of any emotional fluctuation, turned directly to Lin Zheng, like a predator locking onto its new prey.

The instant his gaze swept over Lin Zheng, a barely perceptible yet primal, wild, and abyssal thirst flashed deep within the cold, pure black ore. This light, though fleeting, precisely captured Lin Zheng's deepest, most unspoken secret. A morbid pleasure slowly crept onto Percy's lips, outlined by the hideous scars, like some demon admiring its own masterpiece.

"You, little bug." His voice rang out again, this time with a more pronounced grinding sound of bones, carrying a playful air of scrutinizing prey. "You actually possess an aura of 'art' about you."

Lin Zheng's heart felt as if it had been gripped tightly by an invisible hand. A chilling current surged from his scalp to his toes, striking his most vulnerable nerves. A thunderclap exploded in his mind, an immense fear and disbelief nearly shattering his rational defenses—his "Dream Anatomy," the forbidden power he thought he had hidden so well, capable of delving into the deepest connections between matter and spirit and analyzing the workings of the world, had been so nakedly and precisely perceived under Percy's close scrutiny! This was almost beyond Lin Zheng's understanding of any existing biological perception. This wasn't simple magical detection; it was more like a resonance deep within the soul, or some kind of dimensional insight.

He forcefully suppressed the overwhelming shock and fear within him, striving to control every subtle movement of his facial muscles, enduring any emotion that might slip beneath his expressionless facade. Lin Zheng knew all too well that once Percy, this madman, this monster twisted by flesh and machinery, realized that he not only possessed this power but could also glimpse its essence, his fate would be far more severe than simply "becoming a work of art." It would be a torment and "modification" far more tragic and twisted than death; he might even be forcibly dissected to study the source of his power. He had to hide, at all costs.

Percy's bronze hand, with its large, claw-like knuckles, slowly and with an unsettling sluggishness, rose in the air. The dark red, congealed blood between his fingers was particularly striking in the pale light. The hand, lightly yet undeniably heavy, pointed at Evelyn and Lin Zheng.

"I," his hoarse voice echoed in the empty hall, each word carrying an undeniable command and oppressive force, "have contracted a 'strange disease' and need you to cure it." There was no pleading in his tone, only absolute dominance and an irresistible threat of death. He slowly withdrew his hand, palm down, as if toying with an ant in his hand.

"Either heal me, or," he paused slightly, his eyes sweeping over Lin Zheng and Evelyn with the cold cruelty of a judge, finally landing precisely on Arthur's frail body, roughly discarded on the ground by the soldiers, his body gradually losing its vitality due to severe injuries and infection, "all of you will become my next 'creation'." The coldness and madness in his eyes revealed Arthur's fate in the most cruel way, leaving no room for maneuver.

Percy's words were not merely sound waves; they were interspersed with low, chaotic, hallucinatory whispers, like countless tiny insects frantically burrowing into the depths of Lin Zheng's consciousness, directly assaulting his rational defenses. These whispers, indistinct yet filled with allure and distortion, repeatedly mentioned words like "flesh and blood," "sacrifice," "art," "rebirth," and "eternity," constructing one bloody and insane scene after another in Lin Zheng's mind, causing him waves of tearing dizziness.

Evelyn's body trembled slightly upon hearing Percy's threat, especially the mention of Arthur. Her teeth clenched her lip so tightly it almost bled. Arthur's critical condition left her with no choice. The compassionate heart of a healer, deeply ingrained in her bones, clashed fiercely with the stark threat of death before her, a struggle that brought excruciating pain with every effort. Finally, she slowly and laboriously closed her eyes, took a deep breath as if inhaling all the fear and despair, and then slowly opened them again. A flicker of unseen resolve and pain, even somewhat ferocious, flashed in her emerald eyes. She understood that in the face of such a desperate situation, for Arthur's faint chance of survival, she had to accept this morbid invitation, almost tantamount to falling into an abyss.

Deep within Lin Zheng was a similarly intense resistance and resentment; he loathed this feeling of powerlessness and being dominated. However, under Percy's overwhelming mental pressure and his profound concern for Arthur's life, he had no choice but to temporarily submit. His mind raced at an extraordinary pace, attempting to grasp even the slightest glimmer of hope from this seemingly unsolvable predicament and hellish predicament. This wasn't just for his own and his companions' survival; more profoundly, he suddenly realized that this might be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to delve into the extraordinary nature of Percy's mutation and uncover the truth behind his "strange illness." That might be the key to unlocking the deep secrets of this living fortress, the entire Flesh Wasteland, and even the wider world, finding the true key to leaving this place. This possibility, like a flash of lightning in the dark night, though faint, ignited the indomitable desire for exploration deep within him, injecting a complex and dangerous hope into the abyss of despair he was about to face.

Brutus's soldiers treated Evelyn like livestock, roughly picking up her scattered medical supplies and throwing them back into her tattered medical bag without a shred of pity. A flicker of regret crossed Evelyn's eyes, but she was too weak to care. Two soldiers restrained Evelyn like prisoners, one on each side, while two others shoved Lin Zheng, forcibly dragging them away from the oppressive and eerie hall.

Forced to pass through a dimly lit passage beside the throne, the air there was even colder and damper, thick with the stench of blood. Lin Zheng glanced back and saw Arthur still lying weakly on the cold ground, only the slight rise and fall of his chest a testament to his life. Beside him, two other expressionless soldiers stepped forward, inhumanly grabbing Arthur's limbs and lifting him up like a sack of potatoes, swaying as they followed Lin Zheng and Evelyn into the deeper, more unknown darkness.

Each step felt like treading on a rotten, muddy world, making a heavy, heart-wrenching sound. Each step drained their last remaining strength and hope, leaving them heavy and powerless, as if sinking into a quagmire. They knew there was no turning back.

Behind him, in the center of the hall, Percy's mutated eyes—a black mineral prosthetic eye and a bloodied, mangled real eye—lingered on their receding figures, a cold and eerie satisfaction on his face. He made no sound, simply admiring, like an artist appreciating a masterpiece, a work of art he had just "completed"—the two "doctors" he had completely controlled, ruthlessly bound by fate, and involuntarily drawn into his morbid plan. Their struggles and submissions, in his eyes, were all part of the ultimate "art." And the creation of this "work of art" had only just begun.