Morrow figured he'd watched a little too much television growing up because torture was hardly necessary. Bandits were not a loyal bunch, and it hardly took any prodding beyond vague threats to get the two to spill all they knew. They almost seemed in a race to spill more than the other guy, which might have been a bit funny if they weren't murdering thieves.

Ok, now what to do with them?

He still couldn't take their information at face value in case they were good actors. Logically, he should just finish them off so that they couldn't inform the other bandits he was coming or form a further threat to any peddlers that came through here. On the other hand, he valued his own word a lot more than people he didn't know and he had promised. He still needed a way to let them go in such a way as to not interfere with the next action though.

Oh, what the hell. It's worth a shot.

"Hey Bandit A, I'll keep my word but it will have to be after I've dealt with your boss."

"I said my name is Gin you monster! ....and that's not what you promised!"

"Sure Bandit A, and I already said I don't care what your name is. I'll still fulfill my end of the bargain, just after I get back. I'll leave you enough water not to die of thirst for 3 days, but if your information is bad you know what will happen right?"

There were a lot of protests to their supposed honesty, but frankly Morrow didn't care and wasn't listening. He'd already made his decision and they weren't in a position to be picky about the terms. He stashed them in their hideaway still tied up with a portion of the water left over after he had topped off his own from their supplies. He also made a point to toss out anything sharp so they couldn't cut their binds while he was gone.

With that settled, he set out for where Jacques and his band of 2 dozen were supposed to be. He still needed a plan for that amount, but the only thing that ran through his mind were complaints.

I'm never going to the desert again if I can help it. This warm water tastes like shit and the sand irritates my skin. Who would honestly want to live here?

Over the day it had taken him to hike to their camp, the puncture in Morrow's arm had already crusted over and ceased to pain him too much. This body's sturdiness never ceases to amaze. That kind of wound would have bothered me for weeks in my previous life, though I'm not sure how much of that is from being a fishman or just this world. Luffy and Zoro always healed quickly in the manga, but time was vague it took was vague for the most part.

Shaking off the random thought, Morrow surveyed the small array of tents between the dunes and tried to come up with a viable plan. While his screwup with the previous group had been mostly because of blood rushing to his head, just charging at 20+ people seemed like a bad idea.

Poisoning the small crude well in the camp to weaken them might work, but he didn't think they were stupid enough to leave no one awake at night to let him sneak in. Wait, night! Why go about this the hard way? Although his lack of training in sneaking was a bit of a flaw, a subtle strategy might be what he needed here. He just needed to kill one of the pairs on sentry duty before they could call the alarm, but he could go straight to the leader's tent without fighting the mob if he played his cards right.

Thankfully he wasn't too much of an idiot and had stripped one of the bandit's desert clothing to bring with him. It wouldn't stand up to close scrutiny, but even at 8 years old he was tall enough he could pass as one of their crew with the coverage the outfit offered. He threw on the clothes and settled in to wait for nightfall.

After all the bandits had settled in for sleep, his plan began. His clothing was still ragged from where he had speared it's original wearer, and he used it to his advantage. He limped up to the motionless pair of sentries while appearing to be an injured comrade.

"What happened to you, where's the rest of your group? Wait, you're not-"

He was close enough already, so with a quick dash he managed to get the first guy in the throat with a punch. He had left his trident behind to complete his disguise, so this had to be quick. The other guy was already starting to yell as the first guy went down.

"INT-ruder"

He had prepared by wetting his hand before he walked up, and he employed a technique from Fishman Karate that he had learned for just this kind of situation. He flicked his hand out like he was drying his hands and drops of water sped out like bullets. It took the guy mid yell in the chest, turning the rest of his shout into a wheeze. Damn, my aim still isn't that great but it will do. It wouldn't kill with his current skill level, at least without hitting the throat, but it was roughly equivalent to taking rapid fire paintballs at a few feet with no protective gear. In other words, it hurt like a bitch and knocked the wind out of him.

Before he could get his breath back, he had finished that guy off too. He turned to carefully look at the camp, but nobody seemed to be responding to the sentry's half-shout which relieved him. Plan's still a-go then.