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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #110
🕑 Added 2025-08-04 04:08:25 +0000 UTCIt was a relatively peaceful evening at Marineford. Birds chirped. Seagulls squawked. Paperwork mounted like sentient mountains plotting Sen
It was a relatively peaceful evening at Marineford.
Birds chirped. Seagulls squawked. Paperwork mounted like sentient mountains plotting Sengoku’s early retirement. In the grand office of the Fleet Admiral, the smell of old ink and fresh frustration filled the air like incense for bureaucrats.
Sengoku sat at his desk, arms crossed, squinting down at a thick report labeled:
"Sabaody Status Update: Civil Stability Report #13"
There was a short list of bullet points scribbled in hasty Marine handwriting:
Gang activity: down.
Black market trades: down.
Civilian casualties: down.
Public confidence in Marines: weirdly up???
Sengoku leaned back in his chair, chewing his bottom lip like it owed him money.
“...He’s doing too well,” he muttered.
Because here was the thing.
When he sent Gale to Sabaody, it wasn’t because he trusted the kid.
It was because the Archipelago had turned into an absolute cesspool.
After the global manhunt for the Revolutionaries began, most of the Marines stationed in Sabaody had been pulled and shuffled to new posts—leaving the place wide open for thugs, traffickers, and opportunists of all criminal flavors.
The Celestial Dragons, of course, kept showing up anyway, and even demanded the marines do something about the Archipelago because the look of it was starting to offend their eyes.
Because they were celestial morons, and also because no one ever told them “no” without consequences involving fire and a very expensive funeral.
So Sengoku had thought—well, if I send Gale there, worst-case scenario, he fails miserably, and Sengoku can just say, I tried...
Best-case? He cleans up the mess without making too much of one himself.
But then… the reports started changing.
Fewer bodies on the streets. Lower black-market traffic. Criminal turf wars mysteriously disappearing.
Gale was succeeding.
Which was suspicious in itself.
Sengoku had known many effective Marines in his life. But not many of them accomplished results like this unless they were either:
Bribing someone.
Threatening someone.
Doing something very illegal and somehow looking cool while doing it.
And Gale, that walking cocktail of nerve, talent, and please don’t say that in front of the Celestial Dragon, definitely seemed the type.
Still. Sengoku hadn’t had proof. Just… a feeling.
So he waited. Watched.
Hoped that, for once, things might resolve without screaming, fire, or another war crime logged into the official records.
That hope shattered with the shrill ring of a transponder snail.
“GRAAAAHHHHHHHHHK!”
The snail was already mid-scream when Sengoku picked it up.
He blinked.
"...I haven't even said hello yet."
The Communication Officer’s voice came through next, breathless and strained.
“Sir! Sir, we’ve got a situation! Emergency report just came in from Sabaody—auction house incident. One dead, several injured, building partially destroyed—”
“We get those every month, Lieutenant. What’s new.”
The officer swallowed audibly.
“...A Celestial Dragon is dead, sir.”
The words hung in the air like a guillotine blade on fishing line.
Sengoku didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared straight ahead, lips slowly peeling back over gritted teeth.
“…Which one?”
“Reports say it’s—uh—Shepherd Vlancio.”
Sengoku let out a long, slow sigh. “Oh, for god’s… the nine-fingered one?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t he get stabbed at the Reverie recently?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sengoku pressed two fingers to his forehead. “And now he’s dead?”
“Dead, sir.”
“Just checking.”
There was a moment of silence, filled only by the sound of Sengoku’s soul aging.
Then he stood up.
“Send in Kizaru. Now.”
The transponder snail made a slightly confused noise. “Sir?”
“I said send in Admiral Kizaru. Immediately. Whoever did this needs to be apprehended. At all costs.”
There was a rustle of frantic movement from the other end, and then the line cut off.
Sengoku stood at the window, staring out over Marineford, watching a seagull land on a cannon and immediately get shooed away by a recruit.
He exhaled through his nose.
“This is going to be a nightmare,” he muttered. “The nobles are going to scream at me. The Gorosei are going to scream at me. Hell, probably even the gaot's going to scream at me...”
Behind him, from the corner of the room, the small office goat looked up with judgment in its eyes and gave a single, world-weary bleat.
“Meeegh.”
...
The once-roaring chaos of the auction hall had started to… quiet.
Not in a peaceful way. More like the kind of quiet you get after someone realizes the cops are actually coming this time and that the party wasn’t legal to begin with.
The mixed crowd of thugs, pirates, mercs, and high-society dirtbags had begun to wise up.
Some of them ran—clattering over seats and tripping on their own egos.
Some dropped their weapons and surrendered to whichever Marine was closest.
And some?
Some just sort of melted into the shadows, pretending to be decorative statues or unconscious. One guy was curled into a ball next to the popcorn stand muttering, “I’ve always been an usher, I swear.”
But none of that mattered to Gale and Diamante.
They stood center stage—swords interlocked, sweat trickling, eyes locked.
With a shove and a twist, they broke contact, sliding apart like two dancers at the world’s pettiest ball.
Dust swirled between them. Vlancio’s body gurgled somewhere behind Gale, still bubbling like a malfunctioning soda fountain.
A Marine soldier, clearly terrified but trying his best to act like he belonged in this scene, sprinted over to Gale’s side.
“Captain Gale, sir!” he panted. “We just received word from HQ. They’re dispatching Admiral Kizaru!”
Gale’s grin stretched wide. Not the cheeky one he used for jokes.
This one?
Predatory.
He slowly turned back to Diamante, who was already narrowing his eyes.
“You hear that?” Gale said, voice light, teasing. “Admiral Kizaru’s on his way…”
Diamante didn’t respond. But the tension in his jaw tightened. The sweat on his brow wasn’t from the heat anymore.
Gale chuckled, tapping his blade on his shoulder. “What do you think he’ll do when he sees you here, crossing blades with a Marine captain?”
Still no answer.
So Gale pressed.
“I reckon…” he mused aloud, “he’ll just turn you to Swiss cheese with laser beams. Too lazy to ask questions, that one.”
Diamante blinked, then frowned. “I don’t know what ‘Swiss cheese’ is.”
Gale paused.
Then sighed. “Right. Should’ve guessed. You’re allergic to culture.”
Diamante growled. “What’s your point?”
Gale shrugged, flicking his sword in a loose arc. “It’s simple, really. Let’s take this somewhere else.”
Diamante’s eyes narrowed. “Somewhere else?”
“Yeah,” Gale replied. “I can’t exactly let loose in here. The saints are watching.”
He nodded subtly toward the surviving Celestial Dragons now being fanned with ostrich feathers and dabbed with cologne while lying dramatically on stretchers.
“And,” Gale added, grin returning, “if you do somehow beat me… you’ll have a chance to run before the light show starts.”
Diamante gritted his teeth.
“What are you even talking about, brat?” he snapped. “I’m the one holding back so I don’t damage the saints!”
Gale turned and gave him the most pitying look imaginable. The kind you give to a child who just peed in the toaster.
“…Do you take the Celestial Dragons for idiots?” he said flatly.
Diamante hesitated. “What?”
“They saw you,” Gale continued. “Defending the slave who struck one of them. Covered for his escape.”
He shook his head in mock disappointment.
“You must think they’re complete mouth-breathing, inbred imbeciles if you think a few words will trick them like that.”
Behind him, the Celestial Dragons’ faces began to darken.
Slowly.
Visibly.
First confusion. Then offense. Then unfiltered, bubbling rage.
One of them stood up shakily, clenching their jewel-encrusted cane like it was a club.
Another pulled out a mini-transponder snail and whispered something into it with a tone usually reserved for ordering executions and rare tea.
Diamante’s right eye twitched.
Why. Were. They. Glaring. At. Him?
He pointed—“He’s the one calling you names!”—but the glares didn’t fade.
They only sharpened.
Like somehow, this whole thing was his fault.
Diamante had the sudden and powerful urge to pull his own hair out strand by strand.
Why were rich people so stupid?
Why did they trust the only person here doing stand-up comedy in the middle of a murder investigation?
He exhaled sharply, sword lowering slightly.
“You got it, brat,” he muttered. “But mock my words…”
His voice turned cold, like steel left in the snow.
“I’ll get to the bottom of this. Even if I have to skin you alive to do it.”
Gale simply smiled, blade resting over his shoulder.
“I’ll add you to the list,” he said.
...
The Marineford cafeteria was unusually quiet.
Maybe it was the time of day. Maybe it was because Admiral Kizaru had claimed an entire table for himself and positioned all the chairs to face away from him.
Or maybe it was because no one wanted to bother a man whose default expression looked like he’d vaporize you if you interrupted his lunch break.
He was seated comfortably, long legs stretched out under the table, casually unwrapping a ham sandwich like it was a national treasure.
A glass of juice sat untouched beside him. A small pile of napkins lay folded like origami soldiers on the tray. A fork he had no intention of using twirled lazily between his fingers.
Peace.
At last.
And then—
SLAM.
The cafeteria doors flew open like a tornado had kicked them, and a Marine soldier sprinted in, drenched in sweat, practically foaming at the mouth.
“Admiral Kizaru!” the soldier gasped. “Fleet Admiral Sengoku has issued an emergency dispatch! You’re to head for Sabaody Archipelago immediately! It’s urgent—!”
Kizaru looked up, slow as molasses, mid-chew. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with casual amusement.
“Ooooh? You came running all the way down here instead of… calling me?”
The soldier froze.
Then wilted a little.
“Well, sir… uh… we tried contacting you—repeatedly—but you didn’t answer…”
Kizaru blinked once. Then twice.
He paused, sandwich halfway raised for another bite, and with his other hand, reached into the inner lining of his coat.
After a moment of digging, he pulled out a very small, very mashed transponder snail, which let out a feeble blorp of protest.
Kizaru squinted at it, then smiled faintly. “Ooooh… how embarrassing. It seems I forgot to put away this little friend before laundry... again...”
He patted the snail gently, as if to apologize for the neglect, then tucked it back into the dark void of his jacket and took another bite of his sandwich.
“Now then,” he said, still chewing, “what’s so urgent?”
The soldier took a deep breath, clearly resisting the urge to yell. “A Celestial Dragon has been attacked, sir.”
That got Kizaru to blink again—slightly faster this time.
“Oh?” he said lightly.
The soldier continued, hesitating for the briefest moment. “...And he’s dead, sir.”
There was a pause.
A genuine one.
Kizaru’s eyes—normally half-lidded and uninterested—widened slightly. Not alarmed, not panicked. Just… processing.Like someone realizing they might have accidentally sat on a remote and changed the channel to a war documentary.
“Dead, hmm…?”
He set the sandwich down for the first time.
“... Now that’s really scary,” he repeated, a little quieter now. Then he nodded thoughtfully.
“For whoever’s in charge of the Sabaody Marine branch, that is.”
He turned lazily to the soldier.
“Who is it again? And what were they doing?”
The soldier stood up straighter. “Captain Harlow Gale, sir. The one who helped bring down Admiral Blight during the Vasshiri operation.”
Kizaru’s eyes glinted just slightly.
“Ohhh, that youngster,” he murmured. “He’s quite capable... how did this happen under his watch?”
Then he popped the last corner of the sandwich into his mouth, still chewing as the soldier added:
“Captain Gale was present at the auction hall when it happened. He tried to intervene, but… the culprit had co-conspirators, and they stopped him from helping. Even covered the attacker’s escape.”
Kizaru paused mid-chew again.
Then swallowed.
“…Ooooh…”
He leaned back in his seat and stared at the ceiling for a moment, considering something the way other people considered whether to upgrade their cable plan.
“If he’s struggling that much,” Kizaru said at last, “then this isn’t simple.”
He looked back down at the empty plate. A single crumb remained.
He picked it up between thumb and forefinger. Ate it.
The soldier watched this entire process with the barely-contained stress of a man standing next to a house fire while the fireman is trying to finish dessert.
He wanted to yell HURRY UP AND GO, but you don’t yell at Borsalino. You just think it really hard and hope your hair doesn’t get laser’d off.
Kizaru stood at last, stretching languidly. His joints cracked, or maybe it was just the air being frightened of him.
“Sabaody, huh…”
He sighed, long and slow.
“Now that’s the good stuff,” he said, patting his stomach once.
Then, without warning, his body began to glow—golden light wrapping around his limbs like liquid fireflies.
And with a flash—
He was gone.
A beam of pure sunlight zipped out of the cafeteria and toward the docks, leaving behind nothing but a faint scent of ham and the whisper of a very slow “Yare yare…”
