Roy pursed his lips on the roof, then flipped over and jumped down, landing next to her.
As he landed, he casually cleaved a rebel soldier charging from the side with a single stroke, twisted his heel halfway around on the sand, and landed back-to-back with Mila.
"Then what do you want me to use?"
"Use a knife."
She didn't turn around, but she knew Roy's back was pressed against hers, their shoulder blades separated by a layer of sweaty fabric.
She parried a short axe's slash with the back of her knife, then slashed across the attacker's chest with a backhand stroke, the sounds of tearing fabric and flesh opening rang out simultaneously.
Roy did almost the exact same thing behind her: parry, backhand, sheath the sword, and then draw it again.
The two people's movements were perfectly synchronized.
Roy made a run down the right flank, and Mila joined him from the left.
Mila took a step back to lure the enemy, and Roy then cut in from the side to cover her.
Some of the rebels tried to outnumber Roy, slashing at him from three directions simultaneously. Roy blocked two frontal blows, dodged a short axe attack from behind with his right leg, and at the same time, Mila had already entered from the side, slashing through the arm of the attacker in the back row, the blood flying out in a small fan shape on the sand.
These two practiced countless times in the forests of White Wax Island when they were young. Their speed of drawing their swords, their habits of switching hands, and their feints to lure enemies were all ingrained in their muscle memory.
Their teamwork was dazzling and flamboyant.
The blade flashed repeatedly in the shadows of the low house, the footsteps were precise and light, and the Chakra trailed a long, thin tail of light as it sliced across the blade.
This dazzling style is not intentional; it is a characteristic of the Uchiha Style Swordsmanship itself. Prediction, footwork, hand-switching frequency, and Chakra infusion are all superimposed in high-speed combat, naturally presenting an effect like a meticulously choreographed sword dance.
Barlow's swordsmanship, however, is of a different style.
He had no interest in practicing teamwork with anyone.
He walked directly into the most densely populated area of the rebels, drew his long sword from its sheath, and the blade left only a very short arc of light in the midday sun.
The first stab pierced the wrist of the rebel soldier directly in front, the tip passing between the wrist bones without damaging the artery, thus dissipating all the force from gripping the knife.
The man screamed and released his curved blade. Barlow had already retracted his blade and slashed horizontally to the right. The back of the blade precisely struck the other man on the back of the neck, the force controlled so precisely that the man fainted the instant he was hit.
Then he grabbed the third guy who was trying to escape by the back of the neck with his left hand and slammed him against the earthen wall next to him. His forehead hit the hard earth, and he collapsed to the ground with a dull thud.
If you can use three strikes, don't use two; if you can cripple someone, don't waste a single fatal attack.
Barlow's swordsmanship lacked Roy's sweeping, unrestrained, and intimidating style, as well as Mila's dazzling, nerve-wracking style.
He simply handed the knife to the most appropriate position at the most appropriate time, then sheathed it, and moved on to the next person.
The rebels among the low houses have begun to scatter.
Several people ran from behind the village to the foot of the cliff, but were blocked by the limestone cliff. They turned around, leaned against the cliff, and slumped to the ground with their hands raised above their heads.
Barlow lifted the last survivor from the ground; he was an older rebel.
He was once knocked unconscious by the back of Barlow's blade, and when he woke up, he found that his scimitar had been kicked ten paces away.
He looked up at Barlow's calm face, his lips pale, his legs trembling uncontrollably.
"How long have you been in Limestone Village? Who else is above you?" Barlow asked.
The survivor was trembling all over; he had glanced back before fleeing.
In the middle of the open space, the burly man and the woman stood side by side, both covered in blood, but not a single drop was their own.
Dozens of corpses lay on the surrounding sand, with the remains of scimitars and muskets scattered everywhere.
Further away, the woman wearing goggles was kicking away half of a smoking musket barrel from the hand of a rebel soldier who had fallen to the ground, her movements as natural as if she were simply tidying up her own yard.
"Two days... two days! We've been in this village for two days!"
The survivor's voice trembled as he shuffled to the side, his back pressed against the limestone cliff, trying to get away from Barlow.
"There's no one in command! There's really no one! The captain drank the other night and said that people in Rainbase were urging him to go back, so yesterday he went to Rainbase with a few squad leaders, leaving the rest of us here to wait for orders. It's not that we want to stay, it's that no one told us to evacuate!"
Barlow continued, "Are there any other outposts outside the village?"
"There aren't any nearby... There are some further north, somewhere in Kasya where the headquarters is stationed."
How many people are stationed in Katya?
"I don't know, I really don't know! I'm just a delivery person..."
That's enough.
Barlow released his grip, and the survivor immediately collapsed to the ground, his back slamming heavily against the cliff wall, but he didn't even dare to cry out in pain.
Barlow stood up from in front of him, wiped the blood off the blade with a clean cloth, and sheathed the sword with a crisp sound as the hilt struck the scabbard.
Outside the village entrance, the refugees hiding behind weathered rocks stared in disbelief.
The old man with the cane gripped the edge of the rock with both hands, his knuckles turning white.
He had witnessed the ferocity of the rebels when they entered the village; a hundred or so men, armed with knives and muskets, kicked open doors and dragged villagers from their beds into the street.
He thought the three people who came this time were going to their deaths.
Then he heard screams, the sound of muskets exploding, and the clash of blades coming from the village, which lasted for about the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, and then it fell silent.
He tiptoed and peeked out from behind the rock, and saw the leader standing in the open space at the village entrance, wiping his knife with a cloth.
Dozens of rebel soldiers lay dead between the low houses behind him, most of them motionless, while a few who had been knocked unconscious were groaning on the sand.
The burly man and the woman stood side by side beside the campfire in the center of the village. The fire was still burning, the iron pot had fallen over, and the mutton soup had seeped into the sand and steamed into dark brown stains, but the two men seemed to care about only one thing.
"Your Phoenix Flower Fire set that rebel's turban on fire," Mila said, "And almost splashed onto my sleeve."
"Of course you'll get splashed if you're standing so close."
"It's because you didn't control the scope well."
"I clearly had it under control. When have I ever failed to have precise control over the scope?"
"That time you grilled fish, you burned the tail."
"That's not my problem, it's clearly because the fish was too small..."
The old man stood outside the gap in the stone wall, watching the three people. He switched his cane from his right hand to his left, wiped the dust off his right hand on his clothes, and found that his hand was still trembling.
He had lived most of his life and had never seen anyone annihilate over a hundred rebels in such a short time.
More importantly, he heard the man named Barlow say "enough" to the only survivor, as if the battle was just a step in the process, and once it was over, it was time for the next one.