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

Chapter 125 Connection: The Ruined Classroom and the Seed in the Bloodline

A sharp, cold wind swept across the street.

It carried the damp chill unique to the port, along with a faint salty smell in the air, which hit Lin Zheng's face directly, causing a layer of fine goosebumps to rise on his exposed skin.

He felt his finger joints stiffen slightly from the sudden attack.

In the distance, a rickety streetlamp emitted a faint yellow light, appearing particularly thin in the approaching dawn.

The light weakly outlined the silhouette of the imam before him, whose breath condensed into a brief white mist in mid-air.

Lin Zheng's gaze was fixed on the imam's face, trying to catch a trace of wavering in the bone-chilling cold on his skin marked by the passage of time.

However, the imam's expression was like a calm, still lake, showing neither the retreat one would show in the face of the cold wind nor any sign of anxiety.

His eyes were deep, seemingly able to see through all appearances and reach the core of things.

In the distance, a faint bark broke the silence of the early morning.

Lin Zheng felt that the soup bowl in his hand had completely cooled down, and the rough texture of the bowl contrasted sharply with the numb skin on his palm.

He felt a weariness seeping into his very bones.

The imam's gaze passed over Lin Zheng's head and looked into the distance, as if piercing through the concrete jungle before him and looking into the distant past.

His voice was deep and slow, each word like a carefully polished pebble, falling heavily into the cool air.

"My hometown, an old town in Qadish, was engulfed in endless war many years ago." The imam's tone was devoid of any embellishment, only a calm statement of facts.

Lin Zheng's heart skipped a beat in his chest.

Kadish, a place he had never set foot in, yet which was now being brought to life by the imam's words.

He imagined a sky filled with the sounds of gunfire, streets shrouded in smoke, and ruins.

"In such a place, almost everything has been stripped away," the imam said softly, a deep sense of compassion in his eyes.

"There's a primary school in our town where children learn, laugh, and dream about the future."

The faces of those children floated into Lin Zheng's mind; perhaps like many of the children he saw here, their eyes held innocence and a longing for hope.

"Then, the bombing began, endless bombing." The imam's voice became even deeper, as if recreating the deafening roar.

Lin Zheng felt the ground seem to tremble slightly, which was the huge impact he had imagined when the shells landed.

"Half of the school buildings were razed to the ground, leaving only exposed steel bars and charred walls."

He envisioned mountains of rubble, textbooks torn to shreds, and blackboards blasted to dust.

"The remaining half is teetering on the brink of collapse, but at least the roof is still there, providing shelter from the wind and rain."

A glint flashed in the imam's eyes—a respect for the tenacious resilience of life.

"There is a teacher in our town named Haishan, an elderly woman who is as resilient as an old tree."

Lin Zheng thought of the resilience of biological tissues he had learned in his work on "building Gundam".

"He didn't run away, nor did he complain; he just silently cleaned up the ruins."

Every movement, every breath, is a silent resistance against despair.

"He used his rough hands to carry the broken wood and stones out of the classroom one by one."

Lin Zheng seemed to hear the rustling sound of stones scraping against the ground, mixed with the teacher's heavy breathing.

"Then, he cleaned up the remaining half of the classroom as much as possible."

It was an almost obsessive pursuit of order, a tenacious search for a foothold amidst the chaos.

He carefully hung a wooden board, blackened by smoke, next to the broken wall.

The simple wooden planks became the only color and hope in the ruins.

"That was the only 'blackboard' they could find, and it still smelled of burnt wood."

Lin Zheng could even smell the burnt smell, mixed with the damp, dusty odor, which irritated his nasal cavity.

"Without textbooks, Teacher Haishan used flat stone slabs she found in the rubble to write words one by one."

Those stone slabs are no longer meaningless fragments; they have become carriers of knowledge, bearing witness to the future.

"He used charred charcoal instead of chalk to draw the curved Arabic script on the stone slab."

Each stroke of the pen is accompanied by a unique rustling sound, faint yet exceptionally clear, like the marks of memory.

Lin Zheng closed his eyes, and the rustling sound seemed to echo in his ears, piercing through the barriers of time.

The voice carried an ancient and tenacious vitality, slow and firm.

"Someone asked him, 'Professor Hai-shan, what's the use of teaching all this if there might be more shells tomorrow?'"

This question is cold and cruel, tearing apart all warmth and pointing directly to the emptiness of action.

It is not an inquiry, but a desperate accusation.

Lin Zheng's breath suddenly caught in his throat.

Isn't this exactly the question that he himself had in his heart when facing those broken parts on countless lonely nights?

Everything will eventually return to nothingness, and all struggles will be in vain.

The imam's gaze returned to Lin Zheng's face, his eyes filled with insight, as if he could see through all the struggles and resonances in Lin Zheng's heart.

He didn't answer, but instead gently imitated Ms. Hai Shan's tone at the time, calm and firm.

"If we don't teach them today, the children won't even have the words they know today."

These words were like a bolt of lightning, cleaving through Lin Zheng's chaotic thoughts and illuminating the most stubborn fog in the depths of his heart.

"Changing this chaotic world may take a long time and require many people," the imam continued slowly.

"But teaching them to read is one of the things I can do here today, one thing that can change their lives."

Boom!

It was as if a thunderclap exploded in Lin Zheng's mind, causing his entire consciousness to tremble violently.

This sentence is not just words; it is a spirit, a burning flame that instantly ignited the withered grass deep within his heart.

It was a long-lost, profound resonance that broke through the dust of his memory.

"Changing the world may take a long time—but teaching them to read is one thing I can do today, one thing that can change them—" Teacher Haishan's words echoed repeatedly in his mind. Each syllable was like a hammer, striking at the walls of his nihilism and causing those seemingly unbreakable beliefs to begin to crumble.

A strong and clear warm current surged from the deepest part of his chest, cleansing his blood and dispelling all the cold despair.

It wasn't the faint hope brought by John's apple, nor the fleeting comfort brought by Mrs. Wilson's cookies.

It is something grander, harder, and more penetrating.

It points directly to the power of action itself, to finding a foothold in powerlessness, and to the courage to light a lamp in the darkness.

The feeling was so unfamiliar that it made him tremble, yet so familiar that he couldn't help but shed tears.

It is a memory buried deep in the bloodline, which is now being activated and awakened.

Lin Zheng felt a warm sensation in his eyes. He bit his lower lip hard to suppress the sob that was about to burst out from deep in his throat.

He suddenly looked up, his eyes filled with shock and longing, staring intently at the imam.

He felt a silent invitation, a call to pursue a deeper truth.

This shock made him almost forget the coldness around him, and even the passage of time.

He stood there, his body trembling slightly, a powerful force slowly gathering within him.

The cold wind still howled around him.

Its chill no longer seemed so harsh; instead, it was covered by the intense warmth surging in Lin Zheng's chest.

Hai-Shan's unwavering declaration, "What I can do and what I can change today," continued to resonate in his heart.

This statement is far more than just a few words; it is a profound methodology, a way of seeing and interacting with the world, rooted in the deepest part of his being.

Lin Zheng stood quietly on the street corner, his thoughts illuminated by an unprecedented clarity.

He first looked at the imam, then glanced at the crowd waiting in line, their faces bearing the weary marks of the city's forgotten.

That unwavering determination to persist in "action" in the face of overwhelming adversity was a lesson he had learned since childhood.

It is not an abstract philosophy, but a simple wisdom that he has been exposed to countless times during his growth, embodied in his mother's lullabies, in his early classroom enlightenment, and in every story about perseverance and collective struggle.

He knew from a young age that true power does not come from passive acceptance or the expectation of miracles.

It exists in the hard work of ordinary people, in the process of solving problems without ever giving up, no matter how daunting those problems may be.

His education always emphasized a pragmatic attitude, a firm belief that humanity possesses the power to change its destiny, and an acceptance that the collective will is sufficient to reshape reality.

This is not an epic of individual heroism, but rather a magnificent torrent formed by the accumulation of small, purposeful actions over time.

Discussions about specific, achievable goals and how to directly help those around him came to mind.

These are not empty ideals, but realities closely linked to sweat, calluses, shared burdens, and gradual progress.

Faced with the despair brought about by the city’s seemingly unchangeable and massive mechanisms, he almost forgot that his own cultural memory contained such a powerful anti-nihilistic force.

This methodology, which emphasizes empirical evidence and pays attention to public opinion, is like a lost key that has been found again, fitting perfectly into the long-sealed lock of thought.

This is a profound self-awareness, an awakening of his inner principles, which have always been an integral part of his life.

The once daunting abstract concept of "change" no longer seems like an insurmountable mountain, but rather like a river whose direction can be gradually guided by stones.

A surge of energy coursed through his body, and a calm yet exceptionally firm resolve replaced his previous fiery passion.

A manic sense of frustration.

This is not blind optimism, but a profound, almost primal sense of "competence".

His previously chaotic inner world, filled with anxiety and fatalism, began to rearrange itself, finding a new and more stable center of gravity.

This is a way of facing harsh realities, choosing not to retreat into cynicism, but to actively engage in concrete and practical actions.

This is about finding your small but vital place in the grand and perplexing suffering around you, and making your own contribution.

He took a deep breath, and the cold air suddenly became vibrant, sharp, and refreshing, dispelling the gloom of self-doubt that had lingered in his mind for so long.

The decaying street atmosphere and damp winter air, once symbols of his stagnation, now firmly anchor him in the present moment.

He looked around, his senses becoming unusually sharp, and the familiar scenes on the street appeared with an unusual clarity.

The peeling paint on the cheap apartment buildings, the swaying neon signs of the corner shops, and the tired faces in the queues—everything seemed sharper, more real, and more direct.

A fragile sense of power, just discovered yet still forming, began to solidify deep within him.

Just as this new force was gradually solidifying, the scene in front of him suddenly trembled violently.

The ground beneath their feet seemed to ripple, and a barely perceptible tremor quickly intensified.

The world began to shake.

The imam's calm and composed face became blurred, his features diffusing in the cold air like patterns drawn with wet charcoal.

The queue of people twisted and contorted, their bodies sometimes elongating and sometimes shrinking, their dull clothes changing color in an instant.

The precarious awning above the food stall began to expand in an unnatural way, as if the fabric was being stretched taut by an invisible force, threatening to tear at any moment.

A sharp hissing sound filled the air, as if dry ice had been thrown into a pot of boiling oil, or like static electricity crackling through an overloaded wire.

The sound pierced his eardrums, and a pure sense of disorientation spread down his spine.

The streetlights, which were originally dim and uniformly yellow, suddenly began to flash violently, turning into a glaring, sickly green, and then into a deep, bruised purple.

The lights flickered erratically, casting bizarre and ever-changing shadows that danced on the ground at impossible angles.

The air itself seemed to be torn apart, revealing jagged, incredible patterns that flickered for a moment, then contracted back, and then tore apart again.

This is no longer just a simple distortion, but a fundamental and violent collapse.

This is a complete disruption of the continuity of the perception of time and space.

This bizarre chaos may have lasted only for the brief span of two heartbeats, but in Lin Zheng's heart, it felt like an eternity.

Then, accompanied by a nauseatingly violent shaking, the scene miraculously returned to normal.

The imam stood still again, his face flawless, and the people in the procession resumed their quiet waiting, the rain canopy falling gently once more.

The streetlights, though seemingly dimmer than before, had regained their usual yellow glow.

However, the piercing cracking sound still lingered in Lin Zheng's ears, a ghostly echo left after the chaos.

His heart was pounding wildly beneath his ribs, a drumbeat that seemed unusually rapid amidst the apparent calm of his return.

The newfound power he had just felt, the core of his solidifying beliefs, was on the verge of shattering in the face of this sudden shock.

This upheaval, more intense and prolonged than ever before, has brought unspeakable distress.

An undeniable sense of certainty struck him suddenly, and the intense inner struggle and the clarity of his newly acquired conviction seemed to collide with the very essence of this place in some way.

His thoughts, honed to an unparalleled sharpness by the imam's stories, roared at this moment: This is by no means a simple illusion that has spontaneously failed.

This unsettling turmoil stemmed directly from within himself.

His perceptions, his memories, his own existence, are no longer merely those of a passive bystander.

They are active participants, capable of exerting real pressure on this bizarre structure.

He stared intently at his hands, then looked at the street, which had returned to "stability," his eyes widening as a chilling realization gradually became clearer.

His newly acquired realization of fragility, the "lighthouse" he had built in his heart, was now floating on an ocean that was itself falling apart.

The world was pieced back together after being torn apart and twisted, but the lingering crackling of electricity still echoed in my ears.

The imam's figure seemed slightly more blurred than before.

Lin Zheng's heart pounded wildly, and the surge of power he had just felt almost dissipated in shock.

He looked at the cold soup bowl in his hand, and then at the world in front of him, which, although "returned to normal," seemed to be separated by a layer of frosted glass.

A chilling question seized him: if the scene that carried his insights was so fragile and questionable, then were the thoughts that arose within it a true beacon or another, more sophisticated trap?

Just as this desperate thought arose, the imam's warm hand once again firmly rested on his shoulder.