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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #45
🕑 Added 2025-05-09 13:14:37 +0000 UTCThe docks of Roshwan Kingdom were unusually crowded that morning, which was saying something considering most Marines stationed here tried their best to avoid standing outside longer than they had to.
The cold air bit through coats and pride alike, and yet, there they all were—lined up, fixing collars, straightening backs, and adjusting caps like they were waiting for the Fleet Admiral himself to descend from the heavens with judgment and paperwork in hand.
Gale stood off to the side, arms crossed, scarf tugged up over his mouth to keep his face from freezing off.
He gave the gathered Marines a once-over and let out a long, foggy sigh. “Y’know,” he said, loud enough for the man next to him to hear, “call me crazy, but I think someone important’s about to show up.”
Next to him, Poqin—still wearing that ridiculous monk robe with the sleeves rolled up to show off arms that looked like he benched sea kings for breakfast—grunted and raised an eyebrow. “No kidding. You think it’s some big shot from HQ?”
Gale shrugged. “Could be. Or maybe it’s the annual ‘Everyone Pretend to Have Discipline’ festival.”
He scanned the harbor, eyeing the endless gray horizon. “Whoever it is, they’ve got these guys spooked. I just hope it’s not one of those vice admirals who think grunting louder makes you right.”
Poqin chuckled, pulling a steamed bun from his robes and chomping into it like a man with zero regard for the tension in the air. “You really don’t like vice admirals, do you?”
“I like some of them,” Gale said, thoughtfully. “The ones who don’t yell for the sake of yelling. Or throw cannonballs at criminals to ‘save paperwork.’ That sort of thing.” He paused. “Okay, so I like maybe two.”
They stood there for another moment, watching as the Marines around them kept glancing nervously toward the water like the ocean itself might promote or demote them based on posture.
Then, finally, someone shouted from the crow’s nest: “Ship on the horizon!”
All heads turned. Gale squinted at the incoming vessel, which was cutting through the icy waters with all the subtlety of a drunken hippo in full armor.
The ship itself was impressive enough—large, dark blue sails trimmed with gold—but what really stood out was the massive dog’s head carved into the prow, mouth clamped around a comically oversized bone, like a chew toy for gods.
A thick, spiked collar wrapped around the figurehead’s neck like someone took their guard dog aesthetic way too seriously.
Gale’s eye twitched. Once. Twice.
Poqin noticed. “You alright?”
Gale said nothing for a beat, then muttered through gritted teeth, “Oh, I know that ship.”
“That bad?”
“Depends,” Gale said, voice flat. “Do you consider a human typhoon with the self-control of a toddler and the punching power of a warship ‘bad?’”
Poqin blinked. “...so you know the guy?”
Gale sighed. “Big shot. Even bigger pain in the ass.”
As the dog-ship approached and the dockside Marines scrambled to stand straighter, Gale rubbed his temples and whispered to himself, “I’m not ready for this. I haven’t built up the emotional armor. Or the physical armor. Or any armor. I should’ve fled to Weatheria when I had the chance…”
...
With the sea wind whipping his coat like a cape and that familiar unhinged grin on his face, Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp launched himself off the deck of his ship well before it ever thought about docking. “Brace for impact” would’ve been a polite warning, but Garp wasn’t exactly known for courtesy. Or brakes.
He soared through the air like a cannonball with a sense of humor and landed dead center on the docks with a KRA-KOOM that rattled every plank, pole, and probably a few internal organs.
The dock groaned beneath him, the water swelled around the edges, and more than one Marine instinctively dove for cover. By some miracle—and the dock foreman's unappreciated reinforcements last month—the thing held together.
Garp stood, hands on his hips, laughing heartily. “Bwahaha! Made it without breaking anything this time!”
"Sir!" Commodore Sicily was already rushing up, straight-backed and wide-eyed like someone both honored and completely horrified to be in Garp’s presence. “Welcome to Roshwan Kingdom. We’re honored to—”
Garp waved him off like he was shooing a fly. “Yeah, yeah, skip the flattery. I’m already wasting my vacation days. Where are the kids? The so-called ‘promising talents’?”
Sicily gave a stiff nod. “Right this way, sir.”
Garp followed, his massive boots thudding like war drums against the dock, each step causing a few unfortunate seagulls to flee screaming into the skies. He didn’t have to walk far before spotting them. Two figures stood out like mismatched playing cards.
One was built like a shaved gorilla, wearing monk robes that had definitely seen better days and probably smelled like old incense and biceps.
The other was slim—no, thin, like someone had drawn a fancy nobleman from memory and ran out of ink halfway through. He wore flamboyant clothes and had a rapier that looked more decorative than deadly.
Garp squinted.
“Well, I’ve seen weirder duos,” he muttered. Then louder, “I’m under orders to haul you two back to Marine HQ. But since you’ve already cost me a whole day of my precious time off, you’re gonna have to earn that boat ride.”
He cracked his knuckles with an audible pop-pop-pop, the kind that made every Marine in earshot take an instinctive step back.
“You!” he barked, pointing at Gale. “Fancy pants!”
“Oh no,” Gale muttered under his breath, eyes already darting like a hunted animal’s. “He’s gonna test us, isn’t he?”
“You’re gonna show me what you got!” Garp continued, already rolling his shoulders.
“Yeah, hard pass!” Gale spun on his heel and bolted like a deer at the sound of a twig snapping. “Every man for himself!”
Poqin blinked, visibly confused. “Wait, what just happened?”
Then he looked at Garp.
Then at Gale, who was now several meters away and accelerating.
Then back at Garp, who was starting to stretch like he was warming up to throw a battleship.
“I don’t know what’s going on exactly,” Poqin said slowly, scratching the back of his shiny head, “but my instincts are telling me I’m in grave danger.”
He watched Gale vanish into the nearby alleys with the speed of someone who’d just been told the Vice Admiral’s punches were tax-deductible.
“…And judging by how fast he’s running,” Poqin added, letting out a nervous laugh, “my instincts are probably spot on.”
Garp just cracked his neck, grinned, and muttered to himself, “Ah, rookies these days. No grit. No guts. But at least they make it fun.”
With a sound like reality itself hiccupping, Garp vanished from his spot on the dock.
Poqin barely had time to blink, much less react, before a fist the size of a cannonball was already crashing toward his face. “—Wait, huh?!”
BOOM.
The impact landed dead center on his crossed arms, and while that last-minute guard probably saved his life, it definitely didn’t spare him the full force. A shockwave rippled outward, rattling windows in the harbor town and sending nearby Marines staggering back.
Poqin was launched like a human firework, limbs flailing as he crashed through a stack of crates and spun wildly through the air like a robed tornado.
And somewhere, mid-spin, an unsettling realization hit him.
This isn’t the kind of test you’re supposed to pass… it’s the kind you survive. Maybe.
He landed hard, feet skidding across the ground, knees bent low to absorb the impact. His entire body ached, his arms were already going numb, and he was pretty sure he saw a flash of his grandma in the clouds. But somehow, he stayed on his feet.
“Okay,” Poqin wheezed, “this guy’s certifiably insane.”
His head whipped around in search of the only other human being in the blast radius dumb enough to count as “on his team.” He spotted Gale just rounding a corner, cloak fluttering, probably already halfway into filing a change of address.
“Oh no you don’t,” Poqin growled through clenched teeth and took off sprinting. “If I’m getting flattened, you’re getting flattened with me, you bougie fencing bastard!”
He was halfway to catching up when a new shadow blanketed him. It grew fast—too fast. Poqin slowed instinctively and tilted his head back, eyes wide and mouth falling open.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me…”
There, suspended mid-air like a wrathful mountain god, was Vice Admiral Garp. His coat flared around him like wings, his face set in a grin that could only be described as delighted, and—this part was definitely new—he had a boulder overhead.
Not a stone. Not a rock. A boulder. Like, an “I ripped this straight out of a cliff and named it Clarence” type of boulder.
And he was descending. Fast. With murderous enthusiasm.
Poqin’s mind blanked. His instincts screamed. His ancestors wept.
“THIS IS NOT STANDARD TRAINING PROTOCOL!”
In the distance, Gale—mid-sprint—glanced back just long enough to see the incoming meteor of justice aimed at his bald companion.
His eyes widened. “Huh. That... is not my problem.”
Then he turned back around and ran even faster.
Poqin, unlike some well-dressed cowards currently sprinting across the docks like a frightened flamingo, didn’t have the luxury of escape. Not with that kind of shadow looming over him.
With a loud “HUP!” and a face that looked like he was lifting ten years off his lifespan, Poqin planted his feet and flexed so hard it was like watching a water balloon filled with bricks.
His monk robes shredded at the seams like tissue paper in a storm, muscle bursting through in every direction.
For a brief, glorious moment, he looked less like a man and more like a small mountain that had decided to get into bodybuilding.
Then, with a grunt that could've cracked stone, he leapt.
Straight into the air.
Straight into the path of a giant boulder that, by all logic and physics, should have flattened him into a stylish bald smear.
His fist drew back, knuckles cracking.
“ALRIGHT, OLD MAN, I’LL MEET YOU HALFWAY!!”
Fist and boulder collided.
There was a deafening CRACK, a burst of dust and snow and sheer dumbbell-grade testosterone—and then, the boulder exploded, shards of rock flying in every direction like someone had thrown a grenade full of gravel.
Poqin, unfortunately, did not come out unscathed. The force of the impact flung him back like a ragdoll fired from a cannon. He hit the ground hard, crashing into the snow with enough force to send powder spraying in a ten-meter radius.
For a long second, he just laid there, limbs twitching, half-buried under snow and peppered with stone fragments like he was being seasoned by Mother Nature herself.
Then came the heavy THUMP of boots beside him. Vice Admiral Garp, grinning like a lunatic Santa Claus on a protein high, looked down and gave him a thumbs-up.
“You pass,” he said cheerfully, as if he hadn’t just tried to murder a monk with landscaping debris.
With that, Garp shot back into the sky like a cannonball with a vendetta, his coat flapping dramatically behind him as he zeroed in on his next target.
Said target, one Harlow Gale, was currently still running for dear life through the port like his fancy boots were on fire.
Meanwhile, Poqin cracked open one eye, a crooked grin spreading across his bruised and snow-covered face. “Heh… good luck, buddy.”
He let his head fall back into the snow, chuckling weakly to himself.
“Oh, he's gonna die.”
