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

Cold. Damp. Like the silt of an abyss, or the blood of a corpse. This bone-chilling cold was not merely physical, but a spiritual freeze that penetrated to the very soul, dragging every inch of Lin Zheng's flesh into a heavy, slow swamp. He was enveloped in an indescribable stickiness, where even time seemed to freeze, and each heartbeat became distant and faint.

Lin Zheng was aware of his own existence amidst the excruciating pain. This pain was not merely physical torture, but a tangible manifestation of his mind and body being simultaneously crushed, as if countless invisible spikes were piercing every cell of his body, or as if the immense pressure of the deep sea was squeezing him into a pitiful lump of flesh.

Each breath tore at his shattered lungs, bringing a burning, knife-like sensation. He inhaled greedily, but only felt a deeper suffocation.

His nasal cavity was filled with the acrid smell of rust and rotting flesh, mixed with an indistinguishable odor similar to burning bones, stimulating his nerves. Each sniff was a slow torture of his will.

In my ears came the roars of unknown creatures in the distance. It was not a sound that any creature on Earth could make; it was more like chaotic noise leaking from a dimensional rift, filled with primal malice and endless hunger.

The sound was dull and viscous, mixed with the strange sound of metal tearing, and sometimes it turned into the whispers of countless people wailing at the same time, like an invisible chisel, striking Lin Zheng's head again and again, trying to break through his mental defenses.

A tearing pain and a hollow, weak feeling shot through his body; every muscle trembled, every nerve ending screamed. His bones felt like they were dissolving inside him, and his consciousness flickered like a candle in the wind, threatening to go out at any moment.

The surrounding city had collapsed into twisted ruins. Familiar streets had vanished, replaced by labyrinths of incomprehensible structures. The air was thick with oppressive despair and the stench of decaying matter.

Skyscrapers transform into bizarre geometric shapes, extending upwards yet seemingly collapsing downwards. Beneath the deeper logic of the dream, architecture ceases to be fixed entities, becoming living beings constantly shifting according to Finch's twisted will.

Their lines are no longer the sharp angles of steel and cement, but nauseating curves and spirals, twisting, extending, and coiling, every inch challenging the limits of human vision and rational cognition, giving one a feeling of nausea from the inside out. These structures seem to writhe slowly as if they are alive, radiating an invisible spiritual pressure.

The streetlights flickered with an ominous red light like shattered eyeballs, their focus never settling, occasionally shifting to a bleak blue or an eerie green. Each change in color was accompanied by a fleeting, blurry phantom, as if a creature from the abyss was watching him.

The ground cracked open, revealing enormous, bottomless fissures. These cracks were not natural breaks, but rather scars deliberately torn open by some supernatural force. They stretched out erratically, devouring everything around them.

Black nothingness surged from the cracks, like solidified fear, or like sticky shadow tentacles, silently trying to cling to Lin Zheng and drag him into deeper chaos. Each touch took away a piece of his control over reality.

Lin Zheng huddled deep within the ruins, his body feeling as if enveloped in molten lead, so heavy that even lifting a finger was incredibly difficult. He could feel himself being assimilated by this nightmarish realm, his body's outline blurring deep within his consciousness, merging with the distorted environment around him.

His mental world was under unprecedented pressure, as a chaotic torrent of information assaulted him, mixed with Finch's distorted fragments of memory, the desperate screams of countless test subjects, and unrecognizable whispers from higher dimensions. This information was like a thousand blades scraping across his soul, attempting to tear his consciousness to pieces.

At the edge of his consciousness, phantom whispers, like venomous snakes, entice him, promising complete liberation by asking only that he relinquish his insistence on "who I am." They weave a false, sweet illusion, attempting to lead him into the abyss of oblivion.

"Who am I?" This thought, like a steel needle, pierced through the fog, the only lighthouse in his sea of ​​consciousness. It was his unwavering anchor, the final proof of his existence, his last line of defense before his complete succumb. Each silent recitation was like inhaling a precious breath of oxygen on the verge of death, brief yet essential.

He clenched his teeth, his tongue tasting the metallic flavor of blood mixed with formaldehyde. This taste was amplified infinitely in his dream, piercing his mind. This was the backlash from the overly close connection between his mental world and his physical body; his nasal lining had ruptured, and even his gums had begun to bleed.

He mustered his last shred of consciousness, like a match about to burn out, emitting its final glimmer. He knew time was running out; he had to complete this final task before being completely swallowed by darkness.

He felt a slight stirring of some ancient power within him, a cold and unfamiliar resonance emanating from his deepest subconscious. This power was strong and primal, its very existence transcending any dimension or cognition he could comprehend.

That wasn't the power of Finch's dreams, nor was it an extension of his cheat system "Dream Anatomy," but rather something far grander and more ancient. It was connected to him by blood, yet it was completely foreign to him.

That power was cold and unfamiliar, carrying an ancient and obscure quality, as if it came from the chaotic depths of the beginning of the universe, or as if it existed before the birth of any civilization. It had no malice, nor goodwill, it was simply a pure "existence".

It did not originate from any civilization or time he knew; it was purely foreign, yet it evoked a startling sense of familiarity, as if he had some connection to it in a past life or deeper genetic imprint. This power began to slowly permeate his consciousness, leaving ripples deep within his weakened soul.

It awakened silently deep within his spirit, like a rusted ancient bronze coin, or a long-sealed stone door, which, after sleeping for millions of years, finally felt the faint tremor that awakened it.

The surface of the mark is etched with unrecognizable, mysterious symbols, exuding the chill of earth, each stroke seemingly containing the secrets of the universe. It emanates a primal, unpolluted aura, a stark contrast to the distortion and decay of Finch's dream.

That chilling cold penetrated to the bone, yet it also gave him a strange, primal familiarity, as if he had found a long-lost fragment in the chaos, a memory buried deep in his consciousness slowly awakening, allowing him to vaguely glimpse a reality beyond the mortal world.

It was as if this mark had been buried deep within his being long ago, only to be awakened at this moment, like a dormant seed that, after absorbing enough suffering and obsession, finally broke through the soil and emitted its unique light.

He tried to ignore this unfamiliar resonance, the confusion and uncertainty brought by this new power, because he knew that the most important thing at the moment was to complete his do-or-die mission. He compressed and refined all the power he could gather, regardless of the consequences.

He had to send a signal, a distress signal containing the coordinates of Finch's core nexus. This was precious intelligence he had obtained at the cost of all his sanity and life; it was his only breakthrough.

This was the only hope he left for his allies outside, the "anchor" to break Finch's prison, a fragile passage that could tear through dreams and connect to reality. He knew this was not just about survival, but also for those companions who trusted him and were committed to breaking Finch's heinous experiments.

A bridge built in the void connected him with his comrades in the outside world. This was his final gift, and his last battle.

Even as he faced death, even as his consciousness dissipated, this message had to be sent. It was his mission, and the vow he made with his life.

The information contained his obsession with "who am I," his strong affirmation of his own existence, and his precise positioning of Finch's "fictional reality," like a beam of light piercing through the fog, accurately pointing to the enemy's core weakness.

His spirit was like a sharp but cracked scalpel, on the verge of disintegration under immense pressure, yet he forced it forward with desperate precision, piercing the invisible barrier.

He precisely projected all the mental energy he could muster toward the outside world; it was the cry of his soul, the ultimate explosion of his consciousness. In that instant, he felt an unprecedented freedom, and with it, utter nothingness.

A silent wave pierced through the collapsing dream, rushing towards the barrier of reality, like a stone thrown into a calm lake, stirring up ripples invisible to the naked eye, carrying the last rays of his life.

As soon as the signal was given, Lin Zheng's body collapsed completely, crashing to the ground, unable to support himself any longer. It was as if his internal organs had been utterly emptied, and all his senses shut down.

Dust rose and quickly dissipated, even the dust itself seemed unreal, like this distorted world mocking all that is real. Lin Zheng's body instantly turned cold, devoid of any trace of life.

His consciousness plummeted into an abyss, irresistibly enveloped by that cold, ancient mark, as if lifted by an unseen hand and carried to an unknown land deeper and more primal than Finch's dream. He felt he was no longer Lin Zheng, but part of some ancient, grander being.

The mark was like a burning branding iron, leaving an indelible mark deep within his spirit. It was not a painful imprint, but a profound, fundamental one, where every fragment of his soul was rewoven and given new meaning.

It was waiting for him, and also silently devouring him, stripping away and reshaping his soul and consciousness, like a patient craftsman carving a piece of rough jade that had suffered greatly into a new form. Lin Zheng's "self" seemed so insignificant yet so important in the face of this force, becoming the catalyst for its awakening.

Lin Zheng's eyes lost focus, yet reflected a strange, frantic calm, as if after an extreme struggle, he had finally seen through all illusions and reached a state of desirelessness. This calm even carried a hint of detached indifference from the world.

He completely lost consciousness and fell into the endless abyss the mark pointed to. That abyss was deeper than a dream, emptier than nothingness, yet it concealed some unimaginable primal power and ancient wisdom. He became a part of this power, temporarily freed from all the shackles of the mortal world.

His body was completely buried by the collapsed fragments of the dream, as if it had never existed. The distorted geometric shapes and the black nothingness vied to devour the last trace of his existence, leaving only a faint, illusory fluctuation, trembling lonely in the distorted space.

This fluctuation proves that he once fought here, uttering his final cry. It is like a silent declaration, proclaiming a struggle of will, however weak, that could ignite a greater change.

***

At the same time Lin Zheng sent the signal, hundreds of kilometers away from Professor Finch's secret laboratory, in Ava Sterling's safe house command center, the atmosphere was as tense as a fully drawn bowstring. The low hum of high-tech equipment mingled with the slightly burnt smell of coffee and electronic components in the air, creating an anxious prelude.

"Received. A very strong mental signal, but extremely chaotic, like that of a dying person." Shadow's voice carried an unusual gravity as his fingers flew across the keyboard, green characters flooding the screen like a waterfall. His expression was composed, but his slightly taut lips betrayed his tension. Lin Zheng's signal strength and chaos were unprecedented; dealing with it was like trying to catch a grain of sand in a massive explosion.

Ava Sterling stood before the holographic projection in the command center, arms crossed, her gaze sharp as an eagle's, fixed on the anomalies flashing in the data stream. On the screen, Lin Zheng's faint vital signs flickered like a candle in the wind, terrifyingly fragile, each beat triggering calculations deep within Ava's mind. She knew all too well that any signal transmitted at this moment was anything but ordinary.

"Precision amidst chaos." Ava tapped the table lightly, her rhythm steady, her voice carrying an undeniable calm even in the tense atmosphere. "This isn't an ordinary cry for help; it's a desperate gamble carrying crucial intelligence."

"The signal source is fluctuating violently, accompanied by severe loss of sanity. But he provided precise coordinates." Shadow quickly reported the latest analysis results, fine beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. "The core of that madman Finch's fictional reality... it does exist, and Lin Zheng found it!" His tone carried a hint of incredulous excitement, but also a hidden worry for Lin Zheng's condition. Finch's experiments were not unfounded, and Lin Zheng had verified them at the cost of his life.

At the center of the holographic projection, an area originally marked as the Miskatonic University research facility began to blur and distort. It was a manifestation of the real world being eroded by the dream, an abyss beneath a calm lake that was now expanding at an alarming rate, revealing the terrifying true nature of its deep structure. The energy fluctuations in this area were unusually intense, indicating that Finch was pouring all his power into it.

"Activate the 'Phantom Intrusion' protocol immediately, with the highest priority," Ava commanded. Her speech was measured and deliberate, each word carrying an undeniable decisiveness. In her eyes, Lin Zheng was not merely an intelligence provider, but a crucial bargaining chip to break the deadlock. At this moment, every second could determine the success or failure of the mission.

"Convert the coordinate information provided by Lin Zheng into precise, executable mission instructions and synchronize them with Arthur's team."

"Confirm mission priority, highest." Shadow swiftly executed the command, his ten fingers blurring across the optical keyboard. Data cascaded across the screen, algorithms running at lightning speed, parsening Lin Zheng's chaotic yet precise mental waves into executable tactical routes and data ports. The entire command center resembled a high-speed, sophisticated machine.

A three-dimensional model gradually took shape before Ava's eyes; it was the internal structure of Finch's "fictional reality." It was no longer a concept, but a materialized mental labyrinth, filled with defensive mechanisms and traps projected from consciousness. At the center of the model, a constantly pulsating, glowing energy core was marked as the core hub of Finch's experiment.

Ava's gaze fell on the faintly shimmering nodes on the model, the "perfect system" that Finch had once boasted about. Now, it was riddled with wounds under Lin Zheng's infiltration, but its core defenses remained impenetrable. She could feel Finch's almost pathological obsession, transmitted through the data cable, cold and arrogant.

"We are about to enter not physical reality, but Finch's 'Nightmare Land'," Ava said in a deep voice. Her voice, transmitted clearly through the encrypted communication channel, reached Arthur Morgan's ears like an alarm bell ringing in the hearts of every team member.

Arthur leaned back on a crate at the makeshift assembly point, a tactical map glowing in front of him, its projection precisely marking the core area of ​​Finch's "fictional reality." A bottle of cheap whiskey was tucked into his trench coat pocket, but he didn't touch it, his expression serious.

"Finch's dream?" Arthur murmured, a hint of world-weary cynicism in his voice. He tightened his grip on the old revolver; the cold touch of the metal offered a small comfort, but couldn't completely dispel the unease in his heart. "That bastard who only knows how to package evil with academic terms, now he wants us to take a stroll through his brain? This sounds like he's giving him a psychiatric treatment."

"This is not a simple intrusion, Arthur," Ava's voice came, carrying an undeniable warning. "It's delving into a twisted dream. The illusions he creates are far more dangerous and deceptive than you imagine."

Ava warned, her voice like a sharp knife, slicing through Arthur's usual contempt and pointing straight to the heart of the matter. "In that place, the laws of physics and logic may break down. You will face mental pollution that will erode your will and distort your perception."

"Once you enter, you will be confronting Finch's subconscious, and all the obsessions and defenses he has poured into it. It is a cage he has woven with the souls of countless victims and his own paranoia, where deadly traps and insane illusions may lurk in every corner."

Arthur took a deep breath; the air was thick with the dampness and rusty smell unique to the industrial port. He pinched the old scar on the bridge of his nose, its lines etched into his very being, each touch evoking memories of past blood and fire. "Should we bring some tranquilizers and sleepwalking shoes?" Arthur tried to lighten the mood with a dry joke, but his eyes, sharp as an eagle's, had already swept across the faces of the team members, making sure everyone understood the gravity of the situation.

"Your humor can't change the facts right now," Ava replied calmly, unaffected by Arthur's joke. "Finch being there means his control over dreams hasn't completely collapsed, just been damaged. He's not just a passive observer, but exists at the core in a more hidden and powerful way."

"He has recklessly integrated his consciousness completely into the system, which has infinitely raised his defense level. What you are about to face is likely a living, breathing dream fortress driven by a twisted will." Ava's warning was clear and heavy, each word like a lead weight pressing on Arthur's heart.

"Your mission is to rescue Lin Zheng and completely destroy Finch's 'Fictional Reality' core. These two tasks are indispensable and have equal priority," Ava's voice commanded, reiterating the ultimate objective of the mission. "Sever Finch's connection to his dream world and end this nightmare once more."

"Remember, Lin Zheng is our only 'anchor point,' and the information he provides is invaluable. His existence is your only clue to locating Finch's core in that chaotic world, and it is also your hope for returning."

"His lifeline is now your only guide. Once he completely dissipates, you may also be forever lost in that dream, swallowed up by Finch's subconscious, and become part of his twisted collection."

Arthur nodded, the harsh reality before him leaving no room for complacency. His fingers lightly rubbed the gun handle, his gaze sweeping over the familiar faces once more. "Understood. My men are ready to depart at any time," he replied, his tone resolute.

Arthur turned to his squad, their faces blurred in the shadow of their tactical helmets. Each face was shrouded in the unknown they were about to face, but their eyes held no fear, only the resilience honed by dire circumstances and a death-defying resolve. They knew this mission was fraught with peril, but Lin Zheng's death signal, like a burning banner, guided them.

Ava shut down the communication, staring at the distorted coordinates of the mechanism in the holographic projection. Lin Zheng's fragile lifeline, like a delicate spider's thread, was pulling him into a high-stakes gamble. That thread was her only fragile hope to cling to. And she had placed all her chips on that thread. Success or failure hinged on this one move; there was no turning back.