魂出五鳳樓 The Soul Departs the Five-Phoenix Tower
卻說太宗渺渺茫茫，魂靈徑出五鳳樓前，只見那御林軍馬，請大駕出朝採獵。太宗忻然從之，縹渺而去。行了多時，人馬俱無。獨自一個，散步荒郊草野之間。正驚惶難尋道路，只見那一邊，有一人高聲大叫道：「大唐皇帝，往這裡來，往這裡來。」太宗聞言，擡頭觀看，只見那人：却说太宗渺渺茫茫，魂灵径出五凤楼前，只见那御林军马，请大驾出朝采猎。太宗忻然从之，缥渺而去。行了多时，人马俱无。独自一个，散步荒郊草野之间。正惊惶难寻道路，只见那一边，有一人高声大叫道：「大唐皇帝，往这里来，往这里来。」太宗闻言，抬头观看，只见那人：
逐句解 Line by line
Now the story tells how Taizong, all dim and drifting, felt his soul pass straight out before the Five-Phoenix Tower, where he saw the imperial guard and their horses inviting His Majesty to ride from court to the hunt.
Death arrives disguised as an ordinary morning. Taizong's soul drifts out past the 五鳳樓, wǔ fèng lóu, the Five-Phoenix Tower that fronted the Tang palace, and finds the 御林軍 — the "Forest of Plumes," the imperial guard — apparently waiting to take him hunting. 渺渺茫茫 is the vague, unmoored feeling of a soul just out of its body, and the point is that he does not notice. He thinks he is going riding.
Delighted, Taizong went along with them and rode off into the haze.
He goes gladly, which is the horror of it. 忻然, xīn rán, is a variant writing of 欣然, "with pleasure." 縹渺, piāo miǎo, means faint and far-off, the visual register of a dream — the scene has already come loose from the waking world.
When he had travelled a good while, men and horses alike had vanished, and he wandered alone, pacing amid desolate wilds and open grass.
The escort thins out and vanishes, and the landscape flattens into 荒郊草野, empty scrub and open grass with nothing in it. That is the border crossing. No gate, no ferryman; just the moment you notice nobody is with you any more.
Just as he grew alarmed, unable to find the road, he saw off to one side a man who cried aloud, 'Emperor of the Great Tang — this way, this way!'
Somewhere between panic and a shout. 驚惶 is fright mixed with not knowing what to do. The man hailing him from the roadside is the underworld magistrate, and the story stops to describe him at length in the passage that follows — hold that thought, because the description will turn out to be a job résumé.
Hearing this, Taizong raised his head to look, and beheld a man of this appearance:
The formula 「只見那人：」, "he saw a man who looked like this," is the storyteller's cue for a set-piece portrait in verse — a 賦, a rhapsody. Whenever this phrase appears, expect the narrative to freeze and the camera to pan slowly over somebody.
The passage stages dying as a seamless con. Taizong is coaxed out of the palace by what looks like his own guard offering a day's hunting, and only the dwindling escort and the strange featureless country tell him — and us — that he has crossed over.
The 世德堂 text keeps the reader inside the emperor's confusion by keeping the vocabulary hazy (渺渺茫茫, 縹渺) right up to the moment a netherworld official cuts through it with a blunt shout from the roadside.