The fifth month—the month of evil. When yin and yang clash, life and death divide, venomous creatures roam freely, and malevolent spirits emerge. The most inauspicious month of all.
Chang’an was trapped in sweltering heat and the countless taboos of the evil month, leaving everyone restless and troubled. At this time, shocking news suddenly emerged from the Great Luminous Palace: Princess Wangshou had died of illness at merely seventeen years of age.
The princess was born to Noble Consort Xue, the Emperor’s most beloved concubine. With the Empress position vacant, Noble Consort Xue, though holding the rank of Noble Consort, enjoyed treatment equal to that of an Empress. When the princess was born, the Emperor treasured her deeply, showering her with imperial favor that was known throughout the realm. Before she could even leave her swaddling clothes, she was granted a food estate of fifteen hundred households. When she reached the age of hairpin ceremony, her estate was expanded to three thousand households—far exceeding those of princesses born to other consorts.
Several years ago, the Noble Consort died from complications in childbirth. The Emperor, overcome with grief, lavished even more affection on the two sons and one daughter she left behind. “Wangshou” represented her parents’ sincere wish for their daughter to live a hundred years. The princess had always been lively and healthy, yet at the prime age when she should be selecting a husband for marriage, she suddenly fell ill for no apparent reason and died violently in the palace within two days—truly puzzling.
The Emperor, unable to contain his grief, ignored his ministers’ objections and posthumously elevated her to Princess Imperial, bestowing upon her the posthumous title “Si” (Thoughtful). He suspended court for seven days in mourning, ordered the Court of Imperial Sacrifices and the Court of Imperial Ceremonials to jointly oversee the funeral rites, and decreed that for half a year no music or banquets were permitted throughout the realm. For a hundred days, neither officials nor commoners could marry, and the people of Chang’an had to observe mourning and eat only vegetarian food for one month. With summer’s heat, fearing the jade body would decay, they held the vigil in the palace for only three days before sealing her in a golden coffin and transporting her to an auspicious site beneath Zhongnan Mountain for burial.
This burial site had originally been carefully prepared years ago by an elderly prince for his own afterlife, but after committing an offense and being demoted to commoner status, he no longer qualified to use it. With the princess dying young and unexpectedly, they hastily requisitioned this tomb for her burial.
The lavish dowry the imperial family had prepared for the princess over the years could now only serve as burial goods to accompany her to the underworld. On the day of the funeral procession, the cortege numbered ten thousand people—imperial guards leading the way, all officials following, banners and precious canopies blotting out the sky. They burned incense like firewood, with cartloads of rare treasures beyond count. The front of the procession had already reached the tomb site while the rear porters hadn’t yet left the city gates. The officials and commoners of Chang’an all closed their shops to watch, sweating profusely, shoulder to shoulder, afraid of falling behind.
Princess Wangshou’s funeral exceeded regulations in every aspect from the tomb to the ceremonies. The Imperial Censors argued until their mouths were dry, but helplessly, the Emperor, heartbroken over losing his daughter, would not listen to any opposition. Instead, he demoted and exiled several officials who spoke too harshly. The nobility of a heavenly princess brooked no objection.
Under dim stars and moon, Zhongnan Mountain’s shadow loomed like a black canopy over this imperial burial ground. Horse lanterns could only illuminate a few feet ahead. The oppressive heat was unbearable, the air so humid it could be wrung out, making breathing difficult even in the dead of night.
The underground tomb had been sealed, its three tomb gates filled with tin solder. The covering earth hadn’t been fully mounded yet when the Emperor ordered workers to level the cemetery grounds and build a shrine for future offerings. Conscripted laborers and craftsmen from throughout the capital region continued arriving—this grand funeral was far from over.
Two Imperial Guards sat resting on freshly cut tree stumps. Patrolling all night in full armor had exhausted them; their undergarments beneath the armor were soaked through. These pampered young soldiers from wealthy Chang’an families rarely received such grueling assignments.
“Too hasty, all rush and tumble. If they didn’t want to keep the coffin in the palace, couldn’t they place it in some great temple to chant sutras while slowly building the tomb? Imperial family mourning usually lasts over half a year. Even common families need several days for funeral announcements and condolences. This seems designed to exhaust everyone to death,” one complained.
The other replied, “They say palace astrologers calculated the dates—burial had to occur at a specific day, hour, and moment to be auspicious.”
“Where are there any auspicious days in the evil month?” the first guard lowered his voice. “This whole affair reeks of strangeness. I heard the princess usually loved polo and hunting, always quite healthy. Even if she caught a cold, how could she die within a day or two? Not only did she die quickly, but they’re also rushing the burial like ghosts are chasing them.”
The second guard quickly glanced around, and seeing no one nearby, similarly lowered his voice: “Everyone says it wasn’t illness—she was poisoned.”
The first guard immediately understood, leaning in close to listen to his companion’s details.
“Ever since the Noble Consort passed away, the siblings’ situation became quite delicate. Prince Shao is intelligent and steady, with good popular support. The Emperor treasured him so much, clearly preparing to establish him as heir, yet last year he was inexplicably demoted to serve as Youzhou Prefecture Governor. Now his biological sister has died suddenly… hard to say…”
The first guard frowned: “I thought you had some new information—it’s just the same old speculation. I think people say mothers gain status through sons, but actually sons gain status through mothers. When the consort mother is favored, her children can enjoy fortune. Once that favor ends, tsk tsk.”
Years ago when rebels plotted treason, the Emperor, then Prince Liang, fled in panic to Shu territory. His primary wife Lady Wang perished while he and Lady Xue supported each other through hardship, never abandoning one another. Prince Shao was born during their exile. Lady Wang tearfully vowed: if they ever had their day, she would never fail them.
Later, through fortunate circumstances, Prince Liang ascended to the throne and indeed fulfilled his promise. Lady Xue enjoyed undiminished imperial favor for twenty years, leaving the Empress position vacant, enjoying central palace treatment in life and death, with all her family members achieving rapid advancement. When people mentioned the Noble Consort, they never added her surname because everyone knew there was only one Noble Consort. This story was known throughout the world and celebrated as a beautiful tale.
“Moreover, with the princess so favored in life, after death she should have been buried in the imperial mausoleums north of Chang’an, resting beside ancestors and the Noble Consort. Instead she was hastily dumped here in Zhongnan Mountain for a lonely burial—isn’t that suspicious?”
“Keep your voice down. The more you know about these palace secrets, the faster you die,” the first guard said, covering his mouth. “Before the tomb passage was sealed, a unit of Dragon Guard went in. When they emerged moments later, their armor and boots were covered in blood.”
The second guard wondered: “Didn’t they say they buried several of the princess’s favorite precious horses as sacrificial offerings?”
The first guard scoffed: “To kill a few horses, do you need the Emperor’s personal guard to do it themselves?”
The two Imperial Guards’ drowsiness vanished completely as their conversation grew more animated. As the stars shifted and night deepened with all sounds stilled, the first guard suddenly heard rustling in the bushes. Immediately startled, he placed one hand on his sword hilt and covered the second guard’s mouth with the other, shouting sternly: “Come out! Who lurks here in the deep night!”
The second guard lifted his spear tip to raise the horse lantern, staring intently toward the source of the sound. In the dim shadows, a small hunched figure emerged. Bald, beardless, wearing a somewhat worn monk’s robe—a young novice monk of eleven or twelve years.
Before he could speak, the two Imperial Guards relaxed halfway, their hands on their swords loosening as well.
At this time, over a thousand Buddhist monks and Taoist priests had gathered beneath Zhongnan Mountain to perform rituals and prayers for the princess. Every Buddhist temple and Taoist monastery in Chang’an had mobilized, with eminent monks and master priests assembled here—the appearance of a young novice was perfectly normal.
“Please don’t strike me down, officers! This young monk was greedy and ate two extra bowls of vegetarian rice during the day. At night my stomach ached with diarrhea, and my master sent me out…” The young novice clutched his stomach and spoke tremblingly, unable to straighten his back, beads of sweat rolling down his bald head.
“Fine! Get far away and don’t pollute the princess’s sacred ground.”
After questioning him briefly, the two Imperial Guards felt relieved. They dismissed the young novice and, seeing no superior officers approaching to investigate, moved to a different location to continue their patrol, ready to resume their previous conversation.
This was merely an insignificant minor incident during the vigil for the princess.
The young novice waited quietly until the patrol soldiers’ horse lanterns had moved far away before straightening his body and wiping away sweat with his sleeve. Choosing a night with deep moonlight for the operation could conceal his form, but he also couldn’t see clearly the ground beneath his feet. If his master were still alive and saw him step on dead branches, alerting the guards, he would surely be half-beaten to death with a horsewhip afterward.
This time he had a close call. Being even more careful, he tiptoed deeper into the forest. After walking about a li, the young novice found a vegetable-farming household and climbed over the fence into the backyard. Due to the mourning period, all families within ten li had already been relocated, leaving the house dark and empty.
He didn’t enter the house but crouched quietly in the courtyard for a while. Confirming no one was around, he slipped into the sheep pen and tapped several times on the stone feeding trough. Moments later, several taps with the same rhythm came from beneath the trough. The young novice rolled up his sleeves and moved the stone trough aside, revealing grass turf underneath. Lifting the turf exposed an unremarkable hole—its entrance narrow enough only for a child, slanting into the ground toward an unknown destination.
The young novice called softly into the hole: “Senior Brother, come up!”
First, several earth bundles were pushed up from the hole. The young novice caught them and set them aside. Then someone squeezed up from the hole—head first, then shoulders. After both arms emerged, bones could be heard cracking as he stretched his shoulders and back. From this tiny hole emerged a young man in blue-green robes.
Even having witnessed this countless times, it remained astonishing. The young novice marveled at his senior brother’s bone-shrinking technique.
This young man was slender with a narrow, handsome face, skin paler than moonlight. Beneath his elongated eyes lay a faint trace of blue—he didn’t appear particularly healthy. Emerging from the hole, the two didn’t exchange pleasantries. The young man immediately sat cross-legged on the ground, formed hand seals, and closed his eyes to circulate his qi and regulate his breathing.
The air in the underground tunnel was stagnant. Though his Mysterious Qi Innate Skill had reached an extremely high level, after several hours of digging, he still needed to come up for fresh air. The young novice kept watch for him while scattering the earth bundles. With construction projects for the princess’s funeral everywhere nearby, a few bundles of earth were like drops in the ocean—no one would notice.
When he finished his tasks, the young man had completed his breathing exercises. The young novice pulled food and wine from his robes and respectfully handed them to his senior brother. The young man accepted them and calmly began to eat and drink.
Watching his senior brother eat, the young novice reflected that even though his senior brother had extraordinary natural gifts and various supreme skills, no one would envy the price he paid. His skin was colder than the green bricks of tomb passages. If he closed his eyes, held his breath, and lay motionless on the ground, nine times out of ten people would think he was a corpse.
“Almost reached the tomb chamber?”
“About one more quarter-hour should do it.” The young man drained the thin wine from his skin pouch, removed his cap to dust off the dirt, and wrapped it back on.
“Senior Brother, is this really… truly the last time?” The young novice’s patience finally wore thin—he couldn’t help confirming again and again.
The young man smiled brilliantly, revealing a set of fine white teeth: “Yes. Even if we don’t find anything, I’m done after this—washing my hands in the golden basin.”
The young novice couldn’t help sighing: “Such a waste of your supreme skills, and neither of us has gotten rich yet.”
“Shisan, if you want to get rich, go with Second Brother and the others. What fortune is there following me, Wei Xun, this bearer of bad luck?”
The young novice called Shisan said sincerely: “If I went with Second Brother, who would keep watch for Senior Brother?”
One monk and one layman looked at each other and smiled, saying no more.
The legendary Old Chen, the tomb-robbing master, had finally passed his mantle to his second disciple before dying. Wei Xun didn’t mind at all. When the old man died, he immediately left alone, taking only his personal dagger. Afterward, this child, youngest among the senior brothers, caught up with him, determined to follow.
Before re-entering the tunnel, Wei Xun looked up at the moon in the clouds. The lunar phase was hazy, Chang’e’s palace unclear—no omens could be read. Though he didn’t believe in ghosts and spirits, he still silently recited a vow in his heart.
The last tomb robbery.
Author’s Note: An adventure story inspired by Tang Dynasty legends, primarily drawn from “Taiping Guangji,” “Youyang Zazu,” “Xuanguai Lu,” and others.