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

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In the leaden-gray city center square, the eternal light shone coldly and harshly, bringing no warmth whatsoever.

Lin Zheng stood in the silence, his gaze fixed on the half-open window not far away, Jerome's lifeless eyes fixed on it.

That face, which he had "assembled" countless times with his own hands, now carried a cold reality, piercing through the falsehood of dreams.

Jerome was one of those "Nightmare Fuel" completely forgotten by society; his death in the port's "Gundam" assembly area was just a pile of "parts" waiting to be processed.

Lin Zheng remembered that it was a corpse whose internal organs had been violently shattered, whose bones were broken in many places, and whose skin was covered with bruises.

His lungs were filled with sewage before he died, traces of the slum's putrid sewers, not cold, clean water.

While processing Jerome's body, Lin Zheng smelled the stench of blood and organs mixed with the formaldehyde odor that he himself could never wash off his fingers.

That pain and despair were deeply imprinted in Lin Zheng's sensory memory, and it was one of the most unforgettable experiences he had had since he started working on "building Gundam".

Under the gray rules of the "Gundam" assemblers' guild, no one cares how a homeless man like Jerome died; they only care about the quality of the "flesh and blood."

As long as "flesh and blood" can still be utilized through technologies that maintain its activity and regenerate it, the accounts of the flesh and blood capital alliance can be balanced, and no one will care about the tragic end of a life at the bottom of society.

Jerome's tragic state nearly drove Lin Zheng to the brink of madness. It was the inevitable fate of countless "nightmare fuels" within the world's operating mechanism—a cruel cycle.

Now, this deceased person reappears in Finch's dream in his most primal form; he is a breakthrough.

A resolute glint flashed in Lin Zheng's eyes; he realized this was his only chance to retaliate.

He drew upon his extraordinary "intuition," an insight into structure and origin honed through countless decaying bodies.

He focused his attention entirely on Jerome's lifeless image, trying to forcefully activate and recall the most primal pain deep in his memory, the pure despair that had not been formatted or harvested.

He was like a seasoned surgeon, using a scalpel of the mind to precisely dissect the appearances of dreams.

Although the blade appears dull in this suppressed world, it still stubbornly cleaves through the cracks of logic.

Lin Zheng's mental power reached the core of his memories, and those painful details that Professor Finch had deliberately blurred were forcibly awakened under Lin Zheng's impact.

This process severely depleted his sanity, and his mental boundaries fluctuated repeatedly between ambiguity and clarity, but he had no way out.

As Lin Zheng exerted his mental power, the entire city center began to tremble violently, like soil being crushed by a giant beast.

The once leaden sky was torn apart, revealing a wide, pulsating, scarlet crack, as if the world had been gouged out.

The massive monument in the center of the square, the magnificent building that symbolized the order of the "utopian dream," was now covered with a dense network of cracks.

Gravel and huge boulders fell with a piercing whistling sound, crashing onto the deserted street with deafening roars.

Immediately afterwards, the collapsed building debris did not simply crumble; instead, defying the laws of physics, it grew and wriggled rapidly.

The fragments twisted and expanded, their color changing from a dull gray to a sickly purplish-red, and their texture became slippery, like unprocessed flesh and blood.

They intertwined, like tentacles reaching out from the depths of hell, weaving together to quickly form the bizarre spectacle of a towering tree.

On the tree trunk, what appeared were not the textures of bark, but countless distorted faces.

Those faces were not blurry phantoms; they were the nameless people who had died silently in Lin Zheng's memory and whom he had personally "assembled."

There are newly rich financial elites whose rationality has been excessively exploited, and workers who overdose on opioids in the rusty gospel.

There are homeless people mercilessly killed by gangs in the slums, and young actors sacrificed by Hollywood Dream Factory.

Each of these faces bore a distorted expression, with sunken eyes and gaping mouths, screaming silently with endless resentment and bitterness, as if denouncing the cruel laws of this corrupt and decadent America.

This deformed, fleshy giant tree seemed to be all the ailments and sins of this hypocritical world, violently dragged from the ground and exposed to the distorted light of dreams. Its roots were not anchored in the soil, but penetrated deep into Lin Zheng's soul, nourished by the suffering he had witnessed, constantly growing stronger. Whenever a foul wind blew by, the pained faces on the tree would contort even more, and silent wails filled Lin Zheng's senses, but he endured the excruciating pain. He knew that this was not just an attack on the Finch Dream System, but also a resonance between him and those lost lives, those powerless "fuel"—a desperate chorus on a spiritual level. He had witnessed such scenes countless times in his nightmares, but this time, he became the one who personally tore open the curtain, exposing the bloody truth of reality. His mental energy, like a burst dam, surged into the depths of Jerome's memory, amplifying the cries that had once been suppressed at the lowest level, belonging only to the "parts," to a volume loud enough to shake the entire dream dimension. This power stemmed from Lin Zheng's disgust for the false reality and his deep compassion for every deprived person. It tore apart the harmonious facade woven by Finch, causing the cruel boundary between flesh and machine, life and data to collapse. Deep within his brain, it felt as if countless fine nerve fibers were snapping. Every push of his will was accompanied by intense dizziness and tinnitus. He felt cold sweat sliding down his temples, and the boundaries of his reason were being eroded by this violent force. He had never experienced such extreme lucidity on the verge of collapse so profoundly, as if he could clearly perceive every fragile element that constituted his own spirit. But he knew that this was his only weapon, and the only thing he could do for those who had passed away—to ensure that their pain would not be forgotten, but rather become the spark that ignites resistance.

The enormous tree shadows, composed of flesh and metal, obscured the eternally bright square, casting bottomless shadows.

This scene was like tearing a huge hole in Finch's meticulously woven web of logic, exposing the fragility of his lies.

Lin Zheng knew that he was gambling with his own spirit, constantly challenging the "reality" of dreams. This was precisely the core method he used to fight chaos with chaos, employing his "golden finger"—dream anatomy.

Only in this way could he find a glimmer of hope and dismantle this seemingly indestructible cage from within.

A nauseating stench of decay and blood, as if from a grave, instantly filled the air, mixed with the sharp, grinding sounds of broken rubble and twisted metal.

The smell assaulted his brain, bringing a strong sense of nausea and stimulating every sensitive nerve in Lin Zheng's body, making his perception of reality exceptionally clear.

Professor Finch's furious roar exploded in Lin Zheng's ears like thunder, making his eardrums ache, as if the whole world was angry at this sudden rebellion.

"You think you know the rules of the game?"

This was not a question, but a cold, judgmental declaration. Professor Finch's figure vaguely appeared in the shattered sky. Though distant, his overwhelming anger and contempt were clearly audible, pointing directly to Lin Zheng's deepest, most unbearable weakness. He was like the absolute master of a dream, looking down upon the chaos before him from above. That posture of complete control was itself a tremendous form of mental oppression. He had not expected Lin Zheng to be able to condense those thoroughly cleansed and formatted "fuel" memories back into such destructive energy. He had once thought he knew Lin Zheng's mental structure inside and out, possessing all his weaknesses and fears, manipulating him at will. Yet now, Lin Zheng was like a madman, digging out his most primal grief and anger through self-destruction, transforming his "mental purgatory" into a real "physical hell." "Foolish resistance, what do you think you can shake? You're only tearing your own soul apart, dragging yourself into the abyss of despair! This is your nightmare, and you're making it more real with your own hands!" Finch's voice came again, this time with a hint of anger and warning, but more so with a cold, ruthless toy like a cat playing with a mouse. He seemed certain that Lin Zheng's resistance was futile, only accelerating his own destruction. Finch's voice seemed to materialize in Lin Zheng's mind as countless sharp blades, cutting into his nerves. Lin Zheng could feel Finch's mental power surging in through the cracks, engaging in an invisible tug-of-war with his own. Every distortion of space, every fluctuation of energy in the air, felt like knives churning inside his body, making it almost impossible for him to stand. But he gritted his teeth, refusing to utter a sound; he had to hold on, until the very end.

The voice carried absolute pressure, transcending words themselves, and directly invaded the depths of Lin Zheng's consciousness, attempting to crush his last resistance.

The crimson crack in the sky grew even larger, like a gaping maw, from which suffocating blood-red mist poured out.

Several tall figures emerged from the grotesque cracks constructed of flesh and metal.

These figures moved slowly yet carried an unstoppable sense of oppression. Their appearance was without the slightest delay, as if they had been hidden deep within the cracks, awaiting only a command.

They are the "spiritual guardians" that Finch embodied based on Lin Zheng's deepest, most primal fears.

Each of them is different in shape, yet they all exude an indescribable deformity and malice.

Leading the way was "another Lin Zheng," his face blurred and stained with blood and flesh.

It has Lin Zheng's outline, but its body proportions are morbidly elongated, and its skin is like charred wax, with blood blisters constantly bursting and healing on its surface.

Its eyes were two deep, blood-red holes, radiating a scarlet light, symbolizing Lin Zheng's past fear of losing control of himself.

Following closely behind were deformed creatures composed of sharp limbs and wriggling internal organs.

Those limbs were as sharp as knives, and every movement was accompanied by the ear-piercing sound of bones rubbing together, while the writhing internal organs were exposed, gleaming with a wet sheen.

Their enormous size and powerful posture seemed to be a concrete manifestation of Lin Zheng's subconscious fear of immense, invisible pressure, a fear of the distorted face of the world itself.

With each approach of the "other Lin Zheng," Lin Zheng felt his self-awareness eroded. That distorted figure was the very thing he feared becoming—a builder utterly assimilated by this corrupt world, stained with blood, soulless; someone who would do anything to survive, only to become part of the very system he hated. Its existence was like a magnified funhouse mirror, reflecting Lin Zheng's deepest self-denial and guilt. The deformed creatures were like a manifestation of all his repressed powerlessness and fear of the vast unknown; they were enormous and indescribable, each step treading on Lin Zheng's fear, stirring tremors within him. Their movements seemed slow, yet carried an irreversible heaviness and oppression. They were not physical beings, but purely spiritual entities, yet they could manifest in dreams a threat more deadly than any physical attack—disintegrating will and devouring hope.

The crimson light in the eyes of these "nightmare creations" reflects Lin Zheng's deepest fears, ruthlessly amplifying the self-doubt and guilt he had buried deep within him.

Lin Zheng instantly felt that his "intuition" and "insight" had been completely blinded, the structural lines in his vision had completely disappeared, and everything around him had become blurry and meaningless again.

He seemed to be unable to breathe, feeling a suffocating pain in his lungs, as if being tightly gripped by a pair of invisible hands.

His core strength seemed to have been drained away, and he could not even muster the slightest thought of resistance. His legs began to tremble involuntarily, and his body was as powerless as a pile of mud.

A chill ran from the soles of his feet straight to his head—the primal fear of facing absolute power. He was pinned to the ground.

In the instant his "intuition" and "insight" were stripped away, the world before Lin Zheng instantly lost all detail; colors darkened, and lines blurred into a chaotic mass of hues. He lost the ability to analyze, deconstruct, and reconstruct all information, as if a surgeon had suddenly been blindfolded and stripped of his scalpel. The surroundings were filled with a buzzing and piercing noise born of fear, overwhelming the suffocating stench of blood and decay in the air. He tried to gather his mental strength to fight back, but felt a powerful force surging from all directions, suppressing his will and making any resistance seem futile. He felt bound in place, as if firmly imprisoned by invisible shackles. The massive shadows of the guards descended, bringing not only visual oppression but also a complete mental collapse. They wielded their enormous limbs made of bone and flesh, creating gusts of ear-piercing wind, as if they would tear him apart at any moment. Lin Zheng's pupils reflected their twisted and ferocious faces, and within them lay a profound despair for another "self." He could feel the chilling aura of death approaching relentlessly, devouring all his senses and leaving only pure, boundless terror. This wasn't just simple physical harm; it was a slow, agonizing torture of the spirit, a strangulation of the will. He was like meat on a chopping board, waiting to be mercilessly dismembered. In this final moment, he seemed to hear the cries of countless Jeromes and see countless mangled remains transformed into "Gundams." He wanted to resist, but a bone-chilling coldness emanated from the depths of his body and soul; it seemed all he could do was wait for the end.

The guards, made of flesh and phantoms, roared as they charged forward. The crimson light in their eyes reflected the version of himself that Lin Zheng least wanted to face—a version of himself twisted by reality, filled with resentment and bloodlust.

The guards raised their massive limbs, ready to deliver a fatal blow, and he was powerless to resist.