During the Yuan dynasty, there was a song titled "Reflecting on the Past at Tong Pass." It went like this:
Peaks gathered like a mass, waves raged in fury; mountains and rivers hemmed in the road to Tong Pass. Gazing toward the western capital, my heart was heavy. Saddened by the places Qin and Han had passed through, ten thousand palace halls had all turned to dust. When a dynasty rose, the people suffered; when it fell, the people suffered.
At the beginning of the Western Han, Xiang Yu entered the pass and burned Epang Palace, leaving Du Mu with the line, "One blaze from the men of Chu, and all that remained was pitiable scorched earth." The raging fire was said to have burned for three months, while the Great Fire of London had burned for only three days.
Perhaps that was because ancient buildings were mostly wooden structures, making fire prevention especially important. Yet even if one could guard against arson, there was no guarding against fires caused by lightning from the heavens.
If lightning struck an ordinary home, that was one thing. But if it struck a great hall, it could easily be regarded as "the Grim," and even the emperor might be frightened enough to lose sleep and appetite.
Yet before Benjamin Franklin, lightning rods had not been invented. That did not mean there was nothing to be done. At the tops of ancient buildings, there was often a protruding component called a "kiss." When the rain became heavy enough, the water would form a straight line, allowing the "kiss" and the flow of water to create something similar to a lightning rod.
But when there was not enough rain, the water could not form a conductive straight line, and thus no "lightning rod" could take