The Duke of Mo gently settled at where Han Li had been standing, without the slightest pause, and, like a ghost, spun around to face him once more. The proud expression on his face had completely faded, leaving only a blank, expressionless demeanor, though a subtle change in his eyes was barely noticeable. At that moment, Han Li's condition was far from favorable. He was gasping for breath, his complexion pale, beads of cold sweat trickling down his forehead, and an unusual flush had risen on his cheeks. All these signs clearly indicated that Han Li's life-saving maneuvers had drained most of his strength, and it was likely that he would no longer be able to execute the same techniques in the next encounter. Taking a deep, steady breath, Han Li allowed his body to relax as much as possible, easing the significant strain placed on his muscles by the use of the "Luo Yan Steps." Now, he could only seize every opportunity to regain strength, hoping to improve his chances of victory in the next round of combat. Han Li lowered his gaze again to his left hand, still微微 trembling—now completely numb, with no sensation at all, utterly unable to lift his sword. It seemed his deliberately cultivated left-hand sword technique had been temporarily abandoned, leaving him to fight solely with his right hand. At this thought, he sighed with a touch of bitter humor. Now that his strength had been greatly diminished, he could no longer execute the refined "Luo Yan Steps," and worse still, he was forced to fight with only one hand. This was indeed the most unfavorable situation imaginable; he would have to draw upon his last reserve move. Han Li glanced at the sun outside the room and judged the time to be just right—perfect for deploying this final strategy. He then looked once more at the short sword pinned against the wall, clearly destined to remain there, as the opponent would not allow him to retrieve it with dignity. Han Li paused, then drew out another weapon from his sleeve. This was a short, half-shoelength blade, slightly shorter than a typical sword—more accurately described as a dagger. Once removed from its sheath, the blade appeared notably broader and more substantial than a standard dagger, gleaming with sharpness and brilliance. Setting the sheath aside, Han Li switched to holding the sword in his right hand, extended his arm fully, and pointed the tip of the sword diagonally toward his opponent, adopting a forward-attacking stance. Just surrender now! You must have noticed that I haven't seriously injured you. If you simply follow my instructions, it might not be as bad as you imagine. Doctor Mo's attitude has shifted like a chameleon—first gentle and patient, then cold and resolute, now earnestly urging you to lay down and wait. It's truly bewildering, making Han Li feel utterly at a loss. He genuinely thought he'd be overwhelmed, caught in such a dramatic and unseemly situation. Yet, paradoxically, these words have strengthened his confidence. How could he be so easily deceived with such seemingly childish tactics if he weren't already wary of him? In an instant, Han Li grasped all the nuances clearly. He sighed, gently shook his head, said nothing, and merely used his short sword to gesture toward Doctor Mo, conveying all his intentions with quiet clarity. The blue veins on Mo Da's forehead pulsed and jumped several times. Seeing Han Li not only ignoring his appeals but actively provoking him with his weapon, Mo Da could no longer suppress his fury. "Ungrateful!" he suddenly took a large stride forward, then spat out sharply, "At咫尺天涯!" Instantly, he floated lightly to a spot only a few steps away from Han Li, as if capable of shrinking the distance between them—remarkable indeed. Han Li seemed equally startled, his face filled with alarm, and hurriedly retreated two steps to create space, then held his short sword horizontally before him, weaving it into a small band of cold light to block Mo Da's path—seeming completely to have forgotten the hardships he had endured during their previous encounter. Mo Da silently chuckled to himself, without any intention of kindly reminding Han Li. He parted his palms, sending his attacks in two directions simultaneously, completely ignoring the cold glint of the sword. As the two silver hands seemed about to plunge into the swordlight, a light, exhilarating laugh suddenly rang out from across the way—a laugh as vivid and triumphant as that of a hunter witnessing his prey step into the trap. Mao the physician felt a sudden jolt, unconsciously slowing his advance, his movements momentarily stiffening. Yet then came a cold, composed remark: "Right now, it's you who've truly been caught off guard. Look at the short sword in my hands!" At the sound of these words, Mao instinctively turned his gaze toward the sword. There, he noticed that the other had ceased his fluid movements and now assumed an odd posture—his upper body slightly reclined, the short sword resting flat against his waist, while his lower body formed a taut, ready-to-fire stance, as if the entire figure had transformed into a bowman poised to release an arrow. The short sword mentioned in the words shone with a faint green glow, otherwise showing no unusual features, which left Doctor Mo somewhat astonished. Could it be that the other party had adopted such an odd posture and used deceptive words merely to distract him and gain an advantage? As this thought crossed his mind, a gentle smile played on his lips—he found himself wanting to chuckle at the other's performance. Yet suddenly, Han Li surged forward with a force that seemed as if propelled by a powerful bow, transforming into a swift arrow and launched straight toward him, his speed so sudden that even Doctor Mo could not help but pale. He could immediately discern the true edge of the blade. Thus, he widened his eyes, fixed his gaze on the source of the blade, and at the same time maintained the flow of his hand movements, even accelerating them slightly, striving to strike and shatter the blade in a single move, so that the opponent would be captured empty-handed.