The crypt of Daimyo Fei Leng reached its present state by means of a nearly natural process. The first band of cutthroats who chanced upon the eroded, golden door-catch in the floor of the Shenju caverns, never had to run another racket.
Even after the full course of their hearty liberations, the treasures within Fei Leng's sepulcher were such that the second group of brigands experienced heavy internal conflict concerning the inheritance of the wealth. Two-thirds of them perished—victims out of victimizers; prime examples of the clockwork artifice at man's core.
And the third party, a full century after the first, still found what even their scum-clogged brains could recognize as the herald of early retirement. There is a significant probability that any given ceremonial poniard crafted in the last two hundred years, in the greater Steppes region of the Ekumen, contains sizeable quantities of the gold, platinum, sterling, or in some cases malachite or amethyst, that was plundered from Fei Leng's tomb.
So today the crypt is immaculate, and all but empty. The only spoils proffered by it are the few coins that remain lodged in crevices and corners, reminders of a time when the sacrosanct burial treasures inundated Fei Leng's palatial death-halls. The writer of these passages once visited there; he looked upon the daimyo in that mythril casket, too heavy to be removed by the vagabonds, but with all the jewels prized from their sockets. He took up the rings from the daimyo's fingers, and assumed the crest at the daimyo's head. He was not afflicted with the fear of touching the great noble's corpse. He wears the finery still.