Sin Domain: Crying Horse

Sin Domain: Located at the pass between the Gradual-Increase Belt of the Flat Domain and the Heavy Domain, it holds a monopoly on the passage from the immense gravity of the Heavy Domain to the relatively temperate Flat Domain. It is regarded as a place of punishment and atonement for apostates and sinners. It is approximately 4,250 kilometres from the Giant Tower, with a gravity of roughly 1.5g.

The two horses pulling our carriage were unlike any I had seen in the place where I grew up — these creatures were exceptionally burly and cumbersome, as if purpose-built to endure immense gravity and heavy burdens. They were covered in coarse pelts of a dull colour, which gave off a thick, earthy smell. Worn, blackened leather collars, their edges badly frayed and caked with mud, hung around their necks. Beneath their coats, thick, powerful muscles were faintly visible, writhing with their every movement. The collars were so worn and thin that the dark red skin underneath was exposed. The pathetic saddle on one’s back was askew, its surface mottled and its edges ragged, looking as though it might break at any moment. Where a saddle blanket should have been, there were only twisted iron rings and strips of torn cloth.

They had no tails; only a huge, raised spine that ran the length of their bodies before ending abruptly. Massive, thick muscle groups coiled down from either side of the spine, connecting to abnormally short, thickset limbs. Their hind legs were particularly striking, their cross-section almost the size of a carriage wheel. Below these, their lower legs were as thick as an elephant’s, joining to four hooves as large as a ship’s gunwales. I could see they were struggling desperately to keep their bodies from sinking into the mire. Their short, thick necks were bowed low, with a small, wide head set upon them. The head seemed nailed to the neck, with almost no movable joint. A huge, yet rust-spotted steel bit was clamped cruelly in their mouths, looking like an innate part of their heads, almost embedded in their flesh. It severely restricted their head movement, even though their cervical structure already prevented them from looking left or right. From time to time, they would let out a low whinny, the iron clamp in their mouths clearly causing them great pain. Their eyes were bloodshot, thick white foam drooled from their mouths, and their bodies shuddered and trembled. They were obviously exhausted to their limits. I even saw a raw, bloody wound on one of the horse’s hind legs, as if it had been cut by some sharp piece of iron.

Just as I was engrossed in observing these two horses, the old man in the driver’s seat — short but incredibly sturdy, with a messy shock of hair — violently raised his thick right arm. In his hand, he held a whip made of two extremely thick hemp ropes twisted together. To call it a whip was not quite right, for a black steel ball the size of a fist was wound onto its tip, with several sharp iron shards protruding from it, looking lethally sharp.

Before I had time to react, I heard a tremendous crack. The old man swung the whip with all his might, bringing it down heavily on the right-hand horse’s shoulder. The steel ball and its spikes smashed into its body with a dull, brutal thud, a cruel symphony of iron striking flesh. It was followed by the horse’s wretched, long scream. I saw the skin on its shoulder split open in an instant, like coarse cloth being violently torn. Dark red blood seeped from the broken skin, exceptionally thick and dark — in the vicinity of the Sin Domain, even blood became dense and heavy. The blood trickled slowly down its shoulder, its tendrils creeping through the fur like a bolt of malicious, bloody lightning. I could feel the poor creature slowing down, the steps of its gunwale-like hooves growing smaller. Its body trembled slightly, like a violin string about to snap. The old man seemed completely indifferent to the damage he had caused. He muttered something to himself and, apparently noticing the creature’s slowing pace, raised his whip again, preparing to strike once more.

I had a strong desire to cry out, to stop the old man’s brutality, but I also felt I shouldn’t interfere in the relationship between the old man and his horses. In the shadow of the Giant Tower, a master’s right to inflict violence upon his slave is a deeply ingrained social rule. Violence is the most effective means of intimidation for those of high status against those of low status. Even the armed order of the Tower Shadow Cult could use violence against the people at will, and everyone was accustomed to it, remaining silent. The right to interpret violence is monopolised by a specific class; it is not only direct physical harm but also a profound form of linguistic violence. This verbalisation of violence has made knowledge and truth the exclusive property of privileged classes, including those from the Light Domain and the Cult. Even resistance and questioning are regarded as heresy and subversion. Yet, when I ascertained this to a certain degree, I chose to remain silent. And to rationalise my indifference, I even concocted some unspeakably dark thoughts — what if this kind of creature needed to be spurred on? Perhaps this was the most reasonable, most effective way for them to interact? But I also felt clearly that the pain the old man inflicted upon the flesh of these wretched creatures was plain to see, unable to be deconstructed or eliminated by any semiotic system. If the ultimate goal of all things is the pursuit of happiness, then this was a pain it should absolutely not have to bear — at the very least, it could be mitigated. My mind was a battleground of conflicting thoughts, but my body remained heavily slumped in the back of the carriage — motionless, even more listless than when I had first sat down. I felt ashamed of my behaviour and slowly shifted my body, quietly sitting up straight — like a spectator in a theatre, who, when the drama reaches its climax, instinctively sits upright, as if they too have become a participant in the magnificent performance on stage.

The whipped horse finally collapsed under the merciless torment. Its heavy body, like a puppet with its strings cut, suddenly lost all strength and fell with a thud to the muddy ground. The loud noise pulled me back from my shameful thoughts to reality. I saw its knees sink deep into the wet mire, as if surrendering to this cruel world and its brutal master. Its body was motionless, save for the occasional tremor that revealed it was still desperately struggling.

‘Move!’ the coachman began to roar inexplicably, the whip in his hand like a remorseless executioner, falling upon the creature with the fury of a trapped beast, growing more out of control with every lash. His eyes were as red as dripping blood, his face contorted, and he let out near-hysterical shouts from his mouth, as if to pour out all his pent-up dissatisfaction and anger onto this innocent creature. ‘Move! You’re my horse! Why won’t you move!’ The old man’s voice nearly tore his throat, every word laced with endless hatred and madness.

For him to go from a state of quiet calm to this near-hysterical frenzy required only the small catalyst of his horse being unable to take another step. The calm that had preceded it now seemed merely the quiet before the storm, a superficial and extremely fragile equilibrium. I remembered how, on my journey through the Gradual-Increase Belt of the Flat Domain, every person’s face seemed to carry this same pre-hysterical calm. Their eyes were empty, their expressions cold, as if hiding the desires and impulses suppressed deep within them by taboos, authority, and laws. Behind this calm was a deeply hidden anxiety and unease, suppressed emotions and instincts that, like bubbles under the water’s surface, longed to break through and release a self-destructive impulse. In this world, everyone seemed to be playing a dangerous game, trying to find a delicate balance between the rules and the self. But this balance was so fragile that any tiny trigger could cause the storm beneath the calm surface to erupt in an instant.

‘Move! This is my horse!’ the old man persisted, hitting it harder and harder, as if trying to prove his own existence through this cruel act. His movements were savage and unrestrained, each swing of the whip accompanied by a furious whistle, like a shriek in the cold winter wind. The whip struck the horse’s body, each blow carrying a ferocious force, as if trying to penetrate its strong, heavy muscles. It felt to me that its huge bones could not possibly withstand such a level of pummelling — as if a few would break with every strike. Each blow left a deep mark on the horse’s thick hide, like runes carved in stone, recording one portion of pain and despair after another.

‘This is!’ the old man’s eyes bulged, the blood-red orbs seeming about to burst from their sockets. He then raised his short, thick neck and roared: ‘My horse!’ There was not a trace of pity or hesitation in his eyes, only pure fury and a lust for control. In his eyes, these suffering creatures were merely tools for him to vent his anger; each swing of his whip was like a challenge issued to certain taboos and laws. His face became more ferocious with every swing, as if, in that moment, he was projecting all his hatred onto these innocent creatures. His movements grew more frantic, as if in this merciless Sin Domain, he had lost all reason. A twisted light flickered in his eyes, and every breath seemed to suck in the viscous air around him. His bloodshot eyes seemed to pierce through everything, filled with a crazed and destructive impulse. Amidst this frenzied brutality, the old man’s figure became distorted and blurry, as if he himself had become a monster of the Sin Domain.

The spikes on the whip, like the teeth of a starving wolf, tore the horse’s muscles with every lash, as if ripped apart by a wild beast. The blood that flowed from the torn wounds mixed with the mud, sliding slowly down its heavy body like a slow-motion waterfall of blood. Under the pressure of the high gravity, the wounds seemed even deeper and more painful, as if every gash were telling a story of endless suffering. With every lash, the horse’s body trembled involuntarily, its huge spine seeming on the verge of snapping under the immense pressure. But what filled its tormented eyes was not the fear and despair I had imagined — it was a chilling solemnity. It did not look like a sinner lying on the block beneath the executioner’s guillotine, but like the executioner himself, the one holding the great blade, who had repeated this act countless times. And the physiological tears of blood soaked its pupils, making them incredibly red. It reminded me of a lake at the foot of a volcano, that final tranquillity before a critical point is reached, until the scalding lava flows slowly down and the hot volcanic ash gently closes the lake’s eyes. I could feel its breathing becoming heavier and heavier, each breath like a final exertion of strength. Under this cruel torture, the horse’s body began to make cracking sounds, completely unable to bear the double assault of gravity and violence. Its bones were protesting.

Just as the old man’s madness reached its peak, a passer-by suddenly entered this theatre of brutality, pushing it to its climax. I noticed his posture was abnormally twisted. His back was arched at an utterly incredible angle, his head lower than his own spine, as if bent by gravity or marked by a long life in the Sin Domain. His gait was stumbling, but a crazed light shone in his eyes.

As he walked, he grinned, revealing a set of uneven teeth, and shouted, ‘Kill it! Kill it!’ His voice was sharp and piercing, full of fanaticism and cruelty. His shouts echoed in the empty Sin Domain, intertwining with the old man’s roars to create a suffocating, terrifying atmosphere. His almost pathological excitement seemed particularly horrifying in this place of suffering and despair. Spurred on by his cries, the old man’s blows seemed to become even more frantic, the scene even more unbearable to watch. The presence of the hunchbacked passer-by, far from mitigating the brutality, was like adding fuel to the fire, pushing the entire scene into a darker and more insane abyss.

I was gasping for breath. I felt as if I were not breathing this viscous air, but rather had my nose pressed to a burning fire. In the midst of this suffocating madness, another man appeared. He was powerfully built, clutching a giant iron rod in his hand. There was not a trace of sympathy or hesitation in his eyes; I didn’t even dare to look directly at them, for they held only coldness and cruelty. He rushed forward without a moment’s pause, raised the iron rod that seemed to weigh a ton, and smashed it down viciously on the middle of the horse’s great spine. The blow came with a deafening crash, as if it were the most direct interpretation of the cruel laws of this Sin Domain. In that instant, the poor creature, unable to lift its head because of its neck structure, seemed to find a final reserve of strength. It stretched its neck out painfully, released the bit it had been clamping between its teeth from the very beginning, and let out a long, final breath. In that painful, protracted exhalation, its life seemed to slowly ebb away, finally expiring amidst the agony and despair. The surrounding air seemed to freeze in that moment.

A wave of nausea, like a churning sea, rose in my stomach. I felt the cliffs on either side pressing in on me like an avalanche. The ground seemed to become a thick, black sludge, pulling me down. The air around me felt abnormally dense, the heavy atmosphere thick with the rusty smell of blood and the stench of sweat, suffocating me, making every breath a struggle. My mind was filled with rage and helplessness, feelings that were seized by an invisible hand, squeezing my soul. I wanted to scream, but my throat felt as if it were blocked by something, and all that came out was a powerless sob. This feeling of powerlessness made me even more desperate, just like the horse that had been beaten to death.

I felt my knees grow weak, almost buckling, my hands clutching at whatever was beside me, trying to find some support. The absurdity and cruelty of the world under the shadow of the Giant Tower erupted in that moment. I felt the strings of thought in my mind snap, making it impossible for me to continue my cowardly and self-deceiving contemplation. I felt an unprecedented chaos, powerlessness, and pain. The horse had finally fallen. A crowd began to gather, their discussions rising and falling, but to me, it all seemed distant from my world. I stumbled out from the back of the carriage and knelt before the wretched creature. Tears blurred my vision, but I could still feel the pain and coldness emanating from its body. Trembling, I sobbed as I embraced its bloody, already cold face, kissing its eyes, eyes that should have been full of life but were now vacant and lifeless, kissing its lips, lips that had once breathed life but were now still. My tears mixed with the blood on its body. I slowly lowered its huge head and closed its eyes with my hands.

I knelt there, and time seemed to stand still. I couldn’t feel my own body; only in a daze did I hear the sounds of people dragging the poor creature away. I looked down at the large pit of mud in front of my knees. I felt I could hear their joyful neighing, then the dull, desperate thud of their hooves on the earth, finally turning into a calm and mournful weeping. In that instant, I felt I was in a long dream. I dreamt of a vast land. I looked around eagerly, longing to see the black Giant Tower that had never left my sight since I was born — or rather, longing not to see it. I first looked down at the ground and saw there was no shadow of the tower. Then I slowly raised my head. It was the bluest sky I had ever seen — and looking all around, it was still the same continuous sky. I shed tears of excitement and timidity, then lay down on the ground. I saw the sky change rapidly, from sun and moon to stars, the only constant being its boundless structure. I wished I could lie in this place forever, not hearing the whistle of the whip, not hearing the creak of a bent spine, not hearing the horse’s sorrowful cries. I didn’t even want to hear their laughter. I just wanted to sleep soundly in this distant utopia.

The dream was so real that I almost believed my feelings. Until she knelt in front of me, shaking me, her other hand pointing behind me, waking me with an urgent and anxious voice: ‘Look!’ She pulled me, forcing me to look up. First, I saw the black Giant Tower still standing in the distance, and then I imagined it slowly collapsing towards this place. For some reason, I longed for that infinitely high tower to smash into this place, to shatter all the absurd, cruel, and absurd dramas. Then I turned back to look in the direction she was pointing. I narrowed my eyes, my vision gradually focusing. The horrifying scene, so shocking it was beyond words, would appear again and again in my future nightmares — hateful, suffocating, as if a hand were squeezing my neck, making it something I could never forget. That was the Sin Domain. My first reaction was that the scene with the coachman beating the horse was, here, like a needle dropped in a pool of sludge, or a small joke in the corner of a page in some dark magazine. The ground below the pass of the Sin Domain was low and uneven, pitted and lumpy, covered everywhere in a dense, tangled mire of grey and earth tones. The mire looked exceptionally strange; it was constantly, slowly writhing, like a pot of black rice porridge that had been slowly stewed over a low fire and finally burnt, exuding an unsettling aura. The mire was mixed with dead branches, fallen leaves, and unknown substances, seeming to silently narrate the desolation and despair of this region.

I forced my eyes wide open. As my vision gradually adapted to the dim light and turbid air, I finally saw clearly that it was not simply mire — it was people, countless people! Their spines were bent downwards at an almost impossible angle, forming a deep arc, so that the highest part of their bodies was not their heads, but the fifth or sixth vertebrae up from the skull. The facial features of these people were almost unrecognisable, their expressions blurred by the mud and pain. For they were all buried beneath their own highly arched spines — like turtles hiding in their shells, leaving only a pair of thin, weak arms and legs struggling outside. Buried deep under each other’s spines and frail bodies, their movements were slow and full of struggle, like souls abandoned by time and fate. These people, branded with the name of having forsaken the Giant Tower, dragged their broken and exhausted bodies through the mire of this Sin Domain. Their movements were like those of an elderly person with mobility problems struggling to climb stairs. Every step seemed so heavy, every movement seeming to exhaust all their strength. For some reason, I was terrified they would raise their heads and look back at me, even though I knew they were physically incapable of such an action, nor would they do it. I was at a loss, and couldn’t help but shrink my head back. My throat felt as if it were blocked by something, and I could only manage to force out a few words:

‘Where… where are they going?’

My voice was hoarse and faint, almost a murmur to myself, instantly drowned out by the surrounding sounds. I knew full well that this question was almost meaningless in this situation. The scene before me was so shocking, my heart filled with more profound and important questions, yet I could not express them. Those deeper questions were like giant stones trapped in my heart, crushing me until I could barely breathe. I felt like a child who had made a mistake, at a loss, only able to lower my head and subconsciously fidget with the hem of my clothes. I had avoided the more painful and complex thoughts, choosing a simple yet helpless question. I sensed this was an instinctive avoidance, a question posed in a state of near-abandonment of thought when faced with such a desperate and chaotic scene.

‘To die.’

Her answer was surprisingly concise and direct. Her voice was flat and firm, as if this answer already contained all the context, answering both the literal and deeper meanings of my question. Her words echoed in my ears. I realised that in the Sin Domain, the end for sinners was, almost without exception, death. They were trapped in this environment full of suffering, fighting every day against the oppression of gravity and despair, until they were finally swallowed by this land. And for them, how sad their deaths were no longer seemed to matter. In the face of a destined death, all suffering and resistance seemed insignificant. The only thing that mattered, and what I wanted to know, was who had sentenced them to die, and why, and on what were these sentences based. I had a faint suspicion that in a distant past, the Giant Tower did not exist; the many petrified giants nailed to the cliffs beside the road to the Sin Domain were possible proof. Then the cause of the condemnation might be the sin we bore when the Giant Tower appeared — this impulse to return to the binary dependency between man and earth before the Tower’s intervention. Or perhaps it was a sin borne of being human, a desire to transgress the paternal law, to go beyond the rules — I think this hysterical, transgressive desire within the human creature is indeed the complete opposite of the Giant Tower’s prohibitions.