The solar system is broken

Pain~

An extreme stimulation rose up in the writer's lumbar spine, and it felt like someone was cutting his body with a chainsaw.

Bang~ A drop of sweat dropped from the writer's face, leaving a wet mark on the hay beneath him.

The writer propped up his body with his hands, and felt a heavy pulling feeling from the waist down.

Then he saw a scene that frightened him. His two legs and his upper limbs were disconnected, with only a layer of flesh remaining connected at a distance.

It looked like the entire spine was torn apart by the rope.

An injury of this magnitude? Killing.

There was no blood on his pale face.

Click~

Twisting the body, the friction of the spine can even be heard so clearly.

Snap!

The writer's hand went weak and his upper body fell onto the soft haystack.

There were some internal organs hanging on the thatched house and wooden rafters. Livers, spleens, and lungs were hung in a row, all blackened with smoke.

Cannibalism?

The writer felt a chill in his heart. What kind of torture is this, removing people's organs while they are awake?

This is a nightmare...

"Are you awake?"

An old woman's face appeared under the thatched roof, with a strange smile on her face.

There is also a pottery bowl in his hand, I don’t know what it is. There is a dark liquid dripping from the edge of the bowl.

The liquid was burnt and very viscous.

Like some kind of decoction, maybe an anesthetic...

The writer moved his mouth, but no words came out.

It can only emit some dull low notes that cannot be identified.

The woman smiled, her face full of wrinkles, and there were more grooves.

She didn't seem to want to know much about the writer's words.

"It's time to drink medicine, Dalang~"

The writer's eyes widened and his teeth clenched, but he was no match for the strength of the old lady's hand.

A thick, fishy burnt paste was poured directly into his mouth.

A feeling of suffocation made the writer's head burst open.

"Drink it~"

The old lady showed her toothless smile and let out a weird and weird smile.

Staring at the writer with evil intentions, the old lady stretched out her hand and gently touched the writer's face.

An extremely rough callus spreads from the epidermis to the brain, and its strange eerieness even once covered up the pain in the writer's body.

"Child," the old lady murmured in a hoarse voice as if caring for an infant, "if you die, there will be no pain."

It's really poison.

"There are no tears in the Wrangler's starry sky, eternal life ~ sin ~"

It's like a congratulatory message, slowly chanting, with some special rhythm.

"This is eternal life in the true sense, child~"

The old lady recited slowly, the writer's eyelids were twitching up and down, and he was about to fall asleep in a daze.

Has the medicine taken effect yet?

Sudden.

"Old guy, what are you doing!"

An angry scolding came from across the hall from afar.

Then the writer saw the old face become crooked and disappear from the left side of the writer's field of vision.

The writer turned his eyes to the left and saw a very old woman throwing herself to the ground. The pottery bowl in her hand was smashed to pieces on the hard mud floor.

A tall and powerful intermediary picked it up like a chicken and threw it out the door.

Fat~

The old lady fell into a ball, and she didn't know whether she was dead or alive. Her hands were trembling like chaff.

The intermediary ignored the old lady, turned around, walked up to the writer, turned the writer over, lifted her neck and shook her head.

Shaking violently, coupled with the feeling of dizziness, my throat moved, and I spit out what I had just drank.

After shaking it for a few times, the writer stopped spitting out the medicine and dropped it on the haystack like a rubber ball.

The writer's upper limbs kept twitching, his head tilted, and his eyes weakly looked outside the thatched house. The medicine seemed to be very powerful.

"You devils~" the old lady turned over.

The intermediary grabbed the old lady's hair and dragged her out of the writer's sight.

"Crack!"

A muffled groan.

The old lady lost her voice. She must have been knocked unconscious.

Swinging eyes.

The writer saw more than a dozen people lying upright beside the haystacks. They looked similar to the writer. Their backs were rotten and their lumbar vertebrae were broken.

Each one is like a doll put together from scraps of meat.

"Priest~"

The intermediary outside the door said angrily.

"Is this old guy causing trouble again?" His tone was very calm, but he seemed to be a little unhappy.

"Why don't you kill this old guy!"

Sen~

The friction sound of unsheathing.

"No," the priest's voice was sharp, like the sound of metal scraping.

"She is a pre-civilized person and useful to us!"

"But she almost killed the best driver." Anxiously.

Drive out?

The writer was stunned, was he talking about himself? Probably something like a slave.

"Just watch it more strictly."

"Okay~"

Dragging sound.

"Wait a minute, leave this crazy woman to me~"

"Why do you want it too?" The voice weakened, and then he quickly changed his words, "No problem!"

"We'll have some fun with the driving. When they're done growing up, they'll be sent to build national projects."

The priest's voice sank, and he said through gritted teeth the last part of the sentence, "Okay, it's too heavy, help me carry it under the oak tree!"

"Okay, Lord Priest~"

The writer captured three messages.

For one thing, the people inside seem to be able to "grow well", and it seems that they themselves cannot die. Perhaps it is the special function of this thatched house, and people can be healed by being locked here.

As for the active ingredients for healing, the writer has doubts.

Is it thatch? But there are also a few "drive mouths" lying on the hard mud. Where is it? Judging from the casual movements of the intermediary, it doesn't look like it.

Air? A special space composition? Or a skill inherent in the human body?

None of these writers are known.

The second information is priest. Judging from this name, the cultural level of this society should be in the initial stage.

The prevalence of witchcraft is generally in the era of chiefdoms, which means that the productivity of the entire society will be very impressive.

However, from previous viewings, the writer has doubts.

Referring to the history of Chinese civilization, the large-scale use of iron was pioneered during the Warring States Period.

As for the stirrups he saw, cloth single stirrups began to appear in the Western Han Dynasty, and it was not until around the third to fourth centuries AD (around the Eastern Jin Dynasty) that double iron stirrups became popular.

The previous rider appeared and immediately threw the rope, obviously using double stirrups, which means that this civilization is seriously out of balance.

One possibility is that political culture lags far behind the development of science and technology.

Is this possible?

In fact, the writer does not really believe that according to materialism, the ideology and superstructure of society are based on material foundations.

Newton could not have been born in the classical era, because without Aristotle's cultural classification of disciplines, Newton would not have been able to develop classical mechanics without purifying research objects.

Similarly, if science and technology arrive at the theory of a round earth, but culture remains a sandbox of creation, then the country will collapse.

Short-term mutual offsides exist, but the gap in this world is too huge. The difference is a full thousand years, and the history of human science and technology is less than 3,000 years old.

The third information is national projects.

This is definitely bad news for writers.

In an era of such low productivity, any national project would be fatal to prisoners.

Qin Shihuang used about 1.3 million people to build the Great Wall, and about 130,000 people died, which is 1%.

Emperor Yang of the Sui Dynasty used one million people to open the canal, and the mortality rate was as high as 40%. When he built the Eastern Capital, it was almost the same number.

It's just that this mortality rate is nonsense to the participants. There are only two choices: die or not die.

If you are sent to a national project, depending on the writer's physical quality, it is basically the 1% or the 40%.

However, compared to these three pieces of information, the writer still has a huge question: what does the pre-civilization the priest meant?

Although China's dynasties changed, social turmoil and tranquility continued to alternate.

But civilizations have always been passed on to each other.

From Xia, Shang and Zhou dynasties, things about the Chinese people have been changing slightly, but they have not yet reached the level of great changes in civilization.

What is this pre-civilization?

What's more important is that the old lady actually lived through two civilizations. Civilization is not like menstruation. It only happens once or twice. It doesn't take millions of years. Can you believe it?

But this is something that a writer cannot understand in a small thatched house.

This is a deformed civilization~