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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #46
🕑 Added 2025-05-10 14:42:22 +0000 UTCHarlow Gale finally came to a skidding halt on the snowy road just outside the port, his boots crunching to a stop as his cloak flared behind him dramatically—less from flair and more because he’d been running like his life depended on it, which, to be fair, it probably did.
He doubled over slightly, hands on his knees, catching his breath. His heart was beating fast enough to be mistaken for a Den Den Mushi ringtone.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw no sign of Garp yet, but that just meant he was about to show up any second now, probably riding a meteor or a sea king or something equally absurd.
“Alright, think, Gale... think,” he muttered to himself, standing upright and brushing the snow off his coat. “There’s no way I’m outrunning him. Not unless I grow wings. Or phase through walls. Or both.”
He wasn’t under any delusions about how this was going to end. Garp was a living legend. A force of nature. A man who could punch your family lineage out of your body.
Gale’s best-case scenario here wasn’t victory—it was survival with his bones still on the inside. But even so... he had to try. Not just for pride, or honor, or any of that dramatic crap.
No, he just didn’t want to get punked. Not immediately, anyway. He had some dignity. A sliver. He’d like to keep it.
And then—boom—a sudden tremor in the snow behind him. Gale looked up and, yep, there it was: Vice Admiral Garp, inbound and moving like a wrecking ball fired from a cannon.
The man was grinning like a kid about to open birthday presents. Gale exhaled slowly and unsheathed his rapier with a metallic shring. He took his stance—sideways, precise, weight on the balls of his feet.
His right hand raised the blade up like a banner, elegant and poised. His left hand disappeared beneath the folds of his cloak, quiet and steady.
Garp came to a halt just a few meters away, arms crossed, his grin widening. “Looks like you finally stopped running.”
Gale smiled back, a little too smugly for someone standing in front of a man who could casually yeet battleships. “I wasn’t running,” he said coolly. “I was luring you away from the civilians. Y’know. Being considerate.”
Garp let out a bark of a laugh. “Luring me, huh? You’re either smart or full of crap, kid. Either way, show me what you got!”
And then Garp charged, fist cocked back, looking like a human cannonball wrapped in navy blues and justice. The snow burst out from under his feet as he launched forward, ready to turn Gale into a Gale-shaped hole in the docks.
Gale’s smile dropped instantly. His entire body tensed, breath held. Garp could see the younger adjust as he tried to read his posture. The grip on the sword said thrust, maybe a high-speed feint.
His stance screamed classical fencing—But then Gale made his move.
His left hand shot out from under the cloak, and in it—a gleam of polished metal. The revolver. Bruno Malko’s old custom piece, gleaming even in the pale northern sun. In one smooth motion, Gale leveled the gun and pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three shots cracked through the cold air like firecrackers on a funeral. Garp’s eyes actually widened for a split second. Not because of fear—no, nothing scared that man—but out of genuine surprise. Maybe even mild respect for the dirty trick.
It didn’t last.
With a speed that defied all sense of age or biology, Garp swatted the bullets out of the air. With his bare hands. Like they were bugs. One pinged off his knuckles.
The second got flicked away with his thumb. The third? He literally headbutted it.
“...Oh, come on,” Gale groaned, already bracing himself. “That’s just not even fair…”
Despite what he’d said—and yeah, Gale was a bit of a smartass—he wasn’t shocked that Garp had swatted his bullets like they were lazy mosquitoes. That was kind of the man’s whole thing, after all.
The moment those shots got slapped away, Gale was already moving, eyes sharp and mind racing. He tossed his revolver up into the air with a flick of his wrist, the steel spinning lazily like a coin in mid-flip.
His left hand disappeared back under his cloak again, and Garp, not unreasonably, figured, Alright, now comes the swordplay. Classic misdirection, right?
Wrong.
Gale didn't draw his blade—not yet. Instead, he ripped the cloak from his shoulders in one swift motion, condensed its weight with a subtle surge of his Devil Fruit powers, and hurled the heavy fabric straight at the charging vice admiral like he was trying to smother a volcano.
Garp didn’t curse—he was a proud Marine hero, after all—but he almost did. The weighted cloak hit him full in the face with an undignified fwump, momentarily obscuring his vision.
And while it didn’t stop him—because of course it didn’t—it was annoying enough that he had to tear it off with a grunt, flinging it aside like it had personally offended him.
The sight that greeted him once he did nearly made him roll his eyes. Gale stood there grinning like he’d just pulled off the world’s funniest prank, and the revolver he’d tossed earlier was still lazily falling toward the snow, spinning in place.
Garp narrowed his eyes. So, he’s gonna catch it and fire again, he thought. Cute. Kid just doesn’t know when to quit.
But Gale didn’t catch it. Didn’t even try. Instead, just before the revolver could slip past his reach, he snapped his right leg up and kicked it.
And that pistol moved.
It tore through the air faster than any bullet Garp had ever seen—and he’d seen more than a few. His eyes widened slightly, and only decades of combat reflexes saved him from eating five pounds of flying metal to the face.
He caught the revolver mid-air, palm stinging from the impact, and his brows creased in actual, honest-to-Oda surprise. That hadn’t just been a trick shot. That had weight behind it.
“Little bastard nearly cracked my fingers,” Garp muttered, looking down at the gun in his hand.
He was just about ready to yell something colorful at Gale—fighting dirty little punk was on the tip of his tongue—but he didn’t get the chance.
A blue glow caught the edge of his vision, and he turned just in time to see Gale charging full-tilt toward him, a trail of sapphire light blooming around his feet like streaks of energy being carved into the snow.
His rapier was down low, angled to the side, humming faintly with condensed weight—one of Gale’s heavier strikes, no doubt.
And Garp, for the first time in this little skirmish, allowed himself to feel a tiny jolt of excitement. Not because he was in danger—please, this was still him—but because the brat actually had the guts to throw everything he had into one real shot.
“You better make it count, kid,” Garp muttered, bracing himself as the grin slowly returned to his face. “’Cause you’re about to learn what happens when you poke the tiger with a toothpick.”
Gale, meanwhile, was thinking something along the lines of Alright, Gale, this is it. Time to hit Grandpa Fist harder than a tax audit.
Gale tore across the snow, boots pounding with enough force to leave mini craters in his wake. His Devil Fruit powers surged through him like a second heartbeat, every part of his body tightening with reinforced weight.
Muscles swelled with compacted density, bones braced like reinforced steel beams, and his rapier—already deceptively sharp—grew heavier with every stride, humming faintly like it was holding back a scream.
He didn’t need to land a hundred hits—he just needed one to count.
Alright, Gale. You’ve got one shot at looking cool before he turns you into a snow angel. Let’s make it flashy.
Just before reaching striking range, Gale halted, dug in his heel, and raised his sword high over his head. With a shout, he brought it down in a sharp arc—not toward Garp directly, but just ahead of him.
The blade gleamed as its weight spiked again, and from its tip erupted a flying slash, sapphire-blue and sizzling with compressed force. The projectile screamed through the air like a vengeful paper cut on steroids, heading straight for the Vice Admiral.
Garp’s grin only widened. Cute. The man didn’t dodge, didn’t even flinch. He simply reached out with one hand, as if catching a frisbee.
The slash collided with his open palm and pushed him back—just a hair. An inch, maybe two. And for a heartbeat, it looked like it might actually matter. Then Garp grunted, casually flicked his wrist upward like he was swatting away a leaf, and sent the dense projectile spinning off into the sky, where it vanished in a crackle of light and a burst of frost.
“...Yeah, that’s fair,” Gale muttered under his breath, already starting to regret everything.
Garp was about to make some smug comment—probably something about Gale needing to hit the gym harder—but he paused, his brows drawing together slightly.
There was something warm on his palm. Wet, too.
He looked down.
Blood.
A thin gash cut across the thick skin of his hand. It wasn’t deep, wouldn’t even slow him down. Honestly, it was the kind of cut most people wouldn’t notice until they were already washing the dishes. But it was there. He hadn't expected that.
Garp frowned—not angry, not disappointed. More like a guy who’d found a scratch on his favorite punching glove. Then he looked up at Gale, his expression unreadable for a moment.
“You fight dirty, kid,” he said, tone low and even. “Sneaky. Reckless. More like a pirate than any Marine I’ve ever known.”
Gale opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t decide if that was a compliment or an insult. He settled for a sheepish grin.
“But…” Garp went on, flexing his palm as the blood trickled down his wrist, “You’re tough. Strong. Cunning. The kind who survives when most would croak and die. I’ve seen too many good men go down because they didn’t fight like they wanted to live.”
He sighed, as if realizing the words coming out of his own mouth sounded far too close to praise. “...Not that I’m saying your little magic sword trick is impressive or anything. Just means I’ll have to punch you harder.”
Gale blinked. “Wait, harder? That was your holding back face?!”
“Yep,” Garp said, cracking his knuckles. “Time for the real test.”
Gale briefly considered faking a fainting spell or pretending to see a ghost, but knowing his luck, Garp would just punch the ghost too and then him.
'Welp,' he thought, adjusting his grip on the sword, 'at least I made him bleed. If I die today, that’s going on the tombstone.'
...
The salty sea breeze hit Gale in the face.
He stood near the stern of Garp’s ship, hands resting lightly on the railing as the docks of the Roshwan Kingdom faded into the distance, swallowed slowly by the shimmering blue horizon.
The ocean stretched out in all directions, endless and calm, like a giant cosmic shrug. It should’ve been peaceful. It was peaceful. And yet, his stomach felt like it was doing a slow backflip.
'If someone had told me I’d end up joining the Marines… I’d have asked how hard they hit their head.; He let out a snort, then winced immediately as the act tugged at a very bruised part of his cheek.
But here he was. Not in chains, not in some prison cell—but officially en route to Marine HQ. On Garp’s ship of all people. The Hero of the Marines himself, the Fist that Cracks Mountains, the human tank who treated sparring like an Olympic contact sport.
And Gale? He wasn’t even joining for justice. Not for glory, not even for the cool coats. No, he had a job to do—a very personal one. A lava-coated bastard and a pig in a bubble with a missing finger. That was the real reason he’d signed up for this circus act.
He’d stick close, train harder, climb higher—and when the moment came, he’d make them pay for what they did. For what they took from Florencio.
His fingers tightened around the railing.
After reading the old man’s journal, after seeing the pieces of his teacher’s broken past scribbled in careful, flowing ink, Gale knew this wasn’t the path Florencio wanted for him.
The fencing master with a rose in his lapel and sorrow in his heart hadn’t taught him to be a killer.
But revenge had a way of digging its hooks in and whispering that you could still be righteous while dragging someone through hell.
Even so, as the sun shimmered across the waves and the sea gulls cried somewhere overhead, Gale made a quiet vow to the ocean and to himself.
No matter how deep he had to go, he’d still come back the same person.
He’d still laugh at his own dumb jokes. He’d still give himself a little wink in the mirror every now and then, even if his reflection was a little worse for wear. He’d still remember how to smile—even if it currently looked more like a pained grimace.
He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the sea air, trying to let that promise sink in deeper than any regret.
“Melancholy doesn’t mix with a face like yours, y’know,” came a voice from behind, cheerful and smug.
Gale opened one eye and glanced over his shoulder.
Poqin was standing there, grinning like he’d just walked in on the punchline of a joke only he got.
“...Pith offth,” Gale muttered, his words slurred and muffled from the swelling in his lips and cheeks.
Poqin blinked… and then immediately exploded with laughter. He nearly doubled over, one hand slapping the mast for support. “Pith offth?!” he wheezed. “Oh man—you sound like a drunk walrus!”
Gale turned fully now, revealing the full horror of his face. Purple on one side, blue on the other, one eye nearly swollen shut, and a lump on his forehead that looked like it was trying to evolve into a second head.
Poqin only laughed harder. “You look like a fruit that lost a fight with gravity!”
“Ithth a tempfortharyth condithion!” Gale growled, or tried to, pointing an accusing finger that wobbled slightly.
“Sure, sure!” Poqin said between gasps, wiping a tear from his eye. “You keep telling yourself that, Captain Swollen Cheeks.”
Gale tried to look menacing but ended up wheezing a bit himself.
Eventually, a lopsided grin broke across his battered face, and for a moment—just a moment—the weight in his chest felt a little lighter.
The sea carried them onward, and despite everything, despite the bruises and the quiet storm inside him, Gale still laughed.
Even if it hurt like hell.
