Chapter 46

The physician Mo glanced slightly at his left hand, then turned his gaze to Han Li and spoke with contempt.

“Interesting. It seems you haven’t been idle these past year—you’ve actually cultivated such a peculiar skill. But do you truly believe these amateur tricks can match me?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve fought. It wouldn’t hurt to get my limbs moving myself. I’ll let you strike first.”

Han Li ignored the verbal taunt. He had decided to strike first, seizing the initiative.

He held his short sword horizontally before him, drawing the opponent’s gaze, while a white paper packet quietly slid from his right sleeve into his right palm. He raised his hand and flung it upward—a cloud of white powder burst forth, instantly thickening into dense smoke that engulfed Han Li’s entire body, blurring his form into something faint and elusive. The mist rapidly spread throughout the room, turning the entire space into a blinding white haze where even five fingers couldn’t be seen, and Han Li vanished utterly within the fog.

Physician Mo frowned slightly; Han Li’s move caught him off guard, yet he dismissed it internally. With his experience, he had countless ways to counter such low-grade tricks. To avoid any poison in the smoke, he had already held his breath—his deep cultivation allowed him to go three or five breaths without inhaling without issue.

“Hmph. Such trifling tricks dare to show themselves before me!” Mo sneered, suddenly striking an empty palm into the fog. The white mist churned violently, as if stirred by a giant club, revealing a clear gap.

Seeing no trace of Han Li, Mo didn’t pause—he swung his palms left and right, unleashing over a dozen empty strikes that cleared the smoke entirely from the room, blowing it out the door. The chamber returned to normal, save for the absence of Han Li.

“Strange. This brat actually has some skill—he managed to vanish right before my eyes.” Mo was surprised, yet utterly calm. He had been stationed near the door all along; even a fly couldn’t slip past his notice.

He scanned the entire room carefully: the many bookshelves, the desk, the high-backed chair—all unchanged. Yet how could a living man simply disappear from such a confined space?

Mo’s expression remained steady, but his mind grew uneasy. Still, his confidence in his skill made him bold. He coughed a few times and shuffled slowly toward the corner where Han Li had vanished, intending to inspect it closely.

When he reached a distance of one zhang from the corner, he halted, narrowing his eyes. He had sensed a faint, elusive killing intent—lingering nearby, poised to strike at him.

Mo’s eyes flashed sharply as he scanned left and right repeatedly, yet found nothing unusual. Frustration welled in him. No one was anywhere—had the boy flown into heaven or sunk into earth?

“Flown into heaven or sunk into earth?” His mind stirred—he felt he’d grasped a crucial point. He was about to delve deeper when suddenly, a sharp “clang” rang from above.

“Damn!” Mo suddenly realized—the opponent was hiding on the eaves. Without raising his head, he whipped his hand upward in a fierce empty palm strike, aiming to knock the hidden assailant unconscious from above.

A thunderous boom followed the strike, accompanied by several crisp “ding-dong” sounds.

Confused, Mo looked up—and froze. Above him, the space was empty. Not a shadow in sight. Only a black iron bell hung from the beam, swaying violently from the force of his palm, its clanging the source of the noise. There was not even a trace of Han Li.

As Mo gazed upward, a sliver of cold light shot upward from beneath his feet with lightning speed, stabbing straight for his lower abdomen. So swift was the strike that “lightning and fire” was no exaggeration—it was only when the blade nearly touched his robes that Mo finally noticed.

Mo’s face paled in shock. In desperation, he improvised—he dropped into a “Iron Plank Bridge,” his body folding backward as if his spine had vanished, barely avoiding the blade. The short sword scraped along his belly, slicing a long gash in his robes, narrowly missing a full abdominal disembowelment.

After dodging the blade, Mo still didn’t relax. His feet seemed to have springs—he remained motionless, yet his entire body slid backward several zhang before he dared to straighten up, staring in shock and fury at the spot where the blade had risen.

Slowly, the ground near where he had stood began to bulge upward, rising higher and higher until it formed a yellow human shape—it was Han Li, combining soft-bone technique, breath-concealing art, and illusionary concealment.

He now wore a tunic of the exact same earth-yellow hue as the floor, left hand gripping the short sword that had nearly succeeded, his eyes filled with regret—he clearly felt deep disappointment over that missed strike.

Physician Mo’s formerly sallow face had turned slightly green. He was still trembling from the near-death experience, his heart pounding wildly with lingering dread. He was no novice to danger, but never in his entire life had he come so close to death—certainly not at the hands of Han Li, whom he had always looked down upon.

He took a deep breath, his expression finally calming. His voice came out dry:

“It seems I truly underestimated you, my dear disciple. That trick of yours was excellent—you’ve earned my full attention.”

After speaking this warning, Mo slowly raised both hands, holding them level before his eyes. He stared at his palms with tender focus, as if gazing at a lover, as though Han Li had vanished entirely from his thoughts.

Han Li raised his eyebrows, sneered, gripped his short sword in one hand, and stepped forward with small, measured strides, slowly approaching Physician Mo.

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