The city of Yiling clung to the banks of the Yangtze River, just downstream from the formidable passage of the Three Gorges. Here, the river ran wide and powerful, its currents carrying the lifeblood of trade and the weight of centuries. As the fifth lunar month approached, Yiling transformed. The usual bustle of commerce intensified, but took on a different flavour, charged with anticipation, rivalry, and the deep thrumming pulse of tradition. For this was the season of Duanwu Jie, the Dragon Boat Festival, and nowhere was the celebration pursued with more fervent passion than in Yiling, famed for its fiercely competitive dragon boat races.

  The riverfront became a riot of colour and sound. Bright banners snapped in the humid breeze blowing off the water. The air grew thick with the scent of steaming zongzi – sticky rice dumplings wrapped in bamboo leaves – mingling with the sharp, auspicious fragrance of mugwort and calamus hung over doorways to ward off evil spirits. From dawn till dusk, the rhythmic thunder of drums echoed across the water as rival boat teams, sponsored by powerful guilds or wealthy families, practiced relentlessly, their long, narrow vessels, painted with fierce dragon heads and vibrant scales, slicing through the brown water in bursts of synchronized power. It was a time of intense community spirit, but also of simmering tension, where honour, commerce, and ancient rituals intertwined.

  Xuanzhen arrived in Yiling during the height of these preparations, seeking passage on a river junk heading further east. He found a city caught in a feverish energy, yet beneath the festive clamour, his senses detected a discordant undercurrent, a subtle wrongness emanating from the river itself, particularly near the stretch designated as the racecourse finish line. The water there felt colder, heavier, swirling with eddies of stagnant qi that carried faint traces of fear, resentment, and unresolved conflict. It felt like the festive energy was stirring something old and sorrowful from the river's depths.

  His quiet observations led him to the docks where the dragon boat teams gathered. He focused on the 'Jade Serpent' team, sponsored by the city's oldest merchant guild and led by the venerable Master Feng Bo. Feng Bo, a man whose face was a river map of wrinkles carved by decades of navigating both the Yangtze and the treacherous currents of commerce, was renowned for his skill in guiding the massive boat and inspiring his paddlers. His team were the reigning champions, favourites to win again. Yet, their practice sessions were visibly strained. The Jade Serpent, usually swift and responsive, seemed sluggish, fighting against unseen currents. Paddlers complained of sudden, inexplicable fatigue hitting specific members of the crew mid-stroke. Their powerful drummer, young Ah Jun, struggled to maintain the rhythm, claiming phantom drumbeats – cold, hollow, and slightly off-tempo – sometimes echoed across the water, disrupting his concentration and chilling the crew's spirit.

  One evening, seeking respite in a quiet riverside teahouse, Xuanzhen overheard hushed conversations between anxious members of the Jade Serpent crew. They spoke of more than just difficult currents. They described fleeting glimpses of pale, waterlogged hands reaching up from the depths near the boat, of shadowy figures clinging momentarily to the oars, of an overwhelming sense of despair washing over them when they neared the finish line markers. They spoke of nightmares shared by several crew members – dreams of being trapped underwater in a capsized dragon boat, surrounded by the silent screams of drowning comrades, the rhythmic beat of a rival's drum echoing triumphantly above.

  Intrigued and concerned, Xuanzhen sought out Ah Jun, the young drummer whose sensitivity seemed particularly acute. He found the young man sitting alone by the riverbank after a frustrating practice, staring intently at the swirling water near the finish line posts, his drum resting silently beside him. Ah Jun, recognizing the quiet authority and calm presence of the Taoist scholar who had been observing their practices, hesitantly shared his experiences.

  "Master Xuanzhen," Ah Jun began, his voice low, "it's more than just bad water or nerves. There's... something out there. Near the finish. When we approach, especially when the mist hangs low near dawn or dusk, I hear it. Another drum. Cold. Empty. It tries to... steal my rhythm. And I feel them. The watchers beneath. Their eyes... full of envy, anger." He shuddered. "Last week, during a practice run, I saw them clearly for a moment. Figures rising from the silt near the posts, clad in tattered racing silks from... from long ago. Their faces were blurred, water-logged, but their eyes burned with resentment. They reached for our boat. The air grew freezing. We almost capsized."

  Xuanzhen listened gravely. Waterlogged figures, phantom drumbeats, intense resentment focused on the race and particularly the leading team – it pointed towards a haunting by Shui Gui, water ghosts, specifically the spirits of drowned racers. The timing, linked to the festival, suggested their energies were stirred by the familiar sounds and competitive atmosphere, their unresolved trauma reawakened.

  He gently questioned Master Feng Bo, approaching him with respect for his age and position. He spoke not directly of ghosts, but of the river's energies, the weight of history, and the strange difficulties his team faced. Master Feng, initially reserved, eventually sighed, his weathered face clouding with old sorrow.

  "There was a tragedy," he admitted, his gaze fixed on the river. "Decades ago. Before my time as leader, but I was a young paddler then. The 'Black Dragon' team... fierce rivals, brilliant racers. During the final sprint, neck and neck with our own Jade Serpent... their boat suddenly swerved, caught a strange current near the finish, and capsized. The current was strong... the boat heavy... none survived." He paused, the memory clearly painful. "There were whispers... accusations. Our team was accused by some of fouling them, of causing the capsize to secure victory. Nothing was ever proven. The officials ruled it a tragic accident. But the Black Dragon team... their bodies were never all recovered. Their families grieved bitterly. Their loss cast a shadow over our victory that year."

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  A tragic accident shrouded in suspicion, drowned racers lost in the river's depths, their loss overshadowed by their rivals' victory. It was a potent source for lingering resentment, binding the spirits to the place of their demise, their spectral energy stirred by the very event that defined their final moments. The phantom drumbeats were likely echoes of their own lost rhythm, challenging the victors. The waterlogged figures were their spectral forms, reaching out in envy and anger. Their target was the Jade Serpent team, inheritors of the victory achieved on the day the Black Dragon drowned.

  "Master Feng," Xuanzhen said gently, "the river remembers. The spirits of the Black Dragon crew linger, bound by their tragic end and perhaps the unresolved question of that day. Their resentment, stirred by the festival's energy, now disrupts the currents and plagues your team. Their grievance must be addressed, their spirits offered peace, for the safety of your crew and the harmony of the festival."

  Master Feng looked shaken but nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. "We... we always felt a shadow from that day. What must be done?"

  Xuanzhen explained that a forceful exorcism would likely fail or even provoke greater hostility from the numerous, resentful spirits. Appeasement, acknowledgement, and release were necessary. He proposed a ritual to be held at the finish line area, involving offerings specifically chosen for drowned souls and racers, and a formal acknowledgement of the Black Dragon team's skill and tragic fate.

  Under Xuanzhen's guidance, they prepared. Master Feng gathered offerings: high-quality zongzi (sticky rice dumplings, traditionally thrown into the water during Duanwu to feed drowned spirits like the poet Qu Yuan), strong rice wine, intricately folded paper replicas of dragon boats, and spirit money. Ah Jun prepared his drum, not for racing, but for a slow, respectful rhythm. Xuanzhen prepared talismans of passage (渡 - dù) and peace (安 - ān).

  They chose the hour just before dawn, when the mist lay thickest on the water, the time the spirits were said to be most active, yet also a time of transition towards light. Xuanzhen, Master Feng, and Ah Jun poled a small, quiet boat out to the finish line markers. The air was preternaturally cold, the silence broken only by the lapping water and the distant, muffled sounds of the awakening city. The feeling of being watched by cold, unseen eyes was intense.

  Xuanzhen lit purifying incense, its smoke mingling with the river mist. He began the ritual, chanting verses acknowledging the power of the Yangtze, the spirit of the Dragon Boat Festival, and the thin veil between worlds during this time. Master Feng, his voice thick with emotion, spoke aloud, addressing the spirits of the Black Dragon crew. He acknowledged their skill, their fierce competitive spirit, the tragedy of their end, and expressed regret for the shadow of suspicion that had lingered. He offered the wine and zongzi, casting them respectfully upon the water. He burned the paper boats and spirit money, wishing the crew members safe passage and honour in the spirit world.

  As he spoke, the water around them began to churn. The mist thickened, swirling into indistinct, humanoid shapes. The phantom drumbeat started, low and resentful, challenging Ah Jun's presence. The cold intensified, biting deep. Pale, grasping hands seemed to break the water's surface near their boat.

  Ah Jun flinched, but Xuanzhen placed a calming hand on his arm. "Play, Ah Jun," he instructed softly. "Not the rhythm of competition, but the rhythm of respect. A heartbeat for those who lost theirs here."

  Ah Jun took a breath and began to play – a slow, steady, deeply resonant beat, simple and solemn. It wasn't a challenge, but an offering, a heartbeat echoing across the water.

  Xuanzhen raised his voice, chanting the formal rites of passage, guiding the resentful spirits. He didn't command them, but reasoned with them, acknowledging their anger while pointing towards the path of release. He affixed the talismans of peace and passage onto small lotus leaves and floated them on the water towards the swirling mist.

  "Your race is run," Xuanzhen chanted, his voice resonating with calm authority. "Your strength is remembered. Your tragedy is acknowledged. Release your anger. Let the river carry you towards peace. The finish line is not here, but beyond."

  For a long moment, the spectral energy resisted. The phantom drumbeat faltered, tried to regain dominance, then slowly faded. The swirling mist thinned. The waterlogged figures dissolved back into the depths. The grasping hands vanished. The intense cold receded, replaced by the cool freshness of the approaching dawn. The river flowed smoothly once more, its surface reflecting the first pale light in the eastern sky. A profound sense of peace settled over the water.

  Master Feng and Ah Jun felt the release like a physical weight lifting. They poled back to the docks in silence, the rising sun warming their faces.

  The Dragon Boat Festival took place a few days later. Before the main race, Master Feng announced a new tradition: a moment of silence and a simple offering made at the finish line to honour all racers lost to the river throughout the city's history, specifically naming the Black Dragon crew of decades past. The Jade Serpent team raced with renewed vigour and focus, the river feeling clear, powerful, but no longer hostile. They did not win – victory went to a surprisingly swift team from a smaller guild – but they raced well, with honour, the shadow finally lifted.

  Xuanzhen watched the festivities from a distance before continuing his journey. The spectral wake of the dragon boat served as a potent reminder that even celebrations held deep echoes of the past. Unresolved tragedies, especially those tinged with competition and potential injustice, could fester beneath the surface, their energies stirred by recurring events, until acknowledged and offered the solace of remembrance and release. Harmony, he reflected, often required looking beyond the cheering crowds and victorious banners to honour the forgotten losses slumbering in the deep, silent currents below.