That night Cao Cao became worse. As he lay on his couch he felt dizzy and could not see, so he rose and sat by a table, upon which he leaned. It seemed to him that someone shrieked, and, peering into the darkness, he perceived the forms of many of his victims — the Empress Fu, the Consort Dong, Fu Wan, Dong Cheng, and more than twenty other officials—, and all were bloodstained. They stood in the obscurity and whispered, demanding his life. He rose, lifted his sword and threw it wildly into the air. Just then there was a loud crash, and the southwest corner of the new building came down. And Cao Cao fell with it. His attendants raised him and bore him to another palace, where he might lie at peace.
But he found no peace. The next night was disturbed by the ceaseless wailing of men and women's voices.
When day dawned, Cao Cao sent for his officers, and said to them, “Thirty years have I spent in the turmoil of war and have always refused belief in the supernatural. But what does all this mean?”
“O Prince, you should summon the Taoists to offer sacrifices and prayers,” said they.
Cao Cao sighed, saying, “The wise Teacher said, 'He who offends against heaven has no one to pray to.' I feel that my fate is accomplished, my days have run, and there is no help.”
But he would not consent to call in the priests. Next day his symptoms were worse. He was panting and could no longer see distinctly. He sent hastily for Xiahou Dun, who came at once. But as Xiahou Dun drew near the doors, he too saw the shadowy forms of the slain Empress and her children and many other victims of Cao Cao's cruelty. He was overcome with fear and fell to the ground. The servants raised him and led him away, very ill. Then Cao Cao called in four of his trusty advisers — Cao Hong, Chen Qun, Jia Xu, and Sima Yi — that they might hear his last wishes.
Cao Hong, speaking for the four, said, “Take good care of your precious self, O Prince, that you may quickly recover.”
But Cao Cao said, “Thirty and more years have I gone up and down, and many a bold leader has fallen before me. The only ones that remain are Sun Quan in the south and Liu Bei in the west. I have not yet slain them. Now I am very ill, and I shall never again stand before you; wherefore my family affairs must be settled. My first born — Cao Ang, son of Lady Liu — fell in battle at Wancheng, when he was young. The Lady Bian bore four sons to me, as you know. The third, Cao Zhi, was my favorite, but he was vain and unreliable, fond of wine and lax in morals. Therefore he is not my heir. My second son, Cao Zhang, is valiant, but imprudent. The fourth, Cao Xiong, is a weakly and may not live long. My eldest, Cao Pi, is steady and serious; he is fit to succeed me, and I look to you to support him.”
Cao Hong and the others wept as they heard these words, and they left the chamber. Then Cao Cao bade his servants bring all of the Tibetan incenses and fragrances that he burned every day, and he handed out to his handmaids.
And he said to them, “After my death you must diligently attend to your womanly labors. You can make silken shoes for sale, and so earn your own living.”
He also bade them go on living in the Bronze Bird Pavilion and celebrate a daily sacrifice for him, with music by the singing women, and presentation of the eatables laid before his tablet.
Next he commanded that seventy-two sites for a tomb should be selected near Jiangwu, that no one should know his actual burying place, lest his remains should be dug up.
And when these final orders had been given, he sighed a few times, shed some tears, and died. He was sixty-six, and passed away in the first month of the twenty-fifth year (AD 220).
A certain poet composed “A Song of Yejun” expressing sympathy for Cao Cao, which is given here:
