The rain in the south of the Yangtze River comes at any time, with heavy raindrops hitting the broken tiles of the dilapidated temple.
Fahai, or rather, the soul that now occupies this body, sits cross-legged in front of the Buddha, his soaked monk's robes clinging to his tense muscles.
He looked down at his big palm-like hands, with thick knuckles and veins on his arms that were as winding as earthworms. Then he touched the face that was said to be "extraordinarily handsome" and couldn't help but curse:
"Fuck, what is this?"
