After leaving Niuxin Mountain, a silent Li Huowang walked along the muddy path.
The paper clothes on his body, and even his very skin, softened and rotted under the downpour, sloughing off onto the ground. Beneath the cold rain, his charred flesh, interspersed with new buds of growing meat, was gradually exposed. Raindrops fell on the tender growths, and in that moment, Li Huowang truly understood the meaning of death by a thousand cuts. Yet, he made no effort to seek shelter, silently enduring the agony.
The rain eventually lessened, and the sky began to whiten with the coming dawn. Li Huowang stopped at a ruined temple. He had not slept for days and nights; he was utterly exhausted.
He looked up, first at the half-broken plaque, then at the moss-covered couplets flanking the entrance. Although the characters were severely faded, they were still legible upon close inspection.
The top line read: *Man shapes his own destiny; do not say everything is fixed by fate.*
