The rebels' makeshift camp stretched out in the distance, the tents for miles resembling a patch of diseased fungus under the moonlight.
There was no celebratory bonfire, no rewarding food and drink, and even the sand horses in the stables were quieter than usual.
Inside the central command tent, the candles on the candlesticks were burned down to half their original size, with wax dripping down the edges of the candlesticks.
Fisher braced his hands on the edge of the table, his bald head gleaming with a bluish sheen in the candlelight. His short spear rested against the chair, the seven engraved marks on the shaft worn smooth by his fingers from repeated handling; the top mark was now a shade lighter than the others.
"See? I warned you long ago."
His voice was squeezed out from between his teeth, rough and sharp, with the final syllable of each word rising in pitch, as if he were being pulled by both anger and fear.
"The Uchiha are not to be trifled with. There are only three of them!"
"Do you know what those shields look like now? The sheet metal and leather are stuck together, a lump on the ground that you can't pry off!"
"Our men are either dead or have fled, and the rest are hiding in the ditches, too afraid to come out. Tell me, how are we going to fight this battle?"
Dorovich sat on the other side of the long table, the gold chain on his belly rising and falling gently with his breath in the candlelight.
He didn't take out his nail file to trim his nails as usual, nor did he use his small eyes to shrewdly assess the situation.
He remained silent, not because he agreed with Fisher, but because he had no way out.
The Sand Ant Gang staked everything on this battle. If they won, they would reclaim their territory in Alabasta; if they lost, the Uchiha Trading Company would wipe them out completely.
He didn't need Fisher to remind him how terrifying the Uchiha; he had experienced it firsthand long before Fisher did.
But he said nothing at that moment, only folding his two thick hands over his belly and staring blankly at the candlelight.
Charles stood in front of the map, not moving an inch since Fisher started yelling.
His command sword was still hanging at his waist, the leather strap at the end of the hilt blackened by sweat.
He waited until Fisher's voice subsided from its peak before speaking in the calm tone characteristic of someone presenting a tactical plan in front of a map, "They only have three men."
Fisher turned his head sharply. "What did you say?"
Three people.
Charles placed his finger on the Alubarna fortifications on the map, tracing the north, east, and west walls in turn.
"In today's battle, the three of them each guarded a different direction, which was indeed ridiculously strong, but even if they were strong, there were only three of them."
"We launched a feint attack from three directions to lure them in, then concentrated all our siege forces on the fourth wall. By the time they reacted, the gate had already been breached."
Fisher opened his mouth, but did not immediately refute.
Dorovich looked away from the candlelight, his eyes regaining their businessman-like shrewdness.
Charles drew a circle on the south wall of the map with his pen, the sound of the charcoal pencil gliding across the paper particularly clear in the quiet tent.
"Before Tenten, we'll move all the remaining siege artillery to the north. We'll launch feint attacks on the south, east, and west sides, making a big show of force so the defenders think we're using the same old tactics again. Once the Uchiha are tied down, we'll attack from the south."
Prince stood up from his chair, leaning back with his hands folded on his knees the entire time, listening to Fisher's roar, Dorovich's silence, and Charles's tactical analysis, his expression unchanged.
He walked up to Fisher, reached out, and patted Fisher on the shoulder.
The hand was very light, so light that Fisher's shoulder only sank half an inch, Fisher didn't dare to move.
Prince smiled. "Don't worry, they're not the only special ones."
Fisher's apple bobbed, and he lowered his eyelids, saying in a tone as if he had just been pulled from the water and given up struggling, "----Whatever."
Prince removed his hand from his shoulder and turned to Charles.
"Do as you say. Before dawn, all siege artillery will be in position on the north side. The wounded and injured troops will rest tonight and return to their attack positions before dawn tomorrow. Prioritize supplying Charles's main force with provisions and ammunition. Leave only enough men to beat the drums for the feint attack. As for morale, I'll talk to them myself."
He turned and pushed open the tent flap, the night wind rushed in, and the candlelight flickered.
As the tent flap closed behind him, Fisher slumped into his chair and slammed the shaft of his short spear against the ground.
On this night, the banquet hall of the Alubarna Palace was lit up with all its candles.
The three-tiered chandelier hanging from the dome, the rows of wall candles in the niches, and the silver candelabra lined up in the center of the long table were all lit.
The warm yellow candlelight shone on the Nefertari sun pattern on the painted dome, turning the entire banquet hall into a golden-orange hue reminiscent of a desert twilight.
Wolof sat at the head of the long table, not wearing royal robes, but still in his old Desert Combat Uniform, the sand still clinging to his cuffs.
But this was the first time in a long time that he had truly relaxed and smiled.
"Today's battle marks Alabasta's first victory in recent times."
Wolof raised his glass, the rim gleaming amber in the candlelight.
"This glass of wine Uchiha."
Barlow sat in the first seat to Wolof's right.
He changed out of the desert cloak that had been smudged with dust on the city wall and put on a clean, dark gray shirt, the cuffs still rolled up to his elbows.
He stood up, holding his wine glass, raised it slightly towards Wolof, took a sip, and sat back down with the same decisive motion as he stood up.
Lia sat down next to him, and without Wolof's prompting, she moved her chair from the other side of the long table herself.
Today she wore a warm orange long dress with extremely fine gold thread embroidery on the cuffs. Her braids had been re-braided and pinned up at the back of her head, and the sun hair clip had been replaced with a smaller gold one.
On her plate sat a piece of candied date cake with only two bites in it, because ever since she sat down, her mouth hadn't had time to eat and talk at the same time.
"Mr. Barlow, what were you thinking when you stood on the city wall today? Were you afraid when you jumped? With so much fire coming out of your mouth, wasn't your throat dry? Let me pour you a glass of water, no, a hero should drink first."
"Does the cut on your arm hurt? Shall I call the Royal Physician to take a look? If you don't need the Royal Physician, I can bandage it myself; I learned it from the palace physicians when I was a child."
Without waiting for his reply, she stood up and poured half a glass of red wine into his glass, then took a new piece of date cake from her plate and placed it on his plate. She then turned and called out towards the door.
"Someone, bring the medicine box."
Wolof watched this scene from the head of the table, his glass of wine raised to his lips but he forgot to drink.
His gaze wasn't that of a king scrutinizing his daughter; it was the look of a father watching his daughter draw all the world's attention to one man—a look that was both amusing and heartbreaking.
This daughter had never been so intently attached to anyone as she was today, and that person hadn't run away.
Mila sat diagonally across the long table, her knife and fork resting on her plate. Only a small piece of the roasted lamb chop in front of her had been cut; the rest was already cold.
Her eyes narrowed from the moment Lia poured wine for Barlow, and narrowed even more as Lia placed date cake on Barlow's plate. When Lia called for someone to bring the medicine box, the corners of her mouth turned down.
She turned to look at Roy beside her, wanting someone to share her dissatisfaction.
Roy was out of her sight; he was sitting at the end of the long table near the pillar, with three clean lamb ribs and a pile of foil trays for candied dates in front of him.
Cobra sat next to him, his little bottom propped up by two thick books so he could barely reach the table.
A friendship that transcends age and is difficult for others to understand has developed between the two. It started when Cobra pointed to the sword at Roy's waist and asked, "Is this heavy?" Roy then drew the sword and placed it in front of the little prince, letting him try to lift it himself.
Cobra gripped the scabbard with both hands, his face flushed, and raised it about three inches high before slamming it onto the table with a thud, nearly knocking over his juice glass.
Roy laughed so hard he almost spat out his lamb chop, then leaned closer and whispered to Cobra, "Want to hear a secret? Today when I was burning those bad guys on the city walls, one guy's pants caught fire, and he ran around wearing those half-burnt pants!"
Cobra's eyes widened, his mouth stuffed full of mutton, his cheeks bulging like steamed buns, and he nodded frantically.
Roy picked up another lamb chop for him, wiped up the spilled juice with his sleeve, and continued telling the story of how the unfortunate rebel had run for a long time in the desert wearing only half-trousers.
The two of them were talking and listening, interspersed with Cobra's childish questioning and Roy's exaggerated gestures, completely unaware of what was happening on the other side of the table.
Mila glanced at them, swallowed back some of what she was about to say, picked up her glass, took a sip, and decided to continue watching Lia.
Lia was using a first-aid kit to change the dressing on Barlow's arm wound.
Barlow rolled up his cuffs another inch, revealing the entire shallow opening. Lia used a cotton swab to apply ointment to his wrist bone, her fingers moving so lightly they barely touched his skin.
The texture is very unique.
When Gwen tapped Roy's nose with her finger, she exuded the ease and confidence of a mature woman, while Mila's grip on Roy's collar was always forceful.
Her gentleness was extremely earnest and cautious, as if she were dusting off a precious item that she wasn't sure she was qualified to touch.
The cotton swab paused at the edge of the wound, and Barlow looked down at her.
Her eyelashes were long, casting two fan-shaped shadows in the candlelight when she lowered her head. Her lips were pressed into a straight line as she stared intently at his wrist, even her breathing was very soft.
Barlow recalled the thought that had crossed his mind on the terrace.
"Easily solved."
She looked up, put the cotton swab back in the medicine box, and stared at him with bright eyes. Barlow suddenly realized that she didn't ask any questions this time. She just smiled, closed the medicine box, and then gently rolled down his cuffs from his elbows, smoothing out the wrinkles at the edges of the cuffs with her fingers.
The movement was so natural, as if she had done it countless times. Barlow frowned slightly, trying to determine whether her action of turning up her sleeves was out of habit, out of concern, or out of something he hadn't yet named, something that made him feel like he was being treated as someone who needed to be taken care of.
He has not yet reached a conclusion.
Wolof stood up, raised his glass, and the banquet hall fell silent.
The old king nodded toward Barlow, his voice hoarse but steady. "The city is still here, the palace is still here, the people are still here. This cup is a toast to Alabasta."
Everyone stood up.
Barlow held a wine glass, Lia stood beside him, Mila raised her glass across the table, Roy lifted Cobra from two thick books and helped him steady his juice glass, Cobra shouted "Cheers!" and spilled half of the juice.