In the neon-soaked suburbs of Xuandu City, the Zixiao Temple built in the Tang Dynasty is hidden in the cracks of the steel forest. The owner of the temple, Shen Yan, is frowning at the compass on the desk - the pointer is spinning crazily around the "Li" position, and the copper hexagram cards are windless and automatic, forming a incomplete "evil-suppressing talisman". Since three days ago, "lost souls" have appeared one after another in the urban area. The victims' pupils are gray and their movements are as stiff as marionettes. The hospital cannot find the cause of the disease, and only a fleeting black mist is captured on the surveillance camera. Crisis is coming
