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

Chapter 126 Practice: The Enthusiasm for Cool Soup and the Homecoming with Eyes Closed

Abdul placed his hand gently yet firmly on Lin Zheng's shoulder. An invisible force was transmitted through his palm, piercing through the chaos in Lin Zheng's heart, like a ray of light in the darkness.

Lin Zheng raised his eyes and looked directly into the imam's deep eyes. Those eyes were calm and still, reflecting Lin Zheng's wavering and uneasy face. He felt a long-lost sense of peace, not from external forces, but from the wisdom that the person in front of him exuded, wisdom that had been refined by the years.

He looked down again at the bowl of soup in his hand, now cold. A thin film of oil condensed on the surface, gleaming faintly under the flickering streetlights. The icy touch spread from his fingertips throughout his body, but this time, the chill was no longer a symbol of despair.

"Child," the imam's voice rang in my ears, as calm as ever, yet containing an undeniable power. His tone carried a gentle urging, "Philosophical questions can be pondered for a lifetime. But if the soup gets cold, no one will drink it."

Without pausing, the imam's gaze pierced through the night, landing on the thin figures queuing in the distance.

"Look, there are three more people in line over there," he added, pointing to a few people at the end of the line.

These words struck Lin Zheng's heart like a resounding metal, instantly shattering his abstract contemplation on "truth" and "falsehood."

"If the soup gets cold, no one will drink it."

A simple fact, like a thick cable, suddenly pulled him back from the endless abyss of philosophy. His previously chaotic thoughts miraculously calmed down at that moment, and countless turbulent ideas dissipated, leaving only this one sentence echoing in his ears.

Yes, the essence of the world and the meaning of existence—these grand questions may never have answers, or they may not even exist at all.

But there are hungry people, stomachs waiting for warmth, and soup that is about to cool down.

These are all real. His act of handing over the bowl of soup, that simple gesture, is also real.

A powerful, unprecedented sense of strength surged within Lin Zheng. This feeling was so real that it dispelled all his coldness and wavering. It didn't stem from some extraordinary revelation, but from the most basic...

The most direct form of human ethics—action.

He doesn't need to investigate whether the world is an illusion, nor does he need to dwell on whether meaning exists. In this moment, in the present, all he can do is hand out this bowl of soup.

He looked down at the bowl in his hands, its cold touch a stark contrast to the resolute determination rising in his chest. This heat was neither anger nor ecstasy, but a profound, solid clarity, a courage to face reality.

He took a deep breath, the damp air filling his lungs, carrying the distinctive fishy smell of the harbor and a hint of rusty scrap metal. These smells, which had once made him feel oppressed and desperate, now became the anchor that held him firmly in the present moment.

He no longer looked at the imam, nor at the "world" that had once seemed distorted and suspicious to him. His gaze was fixed on the soup bowl in his hands, and on the still-warm soup in the thermos.

He turned and walked toward the insulated bucket, his arm outstretched, his movements steady and powerful, without the slightest hesitation.

The massive metal thermos gleamed with a dull luster under the dim light, the soup inside bubbling and steaming softly. This sound, like the pulse of life, felt especially warm in the cool night.

Lin Zheng picked up the spoon; the heavy metal handle felt remarkably stable in his hand, and the wear marks on the edge of the spoon were clearly visible under the light. He stirred the still-warm soup a few times with the spoon, causing ripples to spread across the surface, releasing a rich aroma of meat and the sweet scent of vegetables.

He scooped the spoon full, the soup trembling slightly, steaming and releasing its enticing aroma. This simple action was like his first declaration of war against the entire void. He would use the most concrete...

The most practical action is to combat this nihilism that permeates the air.

Lin Zheng's heart pounded steadily and powerfully in his chest, and a feeling of fullness and peace gradually replaced his previous trembling. His breathing became deep and even, and the noise around him seemed to fade away, leaving only the soft sound of a spoon stirring the soup.

He returned to the front of the line, his gaze sweeping over each person waiting to receive food. Their faces were weary, their eyes reflecting an endless weariness of life and a barely perceptible glimmer of hope.

These people are a microcosm of the marginalized in society, abandoned by the rapid development of the city, and can only barely survive by relying on the kindness of the people on the streets.

Lin Zheng handed the hot soup to a trembling young man. The young man was about twenty years old, thin and frail, dressed in thin, ill-fitting clothes, and shivering slightly in the cold wind. His eyes darted away, avoiding Lin Zheng's gaze, and his hands nervously wrung together.

Over the past hour, Lin Zheng had served dozens of bowls of soup. Each time, he had acted like a precisely programmed machine, performing predetermined actions, while his mind wandered, questioning the authenticity of the scene. Those formulaic "thank yous" held no real weight for him.

But now, everything is different. He is no longer a detached observer or a tormented questioner; he is fully engaged in this concrete act of "distribution." His senses are sharper than ever before, and he begins to "see" everyone around him.

He saw the young homeless man's fingers were cold and trembling as he took the soup bowl. His fingernails were filled with black grime, the veins on the back of his hands were bulging, and his palms were covered with thick calluses from years of friction. The young man's eyes were filled with embarrassment and an indescribable sense of inferiority.

Lin Zheng's mind conjured images of these homeless people rummaging through garbage cans for food and seeking shelter under bridges. They were the shadows of this city, deliberately ignored by mainstream society. Their life trajectories were like broken parts, ruthlessly discarded in a corner.

He recalled the temporary workers at the port and docks. Every morning, they would wait at the docks for jobs, sometimes for an entire day, only to receive meager wages in return. They had no fixed abode, no future, and struggled daily for the most basic survival.

He had previously ignored these things, or rather, dared not look at them. Because if he did, he would be swept into that endless despair and lose his last remaining sanity.

But now, what he sees is not despair itself, but living people, individuals in need of help.

He recalled Ms. Hai Shan's words, and his gaze, no longer evasive, became calm and focused. As he watched the young man take the soup bowl, the frostbitten cracks on his wrists appeared particularly shocking in the dim light.

An indescribable impulse welled up inside me. It wasn't pity, but a solid desire to act based on "what can I do?"

Lin Zheng hesitated slightly, then put down the soup spoon and pulled a clean blanket from the plastic bag beside him.

"Find a sheltered spot tonight," Lin Zheng said in a low voice, his tone calm and firm. He handed the blanket to the young man, without any deliberate act of charity, as if he were completing an ordinary transaction.

A flicker of surprise crossed the young homeless man's eyes. It wasn't a programmed reaction, but a genuine, vivid astonishment. His gaze shifted from the blanket to Lin Zheng's face, a hint of wariness flashing in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a complex sense of gratitude.

He stiffly took the blanket, his fingers trembling. He didn't say anything, just nodded slightly, then quickly turned around, as if afraid Lin Zheng would change his mind, and disappeared into the darkness.

This subtle, vivid reaction, like a bolt of lightning, instantly pierced through some invisible "barrier" in Lin Zheng's heart. He seemed to hear a subtle "click," not a physical sound, but a profound "sense of confirmation" on a conscious level.

The interactions he created received genuine "responses." These responses went far beyond the pre-set scope of the "utopian" program; they were vibrant and alive.

This is not an illusion given by the system, but a genuine response from another individual that he triggered through his own proactive actions.

A powerful sense of strength welled up from the depths of Lin Zheng's heart, warm and resolute. He no longer needed to search for flaws in the world, because he himself was becoming an unprogrammable "variable" in this "scene." He used focused and humane actions to "define" himself and "create" reality.

The cold wind still howled around him, but Lin Zheng felt a warmth emanating from within. He continued distributing hot soup, and with each serving and each observation, he gained a deeper understanding of the meaning of "action." He was no longer just an observer; he was a participant, a changer.

He scooped an extra spoonful of meat for a coughing old woman, and a glimmer of light flashed in her cloudy eyes. He handed a towel to a middle-aged man with old scars on his face, and a rare smile appeared on the man's rough face. Every small act of kindness brought him a solid and peaceful strength within him.

The distribution was nearing its end; the soup in the insulated containers was almost gone, leaving only some minced meat and chopped vegetables at the bottom. The crowds on the street gradually dispersed, and a sense of desolation enveloped the area once more, with only the flickering streetlights casting a faint glow.

Lin Zheng and the imam silently packed up the remaining supplies. Plastic bags, empty paper bowls, and the now-empty insulated container were carefully placed into garbage bags. Their movements were perfectly coordinated; no one spoke, but an unspoken understanding filled the air.

"Remember how you felt tonight, child." The imam's voice rang out beside Lin Zheng, still calm, but this time, it seemed to carry a hint of relief.

"A heart of gold is not one that is immune to dust," the imam paused, his gaze gently falling on Lin Zheng, a complex smile of relief in his eyes, "but rather one that always strives to shine even in the dust."

Lin Zheng didn't respond, but listened silently. The imam's words and Teacher Hai Shan's remarks echoed in his mind.

"You bring more than just donations," the imam continued, his voice filled with deep affirmation, "your time, your hands, and your heart."

"These are things that no program can write," he added softly, his tone seemingly implying something deeper.

Lin Zheng repeatedly pondered the two core insights: "Take action and change what you can change" and "Passing the soup has already created meaning." They were like two strong threads, weaving all his thoughts and feelings into an incredibly solid belief.

He sensed that the surrounding scenery was changing. Everything on the street, from the distant buildings to the asphalt pavement beneath his feet, began to blur and lose its texture, like a faded oil painting. The streetlights dimmed, the hustle and bustle of queuing faded away completely, leaving only the cool breeze brushing against his face.

The external "reproduction" is fading away, but Lin Zheng's inner "clarity," "sense of power," and "determination to act" are becoming clearer and harder, like steel that has been tempered.

That wasn't the fleeting comfort of John's apple or Mrs. Wilson's cookies. It was a truth he himself forged from nothingness through personal experience, with his own hands and heart. This truth is more solid than any external material thing, and more penetrating than any philosophical speculation.

He felt his consciousness expanding, as if he could sense an invisible yet definite barrier collapsing, and a completely new and broader world unfolding within him.

He understood that meaning is never discovered, but created. And the way to create meaning is to take concrete action to change the things that are within reach and can be changed. This is the most powerful punch against nihilism and lies.

The imam's figure became increasingly blurry, and his voice seemed to come from a distant place, becoming ethereal and elusive.

Take care, child.

Lin Zheng nodded, his expression filled with gratitude, not sadness. He took one last look at the street scene that was about to disappear, then closed his eyes. It wasn't an escape, but rather preparation to "go back."

An endless, gentle void replaced the street scene.

Lin Zheng felt as if he were floating in warm amniotic fluid, but his spiritual core, like a sharply defined foundation stone, lay deep within his consciousness, radiating a calm and unwavering power. His tempered thoughts remained perfectly still.

From afar, a regular "beep" sound came, like the low hum of medical monitoring equipment, or like the operation of some larger machine.

He could feel a gaze upon him, filled with scrutiny and a hint of—surprise?

A vague, inhuman "thought," or rather a "data stream," gently touched the mental barrier he had just built, and then receded.

A cold message was projected before his "eyes": "Cognitive Reconstruction Level: 87%. Anti-nihilistic mindset firmly established. Practical Rationality Rating: A-1. Warning: Unexpected reinforcement of subjectivity detected." Recommendation: Proceed to the next stage of the contact protocol, or implement inhibitory intervention.

Lin Zheng's heart sank slightly, but the foundation of his spirit remained unshaken. He knew that the "rest" was over. The real contest had perhaps only just begun.