The Limestone Village is built on the shady side of a weathered limestone cliff. The village is small, with dozens of low sandstone houses crammed at the foot of the cliff, looking from a distance as if they have grown out of the stone.
The village was originally surrounded by a low stone wall, which was dry-built with locally quarried limestone fragments; it was for sand protection but not for people protection.
There are several newly chiseled holes in the stone wall, which were smashed open by the rebels with hammers when they entered the village.
Barlow reined in his horse atop a sand dune just outside the village entrance.
A few wisps of smoke rose straight up from the village, dispersing into a pale blue mist under the windless desert sky.
It looked no different from an ordinary village, except for a few bloodstains below the gap in the stone wall.
The bloodstains had dried, turning a dark brown from the sun, and were embedded in the texture of the limestone; unless you looked closely, you would mistake them for the stone's natural color.
At the entrance to the village, an overturned cart lay on its side, its wheels still slowly turning in the wind.
Several flattened wicker baskets lay beside the cart, their contents—dried dates—scattered all over the ground, trampled into mud.
The old man who had led the way stood at the foot of the sand dune, pointed to the village, and trembled, unable to speak.
Barlow waved to him, indicating that he could leave.
The old man took a few steps back, but didn't actually go far. Instead, he hid behind a weathered rock, peeking out with half his head to watch.
Barlow dismounted and tied the reins to a clump of dead camel thorns at the foot of the dune.
He didn't draw his sword; he simply stood on the edge of the dune, scanning the layout of the village entrance with a calm gaze that seemed to assess the rate of cargo loss.
"The smoke from the cooking fires is still burning, indicating that the rebels are still in the village. The absence of sentries at the village entrance stone wall suggests that these people have not received formal military training, or that their commander is negligent."
"These people are probably not trained by Charles; they're either pirates or mercenaries."
He unbuttoned the collar of his desert cloak, pulled it back, revealing the sword at his waist.
"I'll spare them; you can do whatever you want."
Mila dismounted, handed the reins to Barlow, looked into Barlow eyes, and nodded.
She pushed her goggles up to her forehead and touched the buckle on the scabbard at her waist to make sure it wouldn't get stuck when she drew it.
Roy was the last to dismount, making a big movement as he casually tied the reins to a camel thorn, his left hand already resting on the hilt of his knife.
He stood beside Mila, his shoulders a head higher Mila, his breathing steady, his eyes fixed on the bloodstains at the breach in the stone wall, and there was no smile on his lips.
Roy is usually very talkative when he's not fighting, but he becomes very quiet once he puts his hand on the hilt of his knife.
The three walked side by side toward the gap in the stone wall, with Barlow in the middle, Mila on the left, Roy on the right, their feet making a fine grinding sound as they stepped on the gravel.
A rebel soldier suddenly appeared from behind the first low house at the village entrance.
The rebel was wearing a desert robe he had stolen from the villagers; the robe was too short, exposing his wrists and ankles, and a rusty scimitar was tucked into his waistband.
He was probably in his early twenties, with a fresh gunpowder burn on his face.
He was stuffing half a freshly broken naan into his mouth, his cheeks bulging, when he saw three people walking in from the village entrance. He paused for a moment, then quickly scanned the three of them with his eyes.
First, his gaze swept over Barlow, pausing for a moment on the knife at his waist; then over Roy, startled by the breadth of Roy's shoulders and the wear marks on the hilt of his knife; finally, it swept over Mila.
His mouth stopped chewing.
Those eyes locked onto Mila, their gaze a primal, undisguised scrutiny.
His gaze moved down Mila's face, then up, and finally back to her face.
He swallowed the naan bread in his mouth, and his lips slowly parted to reveal a few yellow teeth covered in naan crumbs.
"Hey!" he shouted towards the village, his voice sharp and filled with barely suppressed excitement.
"There's a real gem here! Much prettier than those Kurozumi girls!"
His eyes returned to Mila.
Those eyes held a laugh, a vulgar, undisguised laugh, as if someone had found an unearned treasure in the desert.
Mila's eyes changed; her pupils contracted slightly, and the corners of her mouth turned down.
Meanwhile, Roy, who was standing nearby, had already made his move.
He drew his short knife, and as he swung it from his side, there was no unnecessary backswing; the tip of the knife drew a dark silver straight line, and the leather cord at the end of the hilt taut in the air.
The dagger struck the still-grinning rebel, the blade piercing through his open mouth and exiting from the back of his neck.
The laughter stopped, and he stood there, his mouth still stretched into a grin, crumbs of naan bread clinging to his teeth, his eyes still fixed on Mila.
His knees buckled, and he fell backward, crashing to the ground and kicking up a small cloud of dust.
The dagger pierced the back of his neck, its tip protruding from under the skin and embedded in the sand, fixing his head, which was lying on its back, in the sand.
The naan bread rolled out of his hand, rolled twice on the sand, and came to rest at the base of the rubble wall.
There were still six or seven rebels in the open space inside the stone wall. They were originally roasting naan around a campfire, with an iron pot brought from the villager's kitchen on the fire, stewing the plundered mutton in it.
When someone heard their companion shout, they looked up and were laughing as they prepared to stand up and watch the commotion when the dagger was plunged into the back of their companion's neck.
They saw three people walk in through a gap in the stone wall.
The man leading the group walked at a leisurely pace, his hands hanging at his sides, as if he were entering his own chamber of commerce meeting room.
The big man behind him had just pulled his right hand back from the throwing motion when his left hand had already gripped the hilt of the long sword at his waist.
Further back, the woman whom her deceased comrade had described as "exquisite" followed at the very back, her palm resting on the hilt of her knife, her eyes watching them from behind her goggles.
Then they saw three pairs of eyes.
A scarlet background, with three Tomoe floating around the edge of the pupils, slowly rotating.
The rebels around the campfire stood up at the same time.
Someone kicked over the iron pot, and the mutton soup spilled onto the campfire, producing a sharp hissing sound of steam.
Someone reached out and touched the weapons leaning against the stone wall: a scimitar, a short axe, and a musket missing its sights.
Some people didn't touch anything, but simply took a step back and bumped their backs against the earthen wall of the low house behind them.
Roy had already rushed in.
He picked up the short knife that was nailed to the ground, ran his fingers along the blade, flicked away the blood, and put it back into the scabbard at his waist.
The movement was so fast that as soon as a rebel raised his scimitar, he smashed the man's wrist bone with the back of the blade. Before the scimitar even hit the ground, he had already flashed behind the man and used his elbow to strangle another man who was trying to escape. At the same time, he kicked a third rebel in the back of the knee with his right foot.
Three rebels fell to the ground simultaneously: one had a broken wrist, one was choked unconscious, and one had a dislocated knee.
The blade flashed once in the narrow alley between the low houses, then twice, then three times.
With each flash of the blade, a rebel soldier fell.
Before the rebels swung their knives, Roy would first aim at their shoulders; if their shoulders moved even an inch, he would know which direction the knife was coming from.
As he chopped away, he retreated towards the low houses at the village entrance. When he reached the base of the wall, he suddenly flipped over, stepped onto the earthen wall, and with a kick, flipped onto the roof.
Several rebel soldiers chased after them out of the alley, brandishing muskets.
They saw Roy standing on the roof, his fingers forming Hand Seals.
"Fire Release: Phoenix Flower Fire."
He spat out several fist-sized fireballs, which scattered in the air like a cluster of balsam seeds blown by the wind, each one flying precisely towards a rebel soldier carrying a musket.
The moment the fireballs hit the body, they didn't burn, they exploded. Each one carried the high-density chakra unique to the Uchiha-style fire release. The flames that exploded after hitting the target were not large in area, but the temperature was extremely high, directly melting the musket barrel into dark red molten iron.
Several rebels screamed as they threw down their muskets, their palms burned and their sleeves on fire, rolling on the ground trying to extinguish the flames.
The musket ammunition was ignited by the high temperature, exploding into several small fireworks on the sand.
Roy stood on the rooftop looking at his spoils, but before he could even grin, Mila's roar came from below.
"Don't use Fire Release! We're already in the desert, it's unbearably hot!"
She stood in the shadows between the low houses, and with a swift stroke, she felled another rebel soldier who tried to ambush her from behind. Sparks flew as the blade brushed past the scabbard at the man's waist.
Her shirt sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and beads of sweat were already seeping from her forehead. The midday desert temperature in Alabasta was already high, with the sun baking her headscarf and the sand searing the soles of her shoes. A few more Fire Release would be like bringing the battlefield into an oven.