Shen does not belong to the dark spiritual realm, nor is it compatible with the mortal world. Beneath the surface of the clouds and fog, the human soul is agitated with the energy of the arcane.

However, in the eyes of either side, he is an object worthy of awe. His heart is like a rock, unwavering, and everything he does is only for the call of a great purpose.

Although being born in the most revered sect in Ionia meant that he was destined to give everything to it, it was with an iron will that he was chosen to be the leader of this secret order.

The soul blade he is holding is a symbol of power and responsibility, and it is also his connection to the spiritual realm. Traveling between the two planes with caution, whenever you find that the power is about to lose balance somewhere, and one is about to engulf the other, you will exert an impact with precision, righting the tilted scales.

However, the task is never to maintain a balance on major issues of right and wrong, but to start from some trivial things, and never tire of it.

"It's not the wind, it's the spirit." The fisherman survived a shipwreck two days ago and is still babbling about his experience. He said that his fishing boat had been sunk by a monster, the size of a house, and as fast as the wind.

After listening to his story, he didn't say a word, weighing how much water the story had.

"Take me to see it."

The fisherman led Shen to a bay. There are villagers on the beach, who are disposing of the bodies of the drowned sailors. Kneeling down cautiously, inspect a piece of the ship's wreckage. The cut in the plank was deep and wide, and it appeared to be a very powerful claw.

"How many died"

"All but me." The fisherman replied.

These spirits are strong. Shen thought as he continued to rummage through the shipwreck, looking for more clues.

Finally, on the edge of a fragment of the ship's hull, he found it: a handful of spider-like hairs. Most people ignore it, or simply don't see it.

Because they would never believe that a monster that could split a ship in half would leave something so delicate. But Shen has seen such hair.

He looked at the strand of silver hair, which dissipated into nothing at the touch of it. He no longer doubted the fisherman's story.

"It's a demon." Shen said, "Your ship must be in its way." ”

The fisherman nodded coldly. Spirits of all kinds will mingle with the real world, especially in Ionia, where the boundaries between the different planes become even thinner.

The spiritual and material realms often touch each other and then stagger away from each other without incident, like oil droplets on the surface of water.

As the eye of twilight, it is Shin's job to travel between worlds and make sure that neither side is overpowered. To humans, he is a ghost.

He can suddenly disappear before your eyes and reappear hundreds of miles away, but it only takes a breath to breathe. To the spirit, he is a human again. Really, flesh and blood, it should not appear in the spiritual realm at all.

He knelt on the beach and set out to examine a corpse that had been disposed of. The man was torn in half from the rib cage down. Under the pale and puffy half of the body, the few remaining internal organs hung leisurely.

"You don't have to worry. I can take care of the monster before it gets dark. A voice came from behind him. Shen turned his head and saw a saint sent by the local temple. Several acolytes surrounded him, carrying a bunch of knick-knacks and ointments.

They began a purification ritual aimed at cleansing the local spirits. The saint stared at Shen, as if calculating his usefulness.

"Sir, can we count on your help?" asked the sage.

"The balance will always be restored." Shen nodded affirmatively.

He said goodbye to the saint and went to trace the faint trail left by the silver thread. He thought back to the dead crew and thought about how much it would cost the demon side.

My father's words still linger in my ears: "Finding balance in everything is the hardest part." This is the so-called middle way, the precise center of the convergence of all the forces in the world, and what the "eyes" must distinguish clearly.

In order to implement the law of equilibrium, it is inevitable that there will be a struggle. This duty puts Shen on his back. One is Ionia's steel saber that can slash through a human body with a single swing.

The other is a straight sword made of pure arcane energy, which is used to deal with spirits and ghosts, and has been passed down from generation to generation in Shen's family. Over the years, he's dealt with countless ghosts and ghosts. So he's pretty sure he'll be able to add another record before midnight.

Finally, Shen came to an extremely secluded inlet, quiet and deep, and there was no one to be seen. On the sandbar in the shallows lay a ghost, its smooth skin reflecting the twilight of dusk.

Its body swelled, apparently the flesh essence of the victim that had fed it up. Shen crawled through the cord grass and crept closer to the sleeping demon. Shen could see clearly that its massive ribcage was sinking along with its deep, relaxed breathing. When he was still a few steps away from the sandbar, he drew his soul blade and prepared to make a move.

Suddenly, a terrifying voice interrupted his movements. It was a miserable scream that rang out in mid-air. It sounded familiar, but before Shen could discern it carefully, the cry came again.

And then again and again, and again and again. The screams stacked on top of each other, as if they were a bloody chorus. This is the scream of the spirit before it dies. Glancing at the demon, it seemed to have been awakened from its dreams.

He looked at the soul blade in his hand again, calmly weighing his choice. Then, he folded his hands and focused his mind. With a swirl of energy crackling, Shen vanished, leaving only the demons on the sandbank.

After a while, Shen appeared next to the shipwreck. The surroundings were full of smoldering black mud pools, smoky miasma, and a lingering stench.

Carefully counted the smoke-steaming mires, each one a relic of a dead spirit. His count was interrupted: the saint and his men were still performing the purification.

A man with a rope made of linen and silver in his hand, and a small spirit tied to his end, was nothing more than an insignificant imp. It was tightened by the rope and struggled to escape. And when it saw the fate of its own kind, it couldn't help but cry bitterly.

"Would you like to deal with this one?" the saint's tone was very relaxed, as if he was just handing him a bowl of soup.

Shen looked at the ground, an extraordinary creature from another world a moment ago, but now it had turned into a smoldering, sticky puddle. Then he turned and looked at the priest and the crying imp.

"I'm sorry, honorable saint." He withdrew the soul blade from its scabbard and drew the steel blade with his backhand. He never thought that this was the weapon he was going to use today.