Chapter 47

"Silver Demon Hand"

These three words slowly emerged from Master Mo’s lips, his low voice seeming to drift from beyond the heavens, carrying an inexplicable magic that made Han Li pause mid-step, momentarily stunned. WM.com

As soon as the words were spoken, Master Mo’s body erupted with a towering aura of malevolence—this force surged like a sudden storm, growing fiercer by the second, spreading outward in all directions, filling the entire small room.

Han Li, who had been advancing, was struck head-on by this sudden, violent aura, forced back several steps before he could finally stabilize his stance.

Han Li’s expression darkened instantly; his heart trembled with dread—he knew the old man had finally unleashed his true trump card against him. Clearly, that earlier sword strike had shaken him deeply.

"Heh! Boy, to witness my famed technique, the Silver Demon Hand, is a fortune of three lifetimes."

Master Mo’s deafening, arrogant voice boomed in Han Li’s ears, but fortunately, it carried no internal force, so its impact was minimal—apparently, the old man scorned to reuse a failed method against him, which eased Han Li’s nerves considerably.

Yet, hearing Master Mo boast twice about the "Silver Demon Hand," Han Li couldn’t help but glance at the man’s hands.

What he saw filled his eyes with shock; his tightly clenched lips involuntarily parted slightly.

Master Mo’s arms, from the elbows upward, had once been withered and thin—but now they swelled as if inflated, thickening by more than a full circle. Even more startling: his originally dry, yellow skin had turned a silvery white, reflecting a cold metallic luster under the sunlight, appearing utterly indestructible, as if forged from pure silver.

"Is this Master Mo’s true power?"

Seeing this, Han Li’s heart sank. His grip on the sword hilt grew slick with fine beads of sweat, his palm drenched—his experience in combat was too scarce; merely from the sudden shift in aura and the grotesque transformation of the hands, he felt as if breathing itself had grown heavy.

Yet on the surface, Han Li maintained an air of calm. His expression remained composed, betraying no trace of unease—as if Master Mo’s arrogance meant nothing to him.

Master Mo was displeased. Though he now regarded Han Li with new respect, he still felt it wasteful to deploy his ultimate technique against a boy of barely ten or so—like using a sledgehammer to swat a fly. He longed to see Han Li terrified, trembling, utterly helpless—only then would his display truly be justified.

"Do you know how much I despise that look? A brat still smelling of milk, pretending all along that he holds every card, that he controls everything." Master Mo spoke coldly, his hatred for Han Li unmasked.

"Oh? To earn the disdain of Master Mo is my honor—I shall surely cultivate this trait further." Han Li no longer remained silent, retorting with sarcasm, hoping to provoke an opening through words.

But clearly, Han Li’s attempt failed. Master Mo said nothing more; instead, he slammed his palms together with a sharp "bang," producing a metallic screech that unsettled the spirit.

Then, in a blur, he leapt into the air, swinging his silver-glowing palms, transforming into a whirlwind that descended upon Han Li like a mountain collapsing from above.

He had no intention of prolonging this—he meant to crush Han Li outright with his divine art.

Han Li’s expression turned grave. He fixed his gaze entirely on the oncoming assault. Only when Master Mo hovered directly above him did he raise his short sword, thrusting straight for the one spot the old man must defend—the throat.

Seeing Han Li’s arrogance—refusing to evade his brutal strike—Master Mo’s heart leapt with delight. He sneered: "Die!" Then, he split his hands: one silver palm lunged bare-handed to seize the short sword, while the other slammed down toward Han Li’s shoulder.

Yet that blow aimed at Han Li’s shoulder, though roaring with menace, carried only half a tenth of his strength—far less than his words suggested. He seemed terrified of seriously injuring Han Li—there was some hidden mystery here.

Han Li, of course, knew none of this. Even if he had, he would never test the hardness of the man’s palm with his own flesh. He merely flicked his wrist lightly—the short sword twisted sideways, spinning into a silver disc no larger than a coin, shielding his upper body.

Master Mo smirked, yet his palms did not waver. He drove both hands straight into the swordlight, showing not the slightest intention to retreat.

A sharp "clang!" rang out as Han Li’s short sword struck the silver palm—sparks flew, yet it left not a scratch. The blade was violently rebounded upward.

Seizing the moment, Master Mo flipped his palm and extended a single finger, lightly tapping the sword’s edge before Han Li could retract it. Han Li felt a searing heat in his palm—and his weapon shot away with a "whoosh," flying off at an angle, embedding itself deeply into the wall without a trace of hesitation.

The second silver palm, following close behind, suddenly shifted from palm to claw, lashing toward Han Li’s collarbone, aiming to paralyze his movement and capture him alive.

As the situation spiraled into dire peril, Han Li showed no sign of panic. He shifted his shoulder slightly—and his entire body blurred, transforming into a wisp of smoke that shot straight forward, vanishing before Master Mo’s eyes.

Master Mo was startled by this ghostly movement, but as he descended, he turned both hands into a thick silver curtain, enveloping the smoke completely, leaving no gap for escape.

Yet this smoke was utterly uncanny—it suddenly swept outward in all directions, slipping through the silver curtain at an impossible angle, then sharply veered left, darting to the corner of the room, where it solidified, revealing Han Li’s true form.

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