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

In the corridor of the core computer room of the experimental building, the acrid smell of energy overload tore through the air. The air was thick with the ozone fumes from high-voltage arcing and an indescribable odor, a mixture of charred flesh and melting synthetic materials. The entire space was distorted; the instruments and equipment groaned under immense strain, and glaring fault indicator lights flashed wildly on every screen, each blink accompanied by a chilling warning of system collapse.

Visible cracks on the wall spread like blood vessels, their depths shimmering with an eerie blue light. The once pristine white wall was now covered in deep fissures, writhing and growing like some kind of living thing, their edges even radiating a faint heat. Each crack seemed like some kind of ominous rune, its depths no longer simply glowing blue, but occasionally flashing with strange green and purple, weaving together a morbid scene, as if something alive was surging within, emitting a soft, chilling scraping sound.

On the ground, irregular geometric patterns appeared and disappeared like living things. These patterns grew increasingly complex and rapid, spreading like a virus across the alloy tiles before collapsing in an instant, leaving deep, charred marks. Each disappearance was accompanied by a faint sizzling sound and a sulfurous stench. The entire core server room's security system was practically useless; the shrill alarms were drowned out by the even louder, apocalyptic roars and tearing sounds, appearing utterly insignificant.

Professor Finch's wailing echoed through the speakers from all directions, distorted and chilling. The sound was no longer the syllables a human could produce; it was more like the primal roar of a soul tormented by a thousand kinds of pain and madness, echoing through the metal corridor. Sometimes sharp as a knife's edge, sometimes low as a gasp from the depths of hell, it struck the very marrow of the listener.

The voice was filled with anger and pain, like a dying beast struggling, or like the final lament of a consciousness torn apart by some invisible force, carrying a madness and despair that would destroy everything.

Finch's body convulsed violently, each spasm sending countless cables connecting his temples, spine, and forearms into a flurry of sparks, filling the air with the strong smell of ozone. His facial muscles were contorted in a grotesque way, veins bulging, blood vessels writhing beneath his pale skin like black earthworms, his bloodshot eyes bulging as if about to burst from their sockets, completely devoid of human facial expressions, more like a horrifying sculpture of pain and data, a ghostly face frozen in a moment of extreme distortion.

Sparks flew from the cables connecting him to the illusionary device, and a piercing overload alarm blared throughout the entire experimental building, warning that the machine that housed the entire fictional reality, and the person at its core, were facing the brink of self-destruction. The numbers on the device panels jumped wildly, and red warning messages filled every display screen, foreshadowing an irreversible end.

Deep within Lin Zheng's spiritual body, a shockwave of thought exploded at the core of Finch's fabricated reality, the intense shockwave nearly tearing him apart. Each tremor was accompanied by the piercing pain of shattered consciousness, as if his soul were being torn apart by a thousand knives. He felt as if the sky of his spiritual world was being ripped apart, countless chaotic fragments falling like raindrops, almost engulfing him.

He felt no physical pain, because his very existence was pain. It was a tearing and burning pain that transcended the physical body, originating from the depths of his soul, as if his very essence was being stretched to its limit by some invisible force, on the verge of breaking.

That ancient and obscure mark now enveloped him, like a cocoon woven from ancient runes, emitting a cold, faint light that filtered out all irrelevant noise, leaving only the purest fighting instinct, like a solid lighthouse in a storm in the vast ocean of his consciousness.

He was left with only a cold, focused concentration, the kind of clarity he possessed only when facing flesh and blood on the dissection table. Now, however, he had to confront a mental world far more complex and twisted than any flesh and blood. Finch's consciousness was like a bottomless labyrinth, every path filled with traps and illusions, and he had to find the only way out, even if it meant being shattered to pieces.

Finch's repressed memories were like a shattered mirror, shaken to pieces by Lin Zheng's long-planned shockwave. Those fragments were not simple images, but were accompanied by unforgettable emotions: fear, despair, and resentment. They transformed into invisible blades, cutting into Lin Zheng's perception. Each fragment had a sharp edge, trying to pierce his defenses and drag him into Finch's dark abyss.

Through the cracks, Lin Zheng glimpsed a deeper chaos, the fear that Finch was trying to suppress at all costs—a "sin" consciousness stemming from his childhood trauma and personality flaws, wrapped in layers of his logical shell. It was a silent scream, a collapse of the meaning of existence. The exposure of this "sin" memory was not a simple emotional outburst, but a shaking of the very foundation of Finch's being, causing his proud edifice of rationality to crumble.

Finch attempted to forcibly stabilize the crumbling illusion by sacrificing himself and completely merging his remaining consciousness into the system. His body and spirit were irreversibly dissolving, merging with the cold machines and virtual logic code, becoming an extension of the illusion's own will. His aura became cold and ethereal, devoid of any life force, replaced by omnipresent, cold, and precisely calculated system feedback.

He intended to exploit Finch's rationality and his over-reliance on logic, turning the shockwave into a powerful logical backlash that would tear open the deepest vulnerabilities of his mind. Every step he meticulously planned was precisely calculated in terms of Finch's reaction, with surgical precision.

However, Finch's reaction exceeded Lin Zheng's expectations. He abandoned everything as a "human" just to become the illusion guardian of the "gods," a cold, ruthless, and purely data- and resentment-based living defense mechanism.

Professor Finch is not a simple rationalist; his rationality is a weapon, an armor against his own inner turmoil. When this armor is completely destroyed, the morbid will hidden beneath is revealed without a doubt.

When his deepest fears are touched, Finch's self-preservation mechanism erupts like a volcano, with molten lava carrying destructive energy. He abandons all rational pretense, revealing the most violent and primal side of his morbid will. He wants all those who seek him out to perish in his madness and become his painful victims.

The guards in the illusion became even more ferocious. They were no longer mechanical puppets, but possessed an indescribable madness and bloodlust. Their actions became chaotic, yet contained a deadly instinct; each attack seemed designed to tear their prey to shreds.

Their twisted bodies were almost entirely composed of pure flesh and broken geometric shapes, every bone and every inch of skin exuding a putrid stench. Each step was accompanied by a sluggish, rotting sound and the grating creak of bones grinding together, like a morbid fusion of walking flesh and machinery.

They ignored Arthur's gunfire and the damage caused by bullets piercing their bodies. As long as Finch's will remained, they were endless. Even after being defeated, they could re-emerge from the distorted spatial rifts, their numbers increasing rather than decreasing. Each time they were reshaped from nothingness, they seemed to become larger and more ferocious, like the embodiment of nightmares.

Besides the smells of burning and metallic blood, the air was now filled with a cloying, formaldehyde-like stench. It was a strange odor, a mixture of death and decay, that seemed to corrode the very depths of the soul, instilling despair.

This scent is the embodiment of Finch's deep-seated fear, seeping out after the core of the illusion was torn apart. It stimulates the nerves of every intruder in the most primal way, trying to drag them into the same madness.

In Lin Zheng's mental world, Finch's twisted laughter almost swallowed up his last remaining cries of "Who am I?" The laughter did not come from any concrete form, but echoed directly in the depths of his consciousness, cold and sharp, every syllable filled with malicious mockery and destructive prophecy, like tolling his death knell.

The voice carried the arrogance of a victor, proclaiming that he was about to be completely overwhelmed by boundless nothingness and despair, becoming a blank symbol in Finch's eternal illusion.

His spirit was torn into smaller fragments, like a candle flickering in the wind, teetering on the brink of collapse. The edges of his consciousness were blurred, and the images of his memories were fragmented in the darkness. He felt himself being slowly devoured.

He felt himself about to be assimilated by Finch's illusions, becoming part of this mad world, losing all self-awareness, and utterly enslaved by Finch's will. The feeling of being eroded and rewritten terrified him more than any pain; it meant the complete annihilation of his existence.

In the corridor of the core server room, Lina watched helplessly as the walls of the "fictional reality" began to crumble. The once-solid alloy structure seemed to be kneaded by some invisible force, emitting a harsh grinding sound, and the massive steel beams twisted into pretzel shapes. The cable was sparking wildly.

From the collapsed cracks, a murky, oil-like liquid seeped out, like blood being drawn from the world, exuding a cold, corrosive aura. It made a "sizzling" corrosive sound when it hit the ground, and rose up in wisps of gray smoke.

Overwhelmed by immense fear and self-blame, she felt powerless to confront the core enemy like Arthur and Lin Zheng. She was merely a support, a technician, yet now she had to shoulder the last hope in this desperate situation.

Professor Finch's morbid mockery emanating from the loudspeaker struck her nerves like a hammer blow. Every note was like a brand of despair etched into her soul, constantly whispering words of failure and surrender in her ears.

The laughter created tangible ripples in the air, carrying a mental attack-like tremor that made her feel that all her efforts would be in vain, and that she was about to face utter failure, as if an invisible giant hand had gripped her throat.

Lina clenched her teeth, a metallic taste filling her mouth. Phlegmatic tears blurred her vision, but she forced them back, her clenched fists turning white at the knuckles, her nails almost digging into her palms.

She felt her vital signs rapidly declining, and the energy shield of her special combat suit was on the verge of failure. The outer armor was riddled with holes from the constant barrage of debris and attacks from the illusion guardians, and on the damaged display screen, her vital signs were plummeting at an alarming rate.

The flashing red light constantly reminded her that her body had reached its limit, her will was on the verge of collapse, every muscle was screaming, and every breath was accompanied by a burning pain.

Just then, Arthur lunged at several of the frenzied illusion guards charging towards him. His aged yet resolute face was filled with determination, and an inextinguishable flame burned in his eyes. His hunched body suddenly unleashed astonishing power, as if he had returned to his most valiant moment in his youth. His revolver spat fire, and the clanging of metal, the guards' screams, and the whistling of bullets echoed through the corridor, forming a symphony of death, both magnificent and tragic.

He tried to fight against overwhelming odds, using his own flesh and blood to build the last line of defense, sacrificing his life to buy Lina the precious time to plant the explosives. This was his duty and promise as a guardian, and also his final mission in life.

He smashed a guard's visor with a single punch, splattering him with foul-smelling liquid mixed with bits of rotting flesh, but he paid no heed, his eyes filled with unwavering resolve. He then smashed another attacking arm with the butt of his rifle, the sound of breaking bones clearly audible, blood and flesh flying everywhere, as calmly as an old farmer harvesting wheat.

In the midst of fierce close combat, a stray bullet from the Illusion Guardian grazed his ribs with a piercing whistle and struck his left shoulder with precision, the impact feeling like being hit head-on by a truck.

The intense pain made Arthur groan. He felt a tearing, stabbing pain in his shoulder blade, as if it had been pierced by a sharp blade. His entire left arm instantly lost its strength and hung heavily at his sides. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and his vision blurred for a moment.

Blood instantly soaked through his old trench coat, spreading a shocking dark red stain around his side. The damp, cold touch made him feel dizzy and his vision began to blur, but his will never wavered.

But he gritted his teeth and roared, his voice filled with indomitable will and contempt for the enemy. He forcefully repelled the guards, wielding his gun with his remaining right arm to sweep away the enemies who came close. Every movement contained the final burst of his life.

"Lina! Hurry! There's no time! Don't worry about me!" Arthur's voice was filled with a dying despair and roar. His lungs felt like they were being torn apart, but he was still trying his best to convey this final command.

His voice stood out clearly amidst the noise of the collapsing illusion, like the last ray of light in the darkness, piercing through all of Lina's fear and self-blame, ringing out like an alarm bell deep within her soul, pulling her back from the brink of despair.

That ancient and obscure mark resurfaced, like a cold spark, enveloping his last fragment of consciousness and temporarily restoring a moment of clarity. This mark was not simply energy, but a memory and mission that transcended time and space, guiding him in his most critical moment and whispering ancient proverbs in his mind.

He caught a glimpse of Finch's distorted face, a face that swayed between illusion and reality, like a mad prophet or an all-consuming abyss, flickering before him with a destructive arrogance.

Lin Zheng knew he had struck a vital point, but Finch's violent backlash also made him feel his consciousness being dragged into a deeper void, on the verge of complete dissipation. His spiritual tentacles were being entangled by Finch's will, almost being completely crushed.

He heard Arthur's roar, a sound like a lighthouse piercing through the fog, distant yet crystal clear, awakening his dying will and reminding him that he was not fighting alone, but that someone was fighting for him, supporting him to keep going.

A cold, pure will emerged from the depths of his imprint; it was not an emotion, but the most primal instinct for survival and a call to duty, a resolute edge gathering deep within his consciousness.

Lin Zheng realized that to completely defeat Finch, he had to detonate himself as well, becoming the last and most powerful logical bomb in this "fictional reality." He condensed all his consciousness, all his memories, and all his computing power into a single point, preparing to unleash an energy torrent that transcended all logical limitations, completely evaporating the entire illusion and even Finch's consciousness.

There is no turning back, no option of failure. This is not just for the mission, but also to resist the fate of having his own consciousness devoured. He must be a pure terminator, a pioneer of self-destruction, exchanging his own demise for the survival of the world.

Looking into Arthur's pained yet resolute eyes, Lina heard his angry shout of "Leave me alone!" which acted like a shot of adrenaline, instantly shattering her self-blame and panic. She saw the burning flame in his eyes—his trust in her and his unwavering commitment to the mission.

She felt Arthur's blood soaking through his tattered trench coat, leaving a shocking stain on the cold ground. It wasn't just blood; it was proof of life's passing, a tangible representation of his loyalty and sacrifice, weighing heavily on her heart. In that moment, all of Lina's confusion, fear, and guilt transformed into an extreme clarity and icy rage; she had finally found her direction.

Lina's body trembled, no longer from fear, but from an indescribable determination and sense of mission, as if the blood in her body was boiling at this moment, and every cell was filled with the desire to fight.

She transformed all her emotions into precise actions, each movement filled with power and purpose, without hesitation or wavering, like a precision machine that had been recalibrated.

With lightning speed, she accurately picked up the device wrapped in a waterproof tarpaulin that had been scattered on the ground. The cold metal casing was the only thing that felt substantial in her hands at that moment, heavy with the hopes of everyone, as if it were her last trump card.

She knew that this specially made explosive was not for a simple physical explosion, but to tear a crack in the core 'node' of Finch's consciousness, completely dismantling his mental defenses, allowing Lin Zheng to deliver the final blow and opening the door to victory for him.

Lina's gaze locked onto the core node once more, a constantly pulsating red dot that was now crystal clear to her, without the slightest distortion. It was as if time had frozen at that moment, and all the surrounding noise had vanished into nothingness.

She gripped the waterproof device tightly in her hands, her knuckles turning white from the force. She placed all her hopes, Arthur's sacrifice, and Lin Zheng's entrustment on this device. It was her only weapon, and her only choice.

Arthur fell, but his voice still echoed, like a horn, beckoning Lina to continue forward. That voice resonated in her ears, never to be extinguished.

Lin Zheng needs her.

Everyone was waiting for her.

She could not betray this heavy trust, nor could she betray Arthur's blood. She wanted all their sacrifices to be meaningful!

Author Old Alley Postman's Recommendation: I hope you enjoy the story of "Rotten Dreams of America: I Assemble Corpses and Face Madness".