A monk of Changqing was of lofty and pure virtue, and though past seventy was still vigorous. One day he suddenly fell and could not rise; the temple monks hurried to save him, but he had already entered nirvana. The monk himself did not know he was dead; his soul drifted away and came to the borders of Henan. There a son of a former gentleman of rank was out with a dozen riders, flying hawks and hunting hares. His horse bolted, and he was thrown and killed. The monk's soul, happening upon the body, closed with it in an instant, and the man gradually revived. His servants crowded round asking how he was; opening his eyes he cried, "How have I come to this place!" They helped him home. No sooner had he entered the door than a throng of painted ladies, white-skinned and dark-browed, gathered to inquire after him. In great alarm he said, "I am a monk—how have I come here!" His family thought him raving and together took him by the ears to bring him to his senses. The monk did not argue, but only shut his eyes and would speak no more. Given coarse rice he ate; offered wine and meat he refused. At night he slept alone and would not accept his wives' attendance. After several days he wished to take a little walk, to everyone's joy. When he had gone out and steadied himself, many servants came crowding in with money-books and grain-registers, pestering him to audit accounts. The young gentleman pleaded illness and weariness and refused them all. He asked only, "Do you know Changqing County in Shandong?" They all answered that they did. "I am dull and despondent," he said, "and wish to go there to look about; you should prepare my traveling things at once." They said, "You have but just recovered; you should not travel far." But he would not listen, and the next day set out.
On reaching Changqing, the scenery was as of yesterday, and without asking the way he went straight to the monastery. Several disciples, seeing a noble guest arrive, prostrated themselves in reverent greeting. He asked, "Where has the old monk gone?" They answered, "Our master has long since passed away." When he asked where the grave was, they led him to it—a lonely mound three feet high, with the wild grass not yet closed over it. The monks knew not what to make of him. Presently, reining his horse to go home, he charged them, "Your master was a monk of strict discipline; the writings he left behind you should keep carefully and not let be damaged." They assented. And he went his way.
When he returned home, he sat as though his heart were ashes and his limbs wooden, and would have nothing to do with household affairs. After several months he went out of the door and fled away by himself, straight to the old temple. "I am your master," he said to the disciples. Suspecting he was mistaken, they exchanged smiles. Then he told them the cause of his return to life and related his former deeds, all of which were verified. Then they believed, lodged him on his old couch, and served him as of old. Later the young gentleman's family sent carriages and horses again and again, earnestly begging him to return, but he would not so much as look. After another year the lady sent her steward with many gifts; gold and silk he all refused, accepting only a single cloth gown. If a friend of his came to that region, he would reverently visit him; they found him silent and sincere, a man of but thirty who yet continually spoke of events of over eighty years ago.
The Historian of the Strange says: "When a man dies his soul disperses; that a soul could travel a thousand li without dispersing is due to the firmness of his nature. What I marvel at in this monk is not his rebirth, but that he entered a realm of luxury and splendor and yet could cut himself off from men and flee the world. For if once the eyes glance and the scent of musk and orchids dizzies the heart, a man would pray for death and not obtain it—let alone a monk!"