Chapter 49

As the two sides were about to clash, Han Li slightly twisted the blade in his hand, tilting it by just a fraction—but to the Master Mo, this tiny change triggered a cataclysmic shift.

Master Mo felt a sudden flash of brightness, as if dozens of blindingly brilliant white lights had erupted before his eyes, their intensity overwhelming, directly and unobstructed stabbing into his gaze.

He silently cried “Trouble!” and hastily retreated backward, snapping his eyelids shut—but it was too late; the white light pierced his pupils in an instant, leaving no chance to react.

Instantly, his eyes burned hot, then ached painfully, tears streaming uncontrollably; he had no time to wipe them, forcing his eyes open despite the agony, yet all he saw was a blinding white haze—no clear shapes, no outlines, only shifting, blurred illusions.

At that moment, he was both shocked and furious, bitterly regretting his carelessness and falling once again into the opponent’s trick.

Yet Master Mo had spent decades traversing the martial world; his experience in handling danger was vast. He kept retreating steadily, widening the distance between them to buy time, while simultaneously drawing his palms inward and waving them frantically before his chest, using his invulnerable Silver Demon Hands to shield his vital upper body.

He had resolved firmly: before his vision returned to normal, he would launch no offensive at all—every attack must wait until he could see clearly, lest he fall once more into the cunning brat’s trap.

By now, Master Mo had completely discarded his earlier contempt; this struggle with Han Li was no less perilous than the life-or-death duels he had faced in his youth against formidable foes.

Though he could not see his opponent’s movements, Master Mo strained his ears, focusing intently, trying to discern the next move by sound alone.

He seemed to glimpse a shadow flicker before him, followed by a piercing whistle accompanied by a chilling wind, striking straight from the front.

For Han Li’s assassination attempt, Master Mo felt no panic—instead, he felt a surge of delight.

The opponent’s tactics were still childish; had he silently lurked and struck from ambush, Master Mo might have truly worried—but to charge openly from the front? What was there to fear? He had long perfected the art of discerning movement by sound; whether it was a direct thrust of a short sword or a slender embroidery needle, he could hear every detail with perfect clarity.

Master Mo heard it clearly, yet deliberately slowed his hand, leaving a tiny opening in his defense—and sure enough, the attack instantly shifted, slipping through the gap and lunging straight for his throat.

Master Mo sneered, and his right hand, long waiting, shot out like lightning, snatching the blade with iron grip, utterly unfazed by its razor edge.

The opponent clearly realized his mistake, yanking the short sword back hard several times—but under the control of the Silver Demon Hands, it did not budge an inch, only wasting effort.

Master Mo felt a flicker of triumph, yet dared not slacken his grip for an instant; fearing the opponent might realize and let go, he ignored his still-blurred vision and unleashed full power in one hand, yanking the blade sharply toward his side, intending to drag Han Li across and seize him personally—yet the blade felt unnaturally light, as if empty.

He was stunned—his hand still gripped the blade, yet how could it suddenly feel so weightless? Even if Han Li had released it, it should not have become this light.

Before Master Mo could comprehend what had happened, a piercing shriek tore through the air inches from his throat—as if a slender object, moving faster than reason, was stabbing toward him; even before it reached him, the rushing air had already pricked his Adam’s apple.

He had no time to think—his body’s reflexes reacted instinctively: his head snapped sideways, twisting his neck into an impossible angle, desperately trying to evade the lethal strike.

Years of rigorous training finally paid off: Master Mo felt a chill along his neck—the sharp object grazed past, barely scraping his skin, inflicting only a minor wound.

Having dodged this blow, Master Mo feared more tricks might follow; without hesitation, he copied Han Li’s initial escape maneuver, collapsing onto the ground and rolling like a lazy donkey, putting as much distance as possible between himself and Han Li before rising again.

Standing upright, Master Mo felt a searing pain along his neck; he touched the wound, his fingers coming away wet—he had lost a good deal of blood.

He quickly pressed two fingers against nearby meridians, stopping the bleeding.

Only now did fear strike him—he realized he should never have escaped that blow; yet his body had somehow performed beyond its limits, saving him by sheer instinct.

Thinking of this, Master Mo raised his head to glance at Han Li—and only then noticed his vision had cleared completely; his sight had restored itself without his awareness.

Han Li glared at him with unmistakable frustration, clearly furious that his opponent had escaped yet again.

In his hand he held a sharp, inch-long weapon—its shape resembling an absurdly short awl, yet still mounted on the original sword hilt, giving it an odd appearance, stained with blood—the very weapon that had wounded Master Mo.

Master Mo’s expression turned icy, his eyes blazing with fury; he could no longer tolerate nearly dying again and was about to unleash his rage—when he suddenly felt something still clutched in his right hand.

He looked down: it was a blade without a handle, light as air. Upon closer inspection, he suddenly understood—the blade was hollow; inside its cavity lay precisely that sharp awl. The blade was nothing more than a deceptive outer sheath concealing the awl.

Instantly, his burning rage was doused completely by this unexpected revelation.

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