Just as the two were about to clash, Han Li subtly twisted the blade in his hand, tilting it ever so slightly. It was only a minor adjustment, but in Mo Daifu’s eyes, it triggered a dramatic and overwhelming change.
Mo Daifu suddenly saw more than a dozen dazzling white lights flare up before him—blindingly intense, shining directly into his eyes without any obstruction.
His heart screamed, “Not good!” He hastily retreated, shutting his eyes immediately, but it was already too late. The white light instantly flooded his vision, leaving him no time to react.
A wave of heat washed over his eyes, followed by a sharp, aching pain as tears streamed uncontrollably. Ignoring the tears, he forced his eyes open despite the discomfort, only to be met with a vast expanse of whiteness. He couldn’t make out any objects clearly; even their outlines appeared as blurry, overlapping shadows.
Shock and fury surged within him. He was filled with regret for carelessly falling into his opponent’s trickery yet again.
However, Mo Daifu was no stranger to the dangers of the martial world and had ample experience dealing with perilous situations. While continuously stepping backward to create distance and buy time, he retracted his palms and swung them relentlessly in front of him. Relying on his impervious Demon Silver Hands, he shielded the vital points of his upper body.
He had already resolved not to launch any attacks until his vision returned to normal. Any offensive moves would have to wait until he could see clearly again, lest he fall into another of the cunning brat’s traps.
By now, Mo Daifu had completely abandoned his earlier underestimation of Han Li. The danger of this confrontation was no less than the life-and-death struggles he had faced against formidable rivals in his younger days.
Though he couldn’t see Han Li’s movements, Mo Daifu pricked up his ears, focusing intently on any sounds to anticipate his opponent’s next move.
He vaguely glimpsed a shadowy figure swaying in front of him, followed by a sharp whistling sound accompanied by a chilling gust of wind rushing toward him from the front.
Rather than panicking at Han Li’s assault, Mo Daifu felt a surge of delight. His opponent’s methods were still somewhat immature. If Han Li had silently ambushed him from the side, Mo Daifu might have been genuinely troubled. But a bold, frontal attack? There was nothing to fear. After all, Mo Daifu had long mastered the art of discerning movements by sound. He could detect not only the thrust of a short sword but even the flight of a slender embroidery needle with perfect clarity.
Hearing the attack clearly, Mo Daifu deliberately slowed his movements, leaving a small opening in his defense. As expected, the sound of the assault shifted direction, aiming straight for the gap—and then toward his throat.
A sinister smile curled on Mo Daifu’s lips. His right hand, poised and waiting, shot out like lightning, firmly grasping the blade without fear of its sharp edge.
Realizing the danger, Han Li desperately tried to pull the short sword back, but under the grip of the Demon Silver Hands, it didn’t budge an inch. His efforts were in vain.
A sense of triumph swelled in Mo Daifu’s heart, but he remained cautious. Fearful that Han Li might let go and flee, he ignored his still-blurred vision and channeled all his strength into his arm, yanking the short sword toward himself to pull Han Li closer and subdue him. Yet, the sword felt unexpectedly light, as if there were nothing there.
Shock coursed through him. How could the blade he was gripping so firmly suddenly feel so weightless? Even if Han Li had released it, it shouldn’t have been this light.
Before Mo Daifu could process this, a sharp, air-rending sound erupted just inches from his throat. Something thin and pointed was hurtling toward him at an extraordinary speed. Even before it reached him, the force of the attack already pricked at his Adam’s apple.
Without time to think, his body reacted reflexively. His head jerked to the side, twisting his neck at an impossible angle in a desperate attempt to evade the fatal strike.
Years of rigorous training paid off at this critical moment. Mo Daifu felt a cold sensation brush his neck as the sharp object grazed past, only slightly scraping the skin and causing no serious harm.
Fearing further attacks, Mo Daifu didn’t hesitate to mimic Han Li’s earlier escape tactic. He threw himself to the ground, rolling away like a lazy donkey, putting distance between them before daring to rise.
Once back on his feet, Mo Daifu felt a burning pain on his neck. He touched the wound and found his fingers wet with blood. Quickly, he pressed two fingers against nearby blood vessels to stem the bleeding.
Only then did the fear set in. He realized he shouldn’t have been able to dodge that strike—it was sheer instinct and luck that had saved him.
As this thought crossed his mind, Mo Daifu glanced up at Han Li and noticed his vision had cleared unnoticed. Han Li stood there, glaring at him with obvious frustration for having narrowly escaped once again.
In Han Li’s hand was a peculiar weapon—an inch-long, spike-like object that resembled an extremely short awl, yet its handle was that of a sword. The overall appearance was strange, and it was stained with blood—the very weapon that had injured Mo Daifu.
Mo Daifu’s expression turned icy, his eyes burning with rage. He had reached his limit enduring these repeated brushes with death and was about to unleash his fury when he noticed he was still holding something in his right hand.
Looking down, he saw a hollow blade—light and seemingly weightless. Upon closer inspection, he understood: the blade was hollow, and the spike had been concealed inside it. The blade was merely a decoy, a sheath meant to mislead.
Instantly, his raging fury was extinguished by this unexpected revelation.
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