Pathway to Japanese Literature

Chinese Tales of the Strange

The third man spoke.

“The Tang Dynasty represents the zenith of both poetry and prose—an era in China that could be called unparalleled before or since. As such, there exists a great many renowned works of fiction, legends, and other literature, making it exceedingly difficult to choose what to introduce. However, among these, I shall first recount tales from *Youyang Zazu*.”
“This work, like *Soushen Ji*, was introduced to our country at an early date, and its adaptations have frequently appeared in our literature.”

The author of this work was Duan Chengshi of the Tang. He hailed from Linzi, bearing the courtesy name Kegu. As his father Wenchang had served as Collator of Texts, he read through numerous rare texts and secret volumes from his youth, becoming a man renowned for his erudition. He attained the position of Vice Minister of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices and remains known for his work *Youyang Zazu* (Main Collection in 20 volumes; Sequel Collection in 10 volumes).

The Haunting of the Ancient Tomb

There was a man named Li Miao who served as a judge during the Tang Dynasty and owned a manor in Gaoling, when a guest lodging there confessed to something like this.

“For two or three years since settling at this manor, I have in truth been secretly engaged in thievery.”

Li Miao too was shocked.

“No—what an outrageous man! Are you still committing such wicked deeds even now?”

“I swear I will never do such things again. That is precisely why I have made this honest confession. As you know, most thieves engage in grave robbing. I too resolved to attempt grave robbing—gathering a large gang, we recently set out to plunder an ancient burial mound near here. The burial mound lies about ten li west of this manor—six chō making one li—and when you see how extraordinarily tall and grandly constructed it is, there can be no doubt it holds great historical significance. After entering the pine forest and advancing about two hundred paces, we emerged before the burial mound. Amid the overgrown grass lay a large stele that had toppled over, its surface so worn that what had been carved upon it could no longer be discerned. In any case, after digging down some fifty or sixty zhang deep, we came upon a stone gate whose perimeter had been rigorously sealed with molten iron.”

“How did you open that?”

“By boiling human waste and applying it persistently over days until the iron dissolved.”
“When we finally managed to open that stone gate, what we saw shocked us.”
“Arrows poured out like rain from within, instantly striking down five or six men. Though everyone panicked and wanted to flee, I stood firm.”
“Since there were no other mechanisms, we reasoned they’d be harmless once their arrows ran out—so we fought back by hurling stones inside.”
“As this exchange of arrows and stones continued between those within and without, their supply was indeed exhausted.”

Then lighting torches and advancing, we encountered yet another second gate ahead that opened without resistance. But inside stood dozens of wooden figures poised to strike—when they all swung their swords simultaneously, the onslaught became unbearable. "The five or six men at the front were cut down there again," he recounted. We retaliated by wildly beating them with sticks until every sword clattered down. Surveying our surroundings, we found guard figures painted on all four walls, while before the southern wall hung a large lacquered coffin suspended by iron chains. Beneath it lay mountains of gold, silver, and jewels piled high. Though someone cried, "Now we've found it!", none dared approach after earlier disasters. As we exchanged wary glances, a soughing wind suddenly erupted from both coffin corners, violently pelting us with sand. In moments, the storm intensified until we couldn't open eyes or mouths—the rising drifts buried knees as panic spread. They all fled desperately, but one straggler was swallowed alive by the sand once more.

When they fled outside and looked back, the gate had closed naturally, making it impossible to reenter.
“Even if we could have entered, none could muster the will to go back a second time—every last one of us withdrew in haste.”
“Since then, we have vowed never to engage in grave robbing again.”
“Even now, when I think of that time, I can’t help but be terrified.”

This story ends here, but there are many other tales passed down of those who excavated tombs and encountered all sorts of strange phenomena.

In recent times, when several thieves entered to plunder the tomb of Xuande of Shu, they found two men playing Go under lamplight inside, with over ten armed guards stationed nearby. The thieves froze in shock and began apologizing profusely. One of the Go players turned around and said, "Will you drink wine?" He made each thief drink a cup, then gave them a single jade belt apiece. Delighted, the thieves exited—only for their mouths to seal shut as if filled with lacquer.
What they had taken for belts were in fact giant snakes.

The Calamity of Wang Shen

It was during the Zhenyuan era of the Tang Dynasty.
To the west of Wangyuan Station lived a peasant named Wang Shen.

He was an eccentric man who planted many elm trees along the roadside to create a shaded grove, where he built several thatched huts to let travelers rest and drink water during summer days. When officials passed through, he would offer them tea separately. While he was thus engaged, one day a young woman came to request water. The woman wore a blue undergarment beneath a white robe.

“I was living over ten li south from here, but having lost my husband and with no children, I now intend to seek refuge with relatives at Mawei Station,” the woman said. Her speech was clear and articulate, and her demeanor was charming.

Taking pity, Wang Shen not only gave her water but invited her inside, provided a meal, and suggested she stay the night given the late hour—to which the woman gladly agreed.
The following day, when the woman offered to perform some service in gratitude for the previous night’s hospitality, Wang’s wife had her sew a garment as a test—not only was the swiftness of her needlework astonishing, but the craftsmanship seemed truly beyond human capability, leaving even Wang Shen astounded.
Especially Wang’s wife grew even more fond of the woman, until finally she jokingly said such a thing.

“I hear you’ve no close kin—why not become my household’s daughter-in-law?”

In Wang’s household, there was a son who turned thirteen that year.
It was not unusual to take a bride for a thirteen-year-old son.
The parents too had privately been considering a suitable bride.
Upon hearing this, the woman laughed and replied.

“As you say, being a person of little means myself, should you make me your daughter-in-law, nothing could bring me greater happiness.”

The matter was swiftly settled, and the Wang couple rejoiced.
Taking the adage “strike while the iron is hot” to heart, they purchased new bridal attire that very day and made the woman their son’s bride.
Though the day remained hot even after sunset, since thieves had been prowling around there recently, they securely locked up the house and went to sleep—only for Wang’s wife to have a strange dream at midnight.
The son appeared at his mother’s bedside with disheveled hair and tearfully pleaded.

"I'm about to be devoured!"

The wife startled awake and roused her husband Wang.

“Since I’ve just had such an ill-omened dream, should I go check on our son’s room?”

“Enough, enough,” Wang chided in a drowsy voice.
“Who in their right mind would go peeking at a newlywed couple’s bed?”
“You’ve gotten yourself a fine bride, so in your giddiness you’ve had such an absurd dream.”

Scolded, the wife fell back asleep, but when she soon had the same dream again, she could no longer endure it.
She called her husband awake again and forcibly took him to their son’s bedroom. They called out tentatively from outside, but there was no response from within.
Even when they knocked, there remained only silence. Wang too began to feel uneasy. When he tried to open the door, it was firmly barred.
Summoning their resolve, they pried open the door and entered—within the room, the shadow of something horrifying came into view.

That was likely what people called a demon or yaksha.
Its body was the color of indigo, its eyes round and gleaming.
Its teeth resembled chisels.
The grotesque monster thrust aside the stunned couple and vanished like wind, leaving them utterly terrified.
When they looked to their son, only his skull and strands of hair remained—no trace of his form endured.

The Person in the Painting

This too occurred in the final years of Zhenyuan.

In Kaizhou, there was a military commander named Ran Congzhang who disdained wealth and favored scholars; thus, many Confucian scholars and Taoist priests gathered at his gate, among them a painter called Cai.

When Cai once painted a scene of the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove, executed with such exceptional skill that all who saw it marveled, there happened to be among the guests two scholars named Guo Xuan and Liu Cheng—men who had long clashed—and Liu Cheng, upon glimpsing the painting, sneered and said to their host Ran Congzhang:

“This painting demonstrates skillful rendering of human postures, but fails to capture the true essence of humanity. I shall demonstrate how to add greater vividness to this painting without applying a single additional brushstroke—what say you, Your Excellency?”

Ran was slightly surprised.

“I don’t know what arts you possess, but can you truly add brilliance to this painting without applying a single brushstroke?”

“It can be done,” Liu replied composedly.
“I shall enter this painting itself to make the corrections.”

Hearing this, Guo Xuan also burst into laughter.

“Don’t spout such childish nonsense. How could you possibly fix that painting without adding a single brushstroke?”

“No—it can be done!”

“As if that’s possible!”

“Then shall we make a bet?” Liu said.

“Hmm, I’ll wager five thousand coins.”

Guo ended up wagering the coins. Commander Ran also wagered. Then, the moment Liu Cheng stood before the painting hung on the wall, he leaped and vanished entirely. The entire assembly was so astonished that they searched here and there, but his figure was nowhere to be seen. Before long, Liu’s voice was heard from within the painting.

“Hey, Master Guo. Still don’t believe what I’m saying?”

As the entire assembly watched in renewed astonishment, Liu reappeared and descended from the painting. Then, he pointed to Ruan Ji among the Seven Sages.

“Since I thought everyone must be growing impatient, I only touched up that one part and left it.”

When the people fixed their eyes and looked closely, they saw that indeed only Ruan Ji differed from the original painting—his mouth now appeared as though tilted back in a sneer—and all were increasingly astonished. Both Ran and Guo realized for the first time that he was thoroughly versed in the Taoist path.

It seemed he thought that if such rumors spread through society, it would bring calamity upon him.
Five or six days later, Liu vanished without a trace from that place.

The Secret of the Big Dipper

During the reign of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang, there was an eminent monk named Yixing who enjoyed deep trust from the emperor.

Yixing had been extremely poor in his youth and was constantly saved by an old woman named Wang from the neighboring house.
Even after achieving prominence, he never forgot this kindness and was contemplating how to repay Old Woman Wang when her son was charged with murder. The mother rushed to Yixing and tearfully begged for her child's salvation, but he initially refused.

“I will never forget the past kindness. If gold or silk are what you desire, I would grant anything within my power. Yet in this age governed by an enlightened sovereign, pardoning murder lies beyond mortal authority. Even were I to plead directly before His Majesty’s throne—nay!—he would never countenance such appeal. This matter transcends even my reach; you must abandon hope.”

Upon hearing this declaration from Yixing’s lips, Old Woman Wang shaped her gnarled hands into cruel halberd-claws and spat curses.

“It was precisely because I thought you might prove useful someday that I went to the trouble of looking after you all this time! If I’m to hear such formalities in my direst hour, I’ve no need for you at all!”

As she tried to leave in anger, Yixing chased after her and fervently explained the unavoidable circumstances, but Old Woman Wang departed without so much as a backward glance.

“This is quite a predicament.”

After much deliberation, Yixing hit upon a certain idea.

The Hun Tian Temple in the capital was under construction, with several hundred laborers gathered there. He had one room cleared out and placed a large jar at its center. Then he summoned two long-serving attendants, gave them a large cloth sack, and whispered instructions.

“At the town’s corner stands a desolate garden where no one lives. You two are to sneak into that place and wait from the Hour of the Horse until evening. Then seven creatures will enter. Put all of them into this sack without exception. There are seven of them! Not even one missing—I won’t show mercy, so mark that well.”

We followed the instructions and waited. Sure enough, shortly after passing the Hour of the Rooster, a herd of wild boars came trampling through the desolate garden’s grass. When we covered each with sacks and captured them, their number proved exactly seven. When they brought them back, Yixing greatly rejoiced, sealed those wild boars into that jar, put a wooden lid on it, and wrote a large Sanskrit character on top. What manner of incantation this was, no one could fathom.

When the next morning arrived, an urgent messenger came from the palace, and Yixing was summoned before the emperor.

“A strange thing has occurred,” said Emperor Xuanzong.
“According to a report from the Grand Astrologer (Historian), last night the Big Dipper concealed its light.”
“What manner of omen is this?”
“Do you, Master, possess the means to avert this calamity?”

“The Big Dipper’s disappearance is indeed no trivial matter,” said Yixing.
“Your Majesty must take care.”
“If even common men and women do not obtain their proper place, frost may descend in summer or great droughts occur.”
“According to Buddhist teachings, there is no path but to subdue all demons through universal benevolence.”

He advised the Emperor to issue a great amnesty, and the Emperor complied.
That very night, the Grand Astrologer submitted another report.

“The Big Dipper has appeared as one star tonight.”

Then, each night saw another star added until after seven days, when all Seven Stars shone as brilliantly as before. Needless to say, Old Woman Wang’s son was saved through the amnesty decree.

A Night at the Station

There was a juren (one qualified to take the imperial examinations for the jinshi degree) named Meng Buyi.
While lodging during his travels in Zhao Yi province, Meng Buyi had stayed one night at a station and was about to wash his feet when an official named Zhang from Ziqing arrived at the same lodging with dozens of attendants in tow.
Perceiving the man to be a high-ranking official, Meng went out to greet him, but as Zhang was drinking wine and paid no heed, Meng withdrew to the western chamber, indignant at this arrogance.

Zhang, carried away by drunken energy, kept blustering about.
In a loud voice he summoned the station official and barked an order to bring baked cakes.
Deeming him a truly tyrannical brute, Meng grew increasingly displeased as he secretly observed the scene. After some time had passed and the ordered baked cakes were brought in, Meng peered again to see a black object entering along with the tray heaped with those cakes.
It appeared to be a boar-like creature; when it came beneath the lamplight, its shadow vanished.
Though Zhang and the others seemed not to have noticed it, Meng suddenly felt terror.

“What is that?”

Having witnessed this uncanny occurrence at the desolate station that evening, Meng found himself utterly unable to sleep, while Zhang—thoroughly drunk—had already collapsed into loud snoring.
The attendants had withdrawn to a distant room, leaving Zhang alone in his bedchamber.
When night deepened into the third watch (11 PM–1 AM), Meng at last succumbed to exhaustion and began dozing off—only to startle awake moments later at an ominous noise.
A man clad in black garments was grappling with Zhang.
Still locked together, they soon tumbled into the eastern room, the sound of their pummeling fists echoing like pounding pestles.
Meng held his breath and watched until eventually Zhang emerged—hair disheveled and sleeves torn away—then climbed into his own bed and began snoring loudly again as though thoroughly spent.

When the fifth watch (3–5 AM) arrived, Zhang woke again. He called his servants to light lamps, combed his hair, arranged his robes, and formally greeted Meng—his fellow lodger—anew.

“Last night I was drunk, so I was completely unaware of you and acted terribly rude.”

He then ordered a meal and amiably took up his chopsticks with Meng. During this time, he whispered in a low voice:

“Ah, there are still other apologies I must offer.”
“I must have shown you a most shameful spectacle last night.”
“I earnestly request that you keep this strictly confidential in every way.”

As Zhang pressed for forgiveness, Meng refrained from further questions and simply kept nodding in agreement. Then Zhang—though he himself was supposed to depart soon—said, “Please do not concern yourself and go on ahead.”
When parting, Zhang fished out a single gold ingot from his boot and presented it to Meng, pressing him not to speak of the previous night’s events under any circumstances.

Though he couldn't make sense of what had transpired, Meng parted ways with Zhang and promptly departed from there. Hurrying along the road still shrouded in predawn gloom, he had traveled some five or six li when he saw officials making a great commotion about having captured a murderous bandit. When he pressed for details, he learned that a man named Zhang serving as a Pingshi officer in Ziqing had been killed. Astonished, Meng pressed further—while they claimed bandits had slain him, the actual circumstances of Zhang's death proved exceedingly bizarre.

After Meng had departed a step ahead, Zhang’s attendants completed their preparations for departure and left the station with their master.
The dawn was still dark.
When they noticed along the way, the master on horseback had somehow vanished, leaving only the horse behind.
A great commotion arose, and when they turned back to the station to investigate, white bones were discovered in the western chamber.
There was no flesh, no flowing blood.
They could determine that these were Zhang’s remains solely by the single pair of shoes left beside them.

Thus considering, it was completely clear that this was not the work of ordinary thieves. Although the station officials were making a great fuss about capturing thieves as a show of duty, they secretly leaked such things to Meng.

"In this station's lodging house, there have been frequent ominous occurrences since ancient times, but the monster's true form remains unknown to this day."

Dwarf

It was the final years of the Tang Dynasty's Taihe era.

South of Songzi County lived a scholar who had borrowed his relative’s villa to reside in. On his first evening there, keeping to scholarly custom by reading beneath lamplight until the second watch (9–11 PM), he suddenly saw a tiny human enter through the gate.

Though called human, this being stood barely half an inch tall. Yet clad in hemp robes and bearing a staff, it sauntered in with composure before speaking in a voice that droned like a large fly.

“You’ve only just arrived today, with no master here—how lonely you must be all alone.”

Even when such a mysterious human appeared before his eyes, that scholar—being a man of considerable fortitude—continued reading his book with an unaffected air, whereupon the human became displeased.

“What manner of creature are you? Do you not comprehend the decorum between host and guest?”

Since the scholar still would not engage, he climbed onto the desk, peered at the texts the scholar was reading, and kept hurling insults.
Even so, as the scholar remained composed, he—apparently growing irritated—gradually began acting violently, flipping over the inkstone there onto the books.
The scholar, finally irritated as well, grabbed a thick brush and struck out. Upon hitting the ground, he let out a few cries before his form vanished instantly.

After some time, four or five more women appeared. There were those who were old and those who were young; all stood about an inch tall, yet they raised disproportionately loud voices and pressed toward the scholar.

“When our lord saw you studying alone here, he thought to send his young master to expound upon the arcane principles of scholarship for your benefit.”
“Without understanding that, you resorted to violence and injured the young master—what is the meaning of this?”
“You’ll soon face retribution for this—mark my words.”

No sooner had they spoken than a multitude of small humans swarmed in like ants, clambered onto the desk, scaled the floor, and beat him without mercy. The scholar found himself in a dreamlike state, utterly unable to fend them off—his limbs battered, his flesh bitten—until he was left thoroughly ravaged by their onslaught.

“Come on, get moving! Or else we’ll gouge out your eyes!” As four or five of them clambered onto his face, the scholar found himself utterly overwhelmed.

Now that things had come to this, the scholar had no choice but to obey their commands. As they led him out through the gate, he saw a small gate resembling a military commissioner’s yamen east of the hall.

“You monster! How dare you act so rudely toward a human!” the scholar shouted, having regained his courage—but he was still no match for their numbers.
Once again bitten and beaten by them, while dazed once more, the scholar was eventually driven into that small gate.

Looking around, before him stood a palace-like structure of imposing grandeur, upon whose dais sat a figure clad in ceremonial robes.
Below the dais, several thousand imperial guards stood in attendance.
All of them were small humans slightly over an inch tall.
The figure in ceremonial robes scolded the scholar.

"I took pity on you being alone here and sent a child to keep you company—only for you to inflict grievous injuries upon them."
“Utterly outrageous wretch.”
“I shall investigate your crimes and have you cut in half—prepare yourself.”

At the command, dozens of men drew their blades and advanced, so the scholar was greatly terrified.
He lowered his head and apologized for his wrongdoing, whereupon the other party’s expression softened slightly.

"If you truly regret it," declared the figure in ceremonial robes, "I shall grant you an exceptional pardon this once." His voice carried imperial finality as he added, "Let this temper your conduct henceforth."

Relieved, the scholar found himself expelled from the strange court. When he regained awareness, he stood once more before the villa's outer gate. The fifth watch hour approached dawn; returning to his chamber, he discovered his reading lamp still burning faintly upon the desk.

The following day, when he searched for traces of those suspicious figures’ arrival, he discovered a millet-sized hole beneath the old eastern staircase, from which geckos crawled in and out.
The scholar immediately hired several laborers to excavate the hole. At a depth of several zhang, they found numerous geckos inhabiting the space, the largest among them crimson-hued and reaching one chi in length.
It was likely their king.
The surrounding soil was heaped up, appearing just like a palace.

“It’s these creatures’ doing.”

The scholar burned them all to death.
After that, there were no more strange occurrences.

The Monster's Mouth

Monk Zhitong of Lintuan Temple always carried the Lotus Sutra with him.
He built a small hermitage in a cold, rarely traversed forest and devoted himself to reciting sutras without neglect.

One year, at midnight, a presence prowled around the hermitage, calling Zhitong’s name.

“Zhitong, Zhitong.”

When no response came from within, those outside continued calling until daybreak.
Not only did this persist for three nights, but as the voice now reverberated through the temple grounds themselves, Zhitong could no longer endure it and finally answered.

“How noisy!”
“If you have business, then enter without hesitation.”

Before long, something entered.
It stood about six feet tall, wore black robes, and had a livid blue face.
He stared with wide eyes and drew a deep breath.
In short, it was a type of monster.
Moreover, he first pressed his palms together in a bow toward the monk.

“Are you cold?” asked Zhitong.
“If you’re cold, warm yourself at this fire.”

The monster silently warmed himself by the fire.
Zhitong left him be and continued reciting the Lotus Sutra． As night deepened toward fifth watch，the monster—appearing intoxicated by flames—closed his large eyes，opened his gaping mouth，leaned against hearthstones，and fell into slumber with rumbling snores．
Zhitong observed this，took an incense scoop，and shoveled embers and ash into his mouth． He cried out，leapt up，and fled through temple gates—a crash resounded beyond，then silence reclaimed all．

When dawn broke and Zhitong went out front, he found a piece of tree bark lying where the creature had apparently fallen the night before. As the temple was situated at the foot of a mountain, he climbed its slope and found a large blue paulownia tree several li deep into the hills (six chō making one li). The treetop had already begun to wither, and there was a freshly chipped notch in the hollow of its roots. When he experimentally pressed the piece of bark against it, it fit as though glued into place. Moreover, at the half-withered portion of the root there was a hollow—six or seven sun deep—that must have been the monster’s mouth. The ashes and fire from last night still remained unextinguished.

Zhitong burned down the tree.

A Single Apricot Tree

West of Changbai Mountain lies what is called the Tomb of the Lady.
It is not known whose tomb this is.

During the reign of Emperor Xiaozhao of Wei, an edict was issued to summon talented individuals from across the realm.
A youth named Cui Luoshi from Qinghe, though barely twenty yet long renowned for his talent, was among those summoned. As dusk fell while passing by this tomb’s edge during his journey, a tower with vermilion gates and whitewashed walls abruptly materialized before his eyes.
A woman who appeared to be a maidservant emerged and said, “The young mistress wishes to meet you.”
Cui dismounted and followed her. Upon passing through the double gate, another woman was waiting there and guided him.

“Given my travel-worn appearance, it would be most improper to be escorted further within,” Cui declined with formal courtesy.

“The young mistress is the daughter of Palace Attendant Wu Zhi and wife of Magistrate Liu of Pingling, but since His Honor passed away some time ago, she now dwells in solitude.”
“You mustn’t stand on ceremony,” the woman pressed, urging Cui inside.

When invited through, the mistress stood at the room’s entrance to greet him.
Two more maidservants held candles.
Cui was naturally welcomed; when he sat knee-to-knee conversing with the woman, she proved remarkably erudite, her discourse brimming with refined topics that showed no sign of exhaustion.
Though Cui privately doubted such a person could dwell in such a place—likely no ordinary human—he found himself captivated by her words. When their talk turned to Han-Wei era history, every detail she spoke aligned precisely with historical records, leaving Cui increasingly astounded.

“I have already learned your husband’s family name is Liu, but if I may ask, what was his given name?” Cui inquired.

“My husband was the second son of Liu Kongcai. His given name was Yao, and his style name was Zhongzhang,” the woman replied.
“He was recently exiled to a distant land for a crime and has not returned since.”

After they conversed a while longer, Cui announced his departure and left, whereupon the mistress courteously saw him off.

“We shall meet again ten years from now.”

As a memento, Cui presented the woman with a tortoiseshell hairpin.
The woman presented a jade ring to the man.

Exiting the gate and remounting his horse, he rode several dozen steps before glancing back—the tower had vanished without a trace, leaving only a large burial mound lying there. Though he had vaguely anticipated this outcome might come to pass, Cui found himself ill at ease even now. Later, he requested a monk perform memorial rites and offered the ring as alms.

Afterward, nothing changed, and Cui maintained his good reputation as a county official. In the final year of the Tian Tong era, he received official orders to construct a river embankment. During the work, while recounting old tales to those under his command, tears streamed down his face.

“This year marks the tenth year of the pact.”
“What am I to do?”

Those listening knew not how to answer.
After the construction was completed without incident, one day, while Cui was eating apricots in his garden, he suddenly spoke as though he had remembered something.

“Madam. If you do not consider me a liar, please do not let me eat this apricot.”

He collapsed and died before finishing a single apricot.

Swordsmanship

This is the story of a man named Wei Xinggui.

When Wei Xinggui was young and traveling west of the capital, he arrived at a post town as dusk fell.
Then, as he attempted to hasten his journey, an old man was making a bucket in front of the station building.

"You should not travel the night roads.
There are many bandits around here," he cautioned Wei.

"I don’t fear bandits or the like," said Wei.
"I too have some experience with bow and arrow."

After bidding farewell to the old man, he hurried along the night road on horseback. When he thought the night had grown late, a figure emerged from deep within the grass thicket and seemed to be following his horse’s tracks. Though Wei demanded to know who they were, no answer came.
Realizing this must be a formidable foe, he nocked an arrow from horseback and let it fly. Though he surely felt the impact, his opponent advanced undaunted, so he loosed a second shaft.
He fired three shots, then four—each strike finding its mark—yet the opponent showed not the slightest fear.
Before long, having exhausted every last arrow, Wei now gripped by terror spurred his horse to flee. Soon a fierce wind began to howl and thunder roared with such violence that he leapt from his steed and took refuge beneath a great tree.

When he looked up, lightning streaked across the sky like mallets striking leather balls. It gradually descended, dancing over the great tree, when something came raining down like autumn leaves. They were not leaves but wooden tablets. They piled upon the ground in an instant, rising high enough to bury his knees, and he grew utterly terrified.

“Please help me!”

He threw down his bow and arrows and prostrated himself toward the sky dozens of times, whereupon the lightning finally receded, and the wind and thunder ceased as well.
First, relieved, he looked around—not only were the great tree’s branches and trunk broken, but his horse and luggage had vanished without a trace.

At this point, having lost all courage to proceed further, he hastily turned back along the path he had come. But traveling on foot this time made for slow progress, and when he finally returned to the original inn at daybreak, the old man was out front fitting hoops onto buckets.
Realizing this was no ordinary man, Wei respectfully bowed and apologized for his rudeness the previous night, whereupon the old man said with a laugh:

“You should cease relying on bow and arrow.
Bow and arrow are no match for swordsmanship.”

He guided Wei to the rear of the lodging quarters, where a horse laden with baggage stood tethered.

“Since this is your horse, take it without hesitation."
"I merely wanted to test you a little."
“Ah, there is one more thing I must show you.”

The old man produced a single bucket board and showed it—every last arrow from the previous night stood embedded in its surface.

Tattoo

The delinquents dwelling in the capital’s city districts, as was their custom, typically had their hair cut short.
Moreover, they bore all manner of tattoos upon their skin.
Soldiers from various armies also joined in committing violence—some gathering at taverns carrying snakes, others striking people with sheep spleens—so Metropolitan Governor Xue, who governed the capital district, petitioned superiors to punish them. He ordered neighborhood chiefs to deploy three thousand subordinates, who captured every offender they spotted from one end to the other and had them all beaten to death in the marketplace.

Among them was a man named Zhang Gan residing in Daningfang, who had carved on his left arm "In life, I fear not the Metropolitan Governor" and on his right arm "In death, I fear not Yama the King of Hell." Furthermore, a man named Wang Linu had spent five thousand coins to have meticulously carved across his chest and abdomen a full expanse of landscapes, estates, plants, trees, birds, and beasts. They too were, of course, beaten to death. Ever since then, all those in the city districts who bore tattoos rushed to burn them away. Also, during the final years of the Yuanhe era when a man named Li Yijian served as an official in Shu, there was a troublemaker named Zhao Gao residing in Shu’s town who treated brawling as his trade. For this reason, he had been imprisoned several times. However, as he had carved an image of Bishamonten across his entire back, the jailers hesitated to strike the revered figure with their rods. Taking advantage of this, he increasingly rampaged about.

“What an utterly lawless wretch!”
“Show no mercy, whether it’s Bishamonten or whatever!”

Li had him bound and dragged before the office, then with a newly made reinforced rod, had his back struck over thirty times in succession.
Yet he did not die and was pardoned unscathed.

Contrary to expectations that this would finally teach him a lesson, about ten days later Zhao stormed into the office stripped to the waist.

“Look what you’ve done! Because of you all, the revered image of Bishamonten has been left riddled with wounds.”
“Since I’ll be repairing it, I’ll need a substantial donation from you.”

Whether Li obediently complied with that donation request has not been recorded.

Vermilion-Haired Infant

This incident occurred in Taiyuan City when it was under the governance of Yan Shou.

While the town children were swimming in the river, an object came flowing down the midstream. They scrambled to retrieve it, finding it to be a ceramic bottle wrapped in layers of thick silk cloth. When they brought it to shore and smashed it open, from within the bottle emerged an infant about a foot tall. The children, startled and suspicious, gave chase—whereupon a sudden whirlwind erupted at their feet. Treading air several feet above the ground, the infant attempted to flee back into the water.

A boatman who happened to be on the shore, recognizing it as a monster, seized an oar and struck it down. The infant died instantly, its hair crimson as vermilion and its eyes positioned atop its head.

Human-Faced Sore

This occurred several decades ago.

A mysterious tumor appeared on the left upper arm of a certain merchant from Jiangdong.
The tumor resembled a human face, though it caused no particular pain.
One time, in jest, when he poured wine into the tumor's mouth, it drank every last drop, and the tumor's face flushed as if intoxicated.
When food was given, it would eat almost anything.
When it overate too much, the flesh of his upper arm swelled like a belly.
When he fed it nothing, his arm would grow numb and cease to function.

“Try feeding it all manner of medicines—minerals, metals, plants—every kind,” a certain renowned physician instructed him.

The merchant followed these instructions and administered every manner of substance—yet when they encountered a single herb called fritillary, the tumor furrowed its brows, closed its mouth, and refused to eat it.

“Got it! This is the cure.”

He pried open the tumor's mouth with a small reed tube, poured fritillary herb juice through it, and within several days the tumor scabbed over and healed.

Oil Seller

In the Xuanping Ward of the capital resided an official known as Nanigashi.
When he returned one night and turned into a side street, he came upon an oil seller.

The oil seller wore an oversized hat and had loaded oil barrels onto his donkey, but as he stood obstructing the official's path without yielding, the lead attendant struck his head once—whereupon it promptly tumbled off.
Then it slipped through the gate of a grand mansion lining the roadside.

The official thought it strange and immediately followed the trail—only to have his figure vanish beneath a large locust tree within the gate's grounds. He grew increasingly suspicious and informed the mansion's people as well. When they dug five or six feet beneath that locust tree to investigate, they found its roots had already withered—and beneath them crouched an enormous toad the size of a tatami mat. The toad clutched two thick copper brush holders whose tubes brimmed with tree sap. Moreover, beside it lay a large white fungus spewing froth, its cap had fallen off.

With this, the true nature of the strange oil seller became clear.

The fungus was the man.
The toad was the donkey.
The brush holders were the oil barrels.
This oil seller had been peddling his wares in villages below the castle town for nearly a month. Those who purchased it had privately marveled at its fine quality and suspiciously low price—but when his true form was exposed, all who had consumed the oil fell violently ill, retching and purging without warning.

Nine-Tailed Fox

According to ancient lore, wild foxes were called Purple Foxes; striking their tails in nocturnal darkness would make them emit fire.
Before undertaking any uncanny deeds, they would invariably place a skull upon their head and venerate the Big Dipper—it was said that if the skull remained balanced, they could shapeshift into human form.

When Liu Yuanding governed Caizhou, foxes caused such turmoil at Xinpo’s granary that he ordered constables to capture them alive. Each day he took pleasure in releasing the foxes at the polo grounds and setting dogs to chase them.
Through these years, over a hundred were captured and slain.

Later, they captured a mangy fox and released five or six dogs as usual, but the hounds dared not pursue it. The fox remained unperturbed, making no move to flee either. Finding this strange, they brought hunting dogs from the general’s estate. The Supervisor of the Army also led forth his prized giant hounds, yet all merely drooped their ears and did nothing but encircle the creature. After a time, the fox leapt into the government office building, then slipped free to scale the castle wall until it vanished from sight.

From that time onward, Liu ceased having foxes captured. Among Taoist arts there exists a method called the Celestial Fox Method. The Celestial Fox has nine tails and is golden in color; it is said to serve in the Sun and Moon Palaces.

Jealous Wife Ford

It is told that during the Taishi era of Jin, Liu Bo Yu's wife Duan Shi—styled Guangming—was an exceedingly jealous woman.

Bo Yu was fond of reciting the Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River and said to his wife:

“Were I to take a wife, I should want one like the Goddess of the Luo River.”

“You may favor the water deity and dislike me,” she replied, “but becoming divine myself lies not beyond my power.”

The wife threw herself into the river and died.
Then, on the seventh night, she appeared in her husband’s dream.
“Since you so love gods, I have become one myself.”

Bo Yu opened his eyes and awoke. His wife was trying to drag him into the river. He remained vigilant and never crossed any body of water for the rest of his life.

Since then, that river came to be called Jealous Wife Ford, and women crossing there all refrained from mending their garments and removed their makeup before crossing. When they crossed adorned in beautiful garments and makeup, storms would arise at once. However, even when ugly women crossed adorned in finery, the deity seemed not to begrudge them, and they passed safely. Thus, when crossing this river, those who avoided stormy tribulations were deemed ugly women—which made it absurd how every last ugly woman would deliberately ruin their garments and makeup to make the crossing.

Among the proverbs of the people of Qi, there was one that went like this: "If you want to take a good bride, stand at Jealous Wife Ford crossing—whether a woman crossing be beautiful or ugly reveals itself naturally."

Delinquent Youth

It was the beginning of the Yuanhe era.

In the Eastern Market of the capital, there was a delinquent youth named Li Hezi, whose father was called Nu Yan.
Hezi possessed a cruel nature, constantly snatching dogs and cats to devour, often wreaking havoc in the city.
When he stood on the street with a hawk perched on his arm, two men in purple clothes called out to him.

“Aren’t you the son of Li Nu Yan—the one called Hezi?”

When Hezi answered affirmatively and bowed politely, the two men spoke again.

“There are some matters to discuss, so let us speak where no people pass by.”

Leading him five or six steps ahead into the shadow of an object, they said, “We are messengers from the underworld, so come with us,” but Hezi did not believe it.

“Aren’t you human? Why are you trying to deceive me?”

“Nay, we are ghosts.”

One of them reached into his robe and produced a single warrant. The seal’s impression remained vivid, and Li Hezi’s full name was clearly recorded. It stated they would judge his crimes based on the complaint filed by four hundred sixty dogs and cats he had killed.

Hezi too was suddenly startled and afraid; he discarded the hawk on his arm, bowed deeply, and then spoke as follows.

“I’ve resigned myself to death,”
“But grant me this small reprieve—let me drink one last cup.”

Insisting he’d make them drink too, he pressed them toward a nearby tavern, but the two men didn’t hold their noses.
He then dragged them to a proper restaurant called Du, but since others couldn’t see his companions—leaving Hezi muttering alone—patrons suspected madness had taken him.
He ordered nine wine bowls, drank three himself, set six at the western seat, and pleaded for any possible way to be spared.

The two men exchanged glances.

“Since we’ve received this libation’s boon, we shall contrive some arrangement.”
“We’ll depart briefly—pray await us here.”

No sooner had they gone out than the two men immediately returned.

"If you can procure four hundred thousand coins, we shall grant you three years of borrowed life."

Hezi agreed and promised to procure the coins by tomorrow’s noon hour.
The two men paid for the wine and returned it to Hezi.
When he tentatively tasted it, its flavor resembled water and had turned so cold it made his teeth ache.
Hezi rushed home, sold off his clothing and household tools, and purchased four hundred thousand paper coins.

At the appointed time, he offered wine and burned those paper coins. Then he saw yesterday’s two men appear and take the money.
Three days later, Hezi died.

Three years in the ghost realm were three days in the human world.

The Bear in the Tang Chest

Prince Ning of Tang went hunting at the boundary of Huxian County. While searching for game in the woods, he discovered a chest concealed within dense grass.
When he ordered his retainers to pry open the rigorously fastened lock on the lid, a young girl emerged from within the chest.
When he inquired about the circumstances, she answered:

“I bear the surname Mo, and my father formerly held official position.”
“Last night I encountered bandits—two among them were monks—who abducted me and brought me to this place.”

Her sorrowful, pleading figure appeared exceptionally beautiful, so the prince, delighted, had her ride back with him on his own horse. At that moment, having just caught a bear, they placed it into the chest as the girl's substitute and secured the lock as before.

At that time, when the emperor was seeking beauties, the prince presented that girl and explained the circumstances. The emperor then installed her in the palace and enrolled her among his Talented Ladies.

Three days later, an official from Jingzhao submitted a report.

In ※（「樗」のつくり＋おおざと） County, two monks came to an eatery and rented a room for ten thousand coins for a full day and night.
They had claimed to be conducting some form of memorial service, yet merely brought in a single chest.
Late that night, a thudding sound was heard. Since they did not open the door until sunrise the next morning, the shop owner grew suspicious. When he opened it to investigate, a bear burst forth from within, knocked someone down, and fled.
The two monks appeared to have been devoured by the bear, lying dead with their bones exposed.

The Emperor laughed heartily upon receiving this report.
He immediately sent word about the matter to Prince Ning, praising, "You have skillfully dealt with those wicked monks."
The girl was skilled at singing new songs and came to be celebrated as "Mo Cairen’s Trill."

Xu Jingye

Xu Jingye of Tang had been fond of projectile shooting since his early teens.
He would shoot pellets using a small bow.
Ying Gong, his father, would often say:

"This child's physiognomy bodes ill."
"He will destroy our clan in the end."

Xu Jingye demonstrated skill not only in archery but also in horsemanship, moving with such vanishing swiftness that even veteran riders could not match his pace.
As Ying Gong delighted in hunting, he once took Jingye into the forest to drive out game.
When the youth had concealed himself deep within the woods, Ying Gong set fire from upwind.
The father thus attempted to burn his own son to death, fearing what the future might bring.

Xu Jingye, finding himself surrounded by flames with no means of escape, slit open the belly of his horse and crouched inside.
When the fire passed and he was surely thought to have burned to death, he—bathed in the horse's blood—stood up, astonishing even his father Ying Gong.

Xu Jingye later raised an army in an attempt to overthrow Empress Wu Zetian but was defeated.

Dance of the Dead Woman

This is the story of Zheng Binyu.

When he was once staying in Hebei as a guest, there was a village headman whose wife had died and had not yet been buried.
When sunset came, the women and children of the household thought they heard music somewhere—a sound that gradually drew nearer until it reached the front garden.
The wife’s corpse began to move.

The moment the music entered the room and seemed to linger between roof beams and ridgepoles, the corpse rose and began to dance.
As the sound moved further outward, guided by its rhythm, the corpse walked out until it finally departed beyond the gate.
The entire household stood shocked and terrified, but under cover of moonless darkness, they could not give chase.

Late at night, the village headman returned from outside. Upon hearing this account, he broke off a thick mulberry branch.
Then he drank copious amounts of liquor and, while shouting curses at the top of his voice, proceeded to search in the direction of the graveyard forest. After approximately five or six li (with six cho making one li), the sound of that music could once again be heard above a grove of cypress trees.

When he drew closer, he saw a bright fire burning beneath the trees where his wife's corpse was dancing. He raised the mulberry staff and struck the corpse. When it collapsed, the eerie music ceased. He carried the corpse back home.