As the two figures were about to clash, Han Li subtly adjusted the angle of his sword. It wasn't much—just a tiny shift—but in Mo Dafu's eyes, this seemingly insignificant movement caused a drastic transformation.
Suddenly, a brilliant burst of white light erupted from the sword. It was blindingly intense, shining directly into Mo Dafu's eyes. His heart sank. "Not good!" he thought, instantly retreating while quickly closing his eyes. But it was already too late—the white light had already pierced through his vision, leaving him no time to react.
Mo Dafu's eyes burned, his pupils stinging and tears pouring from his eyes. He tried to force his eyelids open, but when he looked again, everything was a blur. It was as if even the outlines of the objects around him were shrouded in a thick mist. His irritation and alarm grew, frustrated by his inability to see and aware that he had walked straight into Han Li's trap once again.
Nevertheless, Mo Dafu had spent many years navigating the dangerous world of martial arts, and his wealth of experience came to the forefront now. As he staggered backward, trying to regain his bearings, he raised his hands in front of him, relying on his Magic Silver Hands to block and protect his vitals. While he couldn't see, he was determined not to fall into the same trap again, at least not while his eyes were still compromised. He decided to wait until his vision returned before striking again.
Even in this moment of disorientation, Mo Dafu remained calm and collected. He knew how to handle such situations. He wasn't just some lowly fighter, and his skill at hearing was honed to perfection. As his mind calmed, he listened intently, hoping to catch any sounds that might reveal Han Li's next move.
Soon, he thought he heard a figure approaching, faintly shifting in front of him. Immediately, a sharp sound sliced through the air, accompanied by a rush of cold wind—the unmistakable sensation of someone preparing to strike.
Han Li's attack was coming, but Mo Dafu wasn't fazed. He smirked inwardly. The young man was obviously making an attempt to surprise him, but such a crude attack was nothing to worry about. Mo Dafu had trained his hearing to such a degree that he could sense even the smallest movement, whether it was the swipe of a sword or the tip of a needle.
He could hear the faint rustling as the sword came toward him, and with a deliberate, calculated move, Mo Dafu created a tiny opening in his defenses, luring the strike into that vulnerable gap.
Just as he expected, the sword seemed to target that very opening, and with a cruel smile, Mo Dafu's right hand shot out like lightning to seize the sword's blade, his fingers locking onto it with a vice-like grip. He didn't fear the sharp edge; with his Magic Silver Hands, no blade could harm him.
Han Li clearly knew his sword was useless now, but still, he yanked at it desperately, trying to break free, though it was futile. The sword was trapped, unable to move under Mo Dafu's iron grip.
Mo Dafu's heart swelled with pride as he held the blade in his hand. But then, something unexpected happened. The sword, which should have been heavy and solid in his grasp, suddenly became weightless, as though it had no substance at all. He could feel it slipping through his fingers.
"What's going on?" Mo Dafu's mind raced. He hadn't loosened his grip, yet it felt as if the sword was vanishing.
Before he could process the shock, a sharp, almost unbearable sound ripped through the air—something thin and fast, aimed directly at his throat. Instinctively, Mo Dafu's body jerked, and his head twisted violently to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike. The object—whatever it was—whistled past his neck, close enough to scrape the skin, leaving a faint, stinging pain behind.
His eyes widened as his neck was grazed, the cold touch of the weapon still lingering. It wasn't a fatal blow, but it was a near miss—a reminder that he wasn't invincible.
In a panic, he quickly dropped to the ground, rolling away in a desperate attempt to create distance. Han Li had clearly anticipated this, and Mo Dafu didn't dare risk another attack until he was certain of his safety.
After rolling away, he finally regained his footing and straightened up. The pain in his neck flared up, and he instinctively touched it, his fingers coming away slick with blood. He hurriedly pressed two fingers to the wound to stop the bleeding, his face contorted with frustration.
This close call left Mo Dafu shaken. His body had instinctively reacted in ways he hadn't consciously planned, narrowly avoiding death. He hadn't thought it would be possible to dodge such a fatal strike, but somehow, his body had done it on its own, pushing him out of harm's way.
As Mo Dafu regained his composure, he lifted his head and saw that Han Li was watching him, his expression one of frustration and regret. It was clear that Han Li had expected his attack to land, and the young man was upset that it had failed.
In Han Li's hand, he held something new: a short, pointed weapon. It was barely an inch long, resembling a tiny, almost comical spear or dart. The weapon was affixed to the handle of his original sword, though it looked distinctly out of place, and it was covered in blood—presumably the weapon that had nearly pierced Mo Dafu's throat.
Mo Dafu's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He was about to speak when he noticed something odd in his right hand. It was the blade of the sword he had been holding, but it felt light, almost like it was empty. Looking closer, he realized that the blade itself was hollow—a sheath for something else.
When he inspected it more carefully, Mo Dafu saw that the sword blade was nothing but a cover for the sharp, thin dart that had just grazed him. His heart sank as he understood the trap. Han Li had used this hollow blade to conceal the real weapon, keeping him unaware until the last moment.
A sense of fury welled up inside him as he realized just how expertly he had been tricked.