Doctor Mo alighted lightly on the very spot where Han Li had stood, and with no pause at all, turned about like a specter to face the boy once more. Every trace of the pride that had been in his countenance was gone, leaving nothing but a blank and wooden look, yet in his eyes there glimmered a hardly perceptible strangeness.
Han Li, for his part, was in none too fair a state. He panted for breath in great gasps, his face somewhat pale, a cold sweat beading upon his brow, and upon his cheeks an unnatural flush had risen.
All of this told clearly that the very means by which Han Li had just saved his life had drained away the greater part of his strength, and it was likely that a second display of the same art lay beyond his reach.
Han Li let out a deep breath and strove to let his body hang loose, so as to ease the heavy strain that the use of the Mist-Wandering Step had set upon his muscles. As things stood, he could do no more than seize every chance to recover a measure of his strength, the better to hold some small hope of victory in the next bout.
He cast his eyes downward upon his left hand, which yet trembled faintly. It had gone altogether numb, without the least feeling, and could no more take up a sword. That left-handed swordplay he had so deliberately drilled was for the present quite crippled, and he could fight with nothing but his right hand.
At the thought a bitter smile rose within him. He had lost the greater half of his strength, could no longer work the subtle Mist-Wandering Step, and to make the matter worse, was reduced to fighting with a single hand. A worse pass could hardly be imagined. There remained no choice but to have resort to that one last secret stroke he had so carefully hoarded.
Han Li glanced at the sun beyond the eaves, pondered a little, and judged that the time was indeed near at hand—that it would serve well enough for the working of that stroke.
He looked again at the sword planted in the wall. That weapon, he knew, was beyond recovering now; the man would never suffer him to saunter over and pluck it free.
Han Li pondered a moment, then drew from his bosom another weapon. It, too, was a sheathed short sword of but half a foot in length; so short was it that it was better called a dagger than a sword. When he drew it from the sheath, it seemed far more thick and broad than an ordinary dagger, and flashed with a bright, cold sheen that spoke of a keen edge.
He tossed the sheath aside, took the blade in his right hand, stretched his arm out full, and slanted the point toward the opponent in a stance of attack.
Doctor Mo took all this in without hurrying to strike. He clasped his hands behind his back, and of a sudden his mien grew kindly. In a gentle voice he urged:
"Han Li, that you have slipped away from me again and again does indeed surpass my reckoning. But do you believe you can be as fortunate this time, and escape from beneath my palm a second time? The step you used just now is wondrous, no denying; yet it seems to carry no small limitation. From the state of your strength alone, you cannot hope to work it again to any purpose. Come, surrender quietly. You can see for yourself that I have no mind to lay you low. If you would but follow my words, things need not prove so ill as you fancy."
The way Doctor Mo turned his manner about like a chameleon set all Han Li's flesh to creeping. One moment he played the kind master, the next he was cold and ruthless, and now he spoke with grave concern, bidding Han Li deliver himself up to his fate. Han Li scarce knew what to make of him. Did the man truly think him so befuddled that he would swallow such a shameless bait?
Yet the fellow's very words lent Han Li the more confidence. If he had not come to hold some fear of him, why should he stoop to such childish blandishments to gull him?
In a single breath Han Li saw through it all. He sighed, shook his head softly, and answered not a word—only flourished the dagger a few times toward the other's body, by which he made his meaning plain enough.
The veins upon Doctor Mo's brow leapt and beat a few times. Seeing that Han Li would not heed his counsel but rather taunted him with his weapon, he could no longer hold in his wrath.
"You do not know when you are well off!"
He took a single great stride forward, and spat through his teeth: "A step that spans a thousand miles."
Then, of a sudden, his whole body floated lightly to a spot but a few paces from Han Li—as though he had practiced the art of shrinking the earth itself, so that a man could not but marvel.
Han Li, for his part, seemed no little alarmed. A look of fright came over his face, and he hastened to fall back two paces, putting a span of distance between them, before he set the dagger crosswise before him and whirled it into a small sheet of cold light, barring Doctor Mo's way—as though he had clean forgotten the drubbing he had taken in their last exchange.
Doctor Mo sneered within himself, and was hardly so generous as to warn his foe of his intent. He divided his two palms, sending them down two separate roads against Han Li, paying no heed at all to the cold glimmer of the blade.
Even as the two silver hands were about to steal within that ring of sword-light, a laugh came softly from the other side—a laugh free and unburdened, the laugh of a hunter who sees his prey step into the snare.
Doctor Mo's heart tightened. Unthinking, he slowed his charge, and his form hung for a moment. Then there came to his ears a voice cold as ice:
"This time, it is you who have truly stepped into the trap. Look well at the dagger in my hand!"
At these words Doctor Mo could not help but turn his gaze to the dagger. Lo, the boy had at some point ceased his flourish, and drawn himself into a strange posture—his upper body leaning back a little, the dagger held flat before his waist in one hand, his lower limbs set in a taut bow stance, ready to spring on the very instant, so that the whole of him took on the odd look of a man who had drawn a bow and nocked an arrow.
And as for the weapon of which the words had spoken—save for a little glimmer of blue light, there was nothing at all out of the common about it. This left Doctor Mo somewhat bewildered. Could it be that the boy, by striking this odd posture and deceiving him with these false words, meant to unsettle his mind and so snatch a cheap advantage?
At the thought Doctor Mo found it nearly laughable, and would have mocked the boy aloud, when of a sudden Han Li hurled himself forward as though loosed from a mighty bow, a single arrow flying from the other side. The speed of his coming was such that even Doctor Mo's countenance changed.
Hastily Doctor Mo clapped his parted hands together, meaning to catch the other's blade between his palms; but lo, the dagger gave one quivering shake and was transformed into a dozen blades of like shape, thrusting from every quarter, in such fashion that truth and falsehood could no longer be told apart.
Doctor Mo snorted, his regard for Han Li falling another notch. To employ such a showy and empty trick before a master such as he—was that not to court death? At a single glance he could tell where the true blade lay.
And so he widened his eyes, fixed upon the coming of the true blade, and kept his hands in the same posture, only quickening his rush, meaning in one blow to shatter that keen edge and leave the boy to be taken empty-handed.