The port city of Runzhou commanded a strategic bend where the Grand Canal met the wide, silt-laden expanse of the Yangtze River. It was a place perpetually in motion, a noisy, vibrant tapestry woven from the shouts of stevedores, the creak of loading cranes, the rhythmic chanting of boatmen, and the sharp negotiations of merchants haggling over timber, salt, grain, and silk. Warehouses, their timbers stained dark by river damp and time, crowded the waterfront, casting long shadows over canals choked with barges and smaller skiffs. Fortunes were made and lost here on the river's unpredictable currents, both literal and metaphorical. And few fortunes had risen more dramatically, more inexplicably, in recent times than that of the timber merchant, Qian Yun.

  A year ago, Qian Yun had been just another struggling merchant, his small lumberyard perpetually teetering on the edge of insolvency, his face etched with the worry of unpaid debts and dwindling contracts. Now, he resided in a newly acquired, elegantly refurbished courtyard house overlooking the busiest stretch of the river. His expanded timber docks bustled with activity, his warehouses overflowed with prime lumber secured through seemingly miraculous contracts, and his name commanded grudging respect, mingled with envious whispers, in the city's competitive merchant circles. He moved with a newfound confidence, his simple robes replaced by fine silks, yet observant eyes noted a subtle change beneath the veneer of success. A persistent, damp chill seemed to cling to him, even on the warmest days. His complexion held a faint, unhealthy pallor, and his gaze, though sharp when focused on business, often drifted towards the river with an expression that mingled fear with a strange, almost devotional intensity. He suffered from recurring nightmares, waking his household with choked cries, speaking of dark water, immense pressure, and cold, grasping hands reaching from the depths.

  Xuanzhen arrived in Runzhou pursuing whispers of unusual energy patterns detected by river-dwelling monks further upstream – subtle disturbances in the water's flow, localized patches of unnatural cold, and tales among boatmen of strange, fleeting whirlpools appearing where none should be, particularly near Merchant Qian Yun’s newly expanded docks. These weren't dramatic events, but subtle dissonances in the river's ancient rhythm, hints of an underlying imbalance that drew Xuanzhen’s attention.

  He took lodging at a modest inn near the waterfront, spending his days observing the flow of commerce and qi. The city thrummed with energy, mostly the robust, earthy energy of trade and labour. But emanating from Qian Yun’s prosperous timber yard and residence, Xuanzhen felt a distinct, discordant note – a powerful, cold, watery qi, ancient and immense, overlaid with the sharp, anxious frequency of human ambition and fear. It felt like a precarious bargain struck, an unnatural alliance formed.

  He sought out the local fishermen who worked the waters near Qian’s docks. Most were tight-lipped, wary of the newly powerful merchant, but Old Lao Peng, a man whose face was a delta of wrinkles carved by seventy years of river life, eventually shared his unease. They sat on the weathered planks of Peng’s small fishing boat, mending nets as the setting sun cast long, trembling reflections on the brown water.

  "The river... she has moods, Master Taoist," Peng murmured, his voice raspy as dry reeds. "We who live by her learn to read them. But near Merchant Qian’s new docks... the moods are wrong now. The fish avoid the place. The currents pull strangely, sometimes against the main flow. There's a coldness there that sinks into your bones." He paused, spitting thoughtfully into the water. "And the offerings... Qian makes offerings. Late at night, from his private jetty. Not the usual respects we pay with incense and paper money. Strange things. Bundles dropped into the deepest channel. Heard whispers... sometimes live cockerels, silk brocade... things meant for a powerful spirit."

  He lowered his voice further. "This stretch... it has a master. The Shui Jun, the River Lord. Old and strong. Demands respect. My grandfather used to say... long ago, desperate men sometimes tried to bargain with him. Offered service, offered... more... for favour, for fortune. Sometimes the river gave. But it always took its price, sooner or later. Always."

  Lao Peng’s words confirmed Xuanzhen’s suspicions. A desperate bargain struck with a powerful river spirit. Qian Yun’s sudden fortune wasn't luck; it was bought, likely at a terrible, escalating cost. The disturbances Xuanzhen had sensed were ripples from this unnatural pact, the river spirit’s power warping the local currents, affecting the fish, perhaps causing 'misfortune' for Qian’s rivals as part of the bargain or as collateral damage from the focused energy. Qian’s own physical and mental state – the chill, the nightmares, the fear – suggested the price was becoming due, the River Lord demanding payment in vitality, peace of mind, or perhaps something more tangible.

  Xuanzhen needed to observe Qian directly, to understand the nature of the pact and the spirit involved. That night, concealing himself within the deep shadows of a neighbouring warehouse overlooking Qian Yun’s private jetty, he waited. The moon was a thin sliver, casting little light. The river flowed dark and silent, its presence an immense, breathing weight.

  Just before the darkest hour, a lantern flickered to life in Qian’s residence. The merchant emerged, wrapped in a heavy cloak despite the mild night air. He carried a small, heavy-looking lacquered box. He moved furtively, his steps quick and nervous, constantly glancing over his shoulder. Reaching the end of his private jetty, which extended into a deep, swirling eddy, he knelt. He murmured words Xuanzhen couldn't quite catch – pleas, promises, fragments of fearful negotiation. Then, with trembling hands, he opened the box and tipped its contents into the dark water. Xuanzhen couldn't see exactly what fell, but he felt a surge of cold, powerful energy rise from the river in response – ancient, vast, demanding, tinged with a chilling satisfaction. Qian Yun remained kneeling for a long moment, head bowed, before scrambling back to his house as if pursued.

  The next day, Xuanzhen arranged a meeting with Merchant Qian, again using the guise of a scholar interested in the timber trade and seeking advice. Qian Yun received him in his opulent study, a room filled with expensive scrolls and furniture that couldn't quite dispel the underlying chill Xuanzhen felt clinging to the merchant. Qian spoke eloquently of timber grades and transport logistics, but his eyes kept straying towards the window overlooking the river, his hands fidgeting nervously.

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  Xuanzhen gently steered the conversation towards fortune, luck, and the importance of maintaining balance with local energies for sustained prosperity. He spoke hypothetically of ancient traditions, of respecting spirits of place, of the dangers inherent in seeking favour through unorthodox means. He watched Qian Yun closely. The merchant grew paler, his breathing shallowing. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple despite the room's coolness.

  "Some bargains, Merchant Qian," Xuanzhen said softly, his gaze direct but compassionate, "demand a price higher than silver. They can bind the spirit, drain the life force, and create ripples that harm others. The river is ancient, powerful. Its spirit demands respect, not desperate pacts born of fear."

  Qian Yun flinched as if struck. The carefully constructed facade crumbled. He slumped forward, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. "I... I was ruined, Master," he choked out, the story pouring forth in a torrent of guilt and terror. A year ago, facing bankruptcy, creditors closing in, his family's name disgraced, he had gone to the riverbank in despair. He had prayed, not to the celestial deities, but directly to the river itself, to the powerful Shui Jun his grandfather had warned him about. He offered anything – service, loyalty, future wealth – in return for salvation, for a way out.

  "And the river answered," Qian whispered, looking up, his eyes wide with remembered awe and terror. "Not with a voice, but... a feeling. A presence. A cold certainty in my mind. Deals began to turn my way. Lost contracts reappeared. Rivals suffered sudden, inexplicable setbacks. Timber arrived as if guided by the currents. Fortune returned tenfold." He shuddered. "But the price... it demands more now. Not just offerings. It wants... control. It whispers in my dreams, demanding I influence officials, ruin competitors further, divert more trade its way. It feels like... like it's pulling me under, Master. The cold... it's always there now."

  Xuanzhen listened gravely. Qian had indeed struck a bargain, likely with the ancient River Lord of this stretch. The spirit had fulfilled its side, granting fortune, but now interpreted Qian's desperate, open-ended offer of 'service' in its own elemental, territorial way, demanding influence and control, draining Qian's vitality as part of the ongoing exchange, its power causing collateral damage to others.

  "This pact is unbalanced, Merchant Qian," Xuanzhen stated. "It drains you and disrupts the natural order. The River Lord, while powerful, operates by rules of exchange, however harsh. The bargain must be formally addressed, renegotiated, or dissolved through proper respect and offerings. Continuing as you are will lead only to your complete ruin, body and soul."

  Dissolving such a pact with an ancient river spirit was perilous. Renegotiation, offering sincere, ongoing respect and clearly defined service in place of the open-ended desperation, seemed the only viable path. It required humility, courage, and a willingness to perhaps relinquish some of the unnaturally gained fortune.

  Under Xuanzhen's guidance, Qian Yun agreed, fear outweighing his greed. The ritual needed to be performed at Qian's private jetty, the site of the original pact, at sunrise – a time of renewal, balancing the spirit's watery Yin with celestial Yang. Xuanzhen instructed Qian on the necessary preparations: constructing a small, respectful stone shrine near the jetty dedicated to the Shui Jun; preparing substantial but appropriate offerings (high-quality rice wine, symbolic paper ingots representing relinquished profit, releasing a basket of healthy, large fish back into the river); and most importantly, formulating a clear, respectful statement acknowledging the spirit's power, expressing gratitude for the aid received, admitting the unsustainability of the original pact, and proposing a new relationship based on defined, respectful offerings and Qian's pledge to conduct his business ethically, without harming the river or unfairly ruining rivals.

  At dawn, the river was shrouded in mist, the air cold and still. Xuanzhen, Qian Yun (trembling but resolute), and Old Lao Peng (invited by Xuanzhen as a witness representing the community's long relationship with the river) stood on the jetty beside the newly erected shrine. Xuanzhen lit purifying incense and began chanting, invoking the spirits of water and earth, establishing a protective yet respectful space.

  Qian Yun stepped forward. His voice shook initially, but gained strength as he spoke the carefully prepared words, acknowledging the River Lord, expressing gratitude and fear, confessing the pact, and proposing the new terms of respect and balance. He poured the wine into the river, released the fish, and burned the symbolic paper ingots.

  As his voice faded, the river responded. The mist thickened, swirling violently around the jetty. The water beneath churned, forming a deep, silent whirlpool directly before them. An immense pressure descended, cold and ancient, pressing down on their spirits. It was the Shui Jun, manifesting its power, testing their sincerity. Lao Peng murmured protective prayers. Qian Yun stood his ground, pale but not flinching.

  Xuanzhen stepped beside Qian, striking a small chime whose clear note momentarily cut through the oppressive pressure. He spoke respectfully to the unseen presence, affirming Qian's sincerity, vouching for the proposed new balance, emphasizing the benefits of harmony over forced servitude. He focused his own qi, projecting calm, respect, and the stabilizing influence of Taoist principles.

  For a long moment, the pressure held, the whirlpool churning. Then, slowly, the vortex subsided. The mist began to thin. The immense pressure lessened, retreating, leaving behind a feeling of ancient, watchful acceptance. The River Lord had agreed.

  Qian Yun sagged, relief washing over him, though the deep chill within him would take time to fade completely. The unnatural phenomena near his docks ceased in the following days. His business continued, though perhaps less spectacularly successful, conducted now with a newfound caution and a deep, abiding respect for the powerful currents, both visible and invisible, that governed the river. He made regular, modest offerings at the small shrine, a constant reminder of the price of desperation and the importance of balance.

  Xuanzhen departed Runzhou, leaving the merchant to navigate his renegotiated existence. The River Lord's Due served as a stark reminder that bargains struck with ancient, elemental powers, especially in moments of desperation, carried immense weight. Nature spirits operated by their own logic, their own sense of reciprocity. Respect and balance were paramount, for when the due was called, the price could be far higher than mere silver, potentially costing one's fortune, vitality, and even soul, unless harmony could be restored through wisdom, courage, and sincere acknowledgement of the powers that slumbered beneath the surface of the world.