Lin'an, jewel of the Southern Song, pulsed with life. As the empire's heart, relocated south after the fall of Bianjing, the city sprawled along the serene West Lake and pressed against the mighty Qiantang River. Barges laden with tribute grain jostled with merchant vessels carrying silks and porcelain, fishing skiffs darted between them, and ferries carried officials and commoners across its breadth. The river was the city's lifeblood, yet it held a heart of capricious fury. Twice a day, the legendary Qiantang Bore surged upstream – a roaring wall of water, magnificent and terrifying, capable of swallowing boats whole. The river gave, and the river took away.

  Lately, it had been taking too much. A shadow lingered over the docks and the tight-knit community of boatmen who plied its waters. First, it was young Liu, vanished during a foggy night crossing. Then, sturdy Chen, found drowned near the southern ferry point, his face frozen in a mask of terror, with no signs of struggle on his boat. And just three days ago, Zhang Wei, barely nineteen, strong and river-wise beyond his years, had disappeared while ferrying a late-night passenger. His empty boat was found drifting aimlessly, oars shipped, cargo untouched.

  The disappearances cast a pall darker than the frequent river mists. Whispers turned to fearful murmurs: Shui Gui. A Water Ghost. An entity born of drowning, cursed to linger beneath the surface, forever seeking a substitute, a tishen, another soul to pull down into the cold depths so it might finally escape its watery prison. Fear, thick and cloying, clung to the waterfront. Fewer boats dared to travel after dusk, and the approach of the tidal bore, usually a time for cautious respect, now brought a primal dread.

  No one felt this dread more keenly than Zhang Bo, young Wei's father. A man whose life had been etched by the river's moods, his face weathered like driftwood, his hands calloused from decades of rowing. Grief had carved new, deeper lines around his eyes, but beneath the sorrow burned a desperate, flickering ember of hope, or perhaps just refusal to accept the inevitable. He haunted the docks, questioning everyone, his voice hoarse, his eyes scanning the vast, indifferent expanse of the Qiantang. He'd pleaded with the local constabulary, who offered sympathetic but empty words about treacherous currents. He'd burned incense at the riverside temple, the monks offering prayers but no solutions. The river held its secrets tightly.

  It was Old Man Yao, a retired fisherman whose wits were still sharp despite his cloudy eyes, who pointed him towards a different path. "Officials fear bandits, monks fear demons of the mind," Yao had rasped, spitting betel nut juice onto the muddy bank. "But this... this feels older. Colder. There's a wandering Daoist in the city, they say. Xuan Zhen. Not one for fancy temples or imperial patronage. They say he sees... things others don't."

  Hope, fragile as a dragonfly's wing, stirred in Zhang Bo's chest. He spent a frantic day searching, finally finding Xuan Zhen not in a bustling marketplace or a serene monastery, but quietly observing the river's flow from a vantage point on Moon-Viewing Hill. The Daoist priest, clad in simple grey, seemed almost to blend into the landscape, his presence unassuming yet possessed of a profound stillness.

  Approaching hesitantly, Zhang Bo poured out his story, the words tumbling over each other in his grief and desperation. Xuan Zhen listened without interruption, his gaze fixed on the swirling, muddy currents below. Even from this distance, he could feel it – a concentration of Yin energy, cold and heavy, emanating from a particular stretch of the river. It pulsed with a deep, ancient resentment, tinged with the sharper sting of recent sorrow.

  When Zhang Bo finally fell silent, exhausted and tearful, Xuan Zhen turned his calm, clear eyes towards him. "The river holds many spirits, Boatman Zhang. Most are content with the currents. But some... some are anchored by regret, by injustice, by an unfulfilled desire. Your son... he was not taken by the tide alone." He paused, his gaze drifting back to the water. "There is indeed a presence there. Heavy with怨气 (yuanqi) – resentful energy. It seeks something."

  "My boy? Can you find him? Can you bring him back?" Zhang Bo pleaded, clutching the Daoist's sleeve.

  Xuan Zhen gently disengaged his arm. "Bringing back the departed is beyond my art, Boatman. But finding the truth, perhaps offering peace to both the living and the restless dead... that we can attempt. The entity you fear grows stronger with the river's own power, especially near the great tide. Tonight, the bore will be strong. The veil will be thin. If we are to confront this spirit, tonight is the time. But it will be dangerous."

  "I fear nothing more than not knowing," Zhang Bo said, his voice regaining a measure of its former strength. "I will go. Whatever it takes."

  As dusk bled into night, casting long shadows across the water, a small group assembled on Zhang Bo's sturdy sampan. Besides Zhang Bo and Xuan Zhen, two other boatmen had volunteered – young Li, who had been Wei's friend, his face pale but determined, and grizzled Uncle Feng, who claimed he owed Zhang Bo a life debt from a storm years ago. The air was thick with tension, the usual dockside clamor replaced by an unnerving silence. Fog coiled like phantom snakes across the water's surface.

  Xuan Zhen stood at the prow, his expression serene. He produced several yellow talismans. One, inscribed with intricate vermillion characters, he pressed into Zhang Bo's hand. "Amulet of Clarity (清心符 - Qingxin Fu). It will help shield your mind from illusions." Others he affixed discreetly to the boat's mast and hull – Talismans of Stability (镇舟符 - Zhenzhou Fu).

  Guided by Zhang Bo's knowledge of the currents and Xuan Zhen's subtle sense of the lingering resentment, they poled the boat towards the stretch of river where the disappearances had clustered. The fog thickened, muffling sound, isolating them in a small circle of dim lantern light upon an endless expanse of black water. The only noises were the rhythmic dip of the pole, the lapping of water against the hull, and the frantic pounding of their own hearts. An unnatural cold seeped up from the river, far colder than the night air warranted.

  "It's near," Xuan Zhen murmured, his eyes scanning the darkness. He produced another talisman, different from the others – a Water-Repelling Charm (避水符 - Bishui Fu). Chanting softly, he activated it with a pinch of special incense powder. A faint shimmer enveloped him. "Stay alert. It will try to deceive."

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  With a quiet splash, Xuan Zhen slipped over the side and into the murky depths. Zhang Bo gripped the amulet, peering anxiously into the black water, Li and Feng steadying the boat with poles, their knuckles white.

  Beneath the surface, the world transformed. Visibility was minimal, the water thick with silt. Sound was distorted, a low thrumming pressure against the ears. The faint light from the boat's lantern above was a distant, hazy moon. Xuan Zhen, shielded by the talisman which kept a thin layer of air around him and pushed the water back slightly, moved slowly, his senses extended. He felt the cold, resentful energy coalesce nearby.

  Then, a figure materialized out of the gloom. It looked heart-wrenchingly like Zhang Wei – same build, same familiar boatman's tunic, face pale but recognizable. It drifted closer, mouth opening and closing silently, one hand outstretched in a pleading gesture.

  On the boat, Zhang Bo gasped, leaning precariously over the side. "Wei! Is that you? My son!"

  "Hold fast, Boatman!" Xuan Zhen's voice, slightly muffled but clear, echoed up from the water. "It is a lie! A glamour woven from your grief!"

  Zhang Bo clutched the amulet Xuan Zhen had given him. A wave of warmth spread from it, momentarily clearing the fog of desperate hope from his mind. He looked again, harder this time. The figure's eyes were wrong – empty, depthless pits. Its skin had a sickly, translucent quality. It wasn't his son.

  Underwater, Xuan Zhen faced the illusion. He made a calming gesture, then drew a character in the water with glowing Qi from his fingertip – the character for "破" (Po - Break/Dispel). The image of Zhang Wei flickered violently, then dissolved like smoke.

  In its place stood the true horror. The Shui Gui. It was larger than a man, bloated and corpse-white, its skin wrinkled like parchment soaked too long. Long strands of greenish-black hair floated around a face contorted in perpetual agony and malice. Its fingers ended in jagged, black nails, and its eyes glowed with a faint, phosphorescent light. It lunged, surprisingly fast in its element, claws grasping.

  Xuan Zhen evaded the attack, the Water-Repelling Charm allowing him a measure of unnatural agility. He drew a short, weighted chain from his belt – a Binding Spirit Rope (缚灵索 - Fuling Suo) – whipping it towards the ghost. It struck true, wrapping around the creature's arm, burning like fire against its spectral form. The Shui Gui let out a silent scream, a shockwave of cold fury that rippled through the water. It thrashed, using the powerful river current to try and tear itself free, dragging Xuan Zhen through the murky depths. Xuan Zhen held firm, chanting anchoring mantras, but he knew he couldn't overpower it here, not when its strength was constantly replenished by the river's deep-seated resentment. He needed a different approach. He needed the tide.

  He surfaced near the boat. "Head towards the Narrows!" he gasped, pulling himself aboard, dripping and cold despite the talisman. "Where the banks funnel the bore! It's coming!"

  Even as he spoke, a low, distant rumble began to vibrate through the hull. The legendary roar of the Qiantang Bore. Zhang Bo, his face grim, poled the boat with desperate strength towards the designated spot – a section where the river constricted, amplifying the tidal wave's power. The fog seemed to thin slightly, revealing the churning, agitated surface of the river. The roar grew louder, closer, a sound that shook the very air.

  The Shui Gui surfaced nearby, its horrifying form stark in the revealing moonlight filtering through the fog. It shrieked, a sound like tearing silk and rushing water, sensing its power swelling with the approaching tide.

  "Now!" Xuan Zhen shouted above the din. He slammed several Water-Suppressing Talismans (镇水符 - Zhenshui Fu) onto the boat's gunwales. He uncoiled the Binding Spirit Rope more fully, readying it. He quickly instructed Li and Feng to secure mooring ropes, not to the banks, but anchored deep into the riverbed with heavy, charm-inscribed weights he provided. "Keep the boat steady, facing the tide! This is our anchor!"

  He stood braced at the prow, chanting rapidly, weaving hand seals. This wasn't a standard formation; it was improvisation, drawing on ancient principles – a Borrowed Force Formation (借势阵 - Jieshi Zhen). Using the boat, the anchored ropes, the talismans, and his own Qi as focal points, he aimed to channel the overwhelming kinetic energy of the tidal bore itself, turning the source of the ghost's amplified power against it.

  The bore appeared – a terrifying wall of churning water, several meters high, spanning the river, racing towards them with impossible speed, its roar deafening. The Shui Gui shrieked again, lunging towards the boat, empowered and enraged.

  Just as the bore hit, Xuan Zhen cast the Binding Spirit Rope. It snaked through the air, latching onto the ghost just as the massive wave crashed over them. The boat bucked violently, held precariously by the enchanted anchors. Water surged, blinding, deafening. The formation flared – Xuan Zhen felt the raw, untamed power of the Qiantang flow through the lines, converging on the struggling ghost, pinning it against the irresistible force of nature itself.

  The Shui Gui writhed, trapped between the binding rope and the crushing tide, its spectral form flickering under the immense pressure. Seeing his chance, Xuan Zhen produced one final talisman – a potent Yang Flame Charm (阳炎咒 - Yangyan Zhou). Igniting it with his own Qi, he hurled it towards the trapped entity. It struck the ghost's chest, erupting not in physical fire, but in a blinding flash of pure, golden light – the concentrated essence of Yang energy, antithetical to the ghost's Yin-based, resentful existence.

  A final, soul-wrenching shriek echoed above the receding roar of the bore, then faded. The golden light pulsed, then dissipated. Where the Shui Gui had been, there was nothing but churning river water. The oppressive cold, the heavy resentment – it vanished, cleansed by the Yang flame and washed away by the tide.

  The bore passed, leaving a turbulent but blessedly empty wake. The boat bobbed, strained, but held. Silence descended, broken only by the panting breaths of the boatmen and the sound of settling water.

  Slowly, hesitantly, something bumped against the side of the boat. Li reached down, pulling it gently from the water. It was the body of Zhang Wei, pale and still, but his face, previously contorted in terror like the others, was now peaceful. Nearby, carried by the receding current, were the forms of the other missing boatmen.

  Back at the docks, a sombre mood prevailed. Grief mingled with relief. Zhang Bo knelt beside his son's body, tears finally flowing freely – tears of sorrow, but also of closure. The other families silently claimed their dead. The curse was broken.

  Xuan Zhen stood apart, watching the scene, his face impassive but his eyes holding a deep empathy. He offered quiet words to Zhang Bo, acknowledging his pain but reminding him that his son's spirit, freed from the Shui Gui's grasp, could now find peace.

  As the first rays of dawn painted the sky, Xuan Zhen prepared to depart Lin'an. The river flowed on, its surface calm once more, carrying away the echoes of the night's struggle. The resentment was gone, but the memory served as a potent reminder: the waters held life and livelihood, but also depths of sorrow and danger, and sometimes, the price of passage was steeper than any toll. The cycle of the Shui Gui, desperate for a substitute to end its suffering, was broken here, but the human desperation that had likely birthed it centuries ago remained a current running deep beneath the surface of the world.