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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #40
🕑 Added 2025-05-04 12:39:12 +0000 UTCBeyond seeing a younger version of himself in Gale—the same reckless glint in the eye, the same annoying refusal to take things seriously—Florencio saw something else. Something deeper. He saw the son he never had.
He’d always imagined, back when he was still dreaming of futures instead of mourning the past, that if he ever had a son, he’d raise him to be like Alma. Refined. Graceful. Poised. A little shy, maybe. Someone who would sip tea without slurping and not try to duel a tree just to see if it bleeds.
But now, after everything, Florencio couldn’t bring himself to hate the idea of a loudmouthed, unpolished brat who made bad jokes and tripped over his own sword twice a week.
In fact, he found it… comforting. The boy wasn’t burdened by tragedy or consumed by the weight of vengeance. He was just living.
And maybe that’s why Florencio couldn’t do it.
He couldn’t bring himself to pass down the grim legacy he’d carried for years. No matter how badly he wanted someone to carry the torch, to right the wrongs that had shattered his family, Gale wasn’t the one. Not because he wasn’t capable—but because he shouldn’t have to.
Florencio had grown to care for him too much to turn him into a weapon.
So, he kept his shame to himself. Locked it away behind tired smiles and sharp commands. The plan was simple: teach the boy what mattered, leave behind nothing that could weigh him down, and slip quietly into the other world.
Hopefully, Alma and Aurora would forgive him when he got there. Maybe they’d scold him. Maybe they’d laugh. Hopefully, anything but that disappointed silence.
He knew his time was coming. His bones ached more than usual, and the coughing fits were starting to feel like little earthquakes shaking loose whatever strength he had left.
So, using the last fight still smoldering in his chest, he gave Gale one final lesson—the kind you only learn in a real duel, when the difference between life and death hangs on the curve of a blade.
And of course, Gale treated it like any other spar at first, tossing out some smart remark about Florencio being “extra grumpy today,” before realizing, halfway through, that this wasn’t just training. This was something else.
Florencio didn’t explain. He just fought. Harder than he had in years. And by the time it ended, the boy was gasping for breath, clothes torn, blade trembling in his hands… but his eyes were sharp. Wiser. And Florencio saw what he needed to see.
But sappy farewells? Nah. Not his style.
So he pulled off one final performance.
He sent Gale off on a wild goose chase, claiming there was a legendary herb growing on a tiny islet at the center of the salt lake in the heart of Karate Island. A rare medicine that could cure him—if picked under moonlight, while doing a handstand, probably.
Gale bought it without question, which in hindsight might say more about him than Florencio's acting skills.
Once the boy was gone, Florencio got to work. He burned letters, crushed old trinkets, dismantled the final pieces of the man he used to be, except for the locket. His name, his past, his regrets—ashes in the wind. All except one thing.
There was a book, its cover faded but still a regal shade of violet, tucked beneath some scrolls. It was his journal. A chronicle of every victory, every heartbreak, every moment with Alma and Aurora.
He meant to burn it too. Really.
And then the sickness struck again—sharp, sudden, like a dagger from within. He collapsed on the ground, vision blurring, breath hitching. Of course it had to happen now. Of course.
And, as if fate had been waiting for the most dramatic timing possible, that was exactly the moment Gale burst into the Sala De Arma—mud-covered, soaking wet, and looking victorious.
...
Closing the violet-covered book with a soft thump, Gale leaned back in his chair and exhaled like he’d just finished eating a five-course meal of heartbreak and emotional damage.
The thing was heavy—not in weight, but in content. Every page was a gut punch. Every entry some memory of Florencio’s life: victories, regrets, a lot of sword metaphors, and—of course—a giant smoking gun of a confession.
He stared at the journal like it had personally wronged him. “I should’ve burned the damn thing,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples. “Just… tossed it in the fire like he told me to. But noooo, I had to be curious. I had to read. Because that’s what smart people do, right? They read. Idiots.”
And now? Now he had to kill a Celestial Dragon.
Oh, and Akainu. As in Fleet Admiral Sakazuki. Lava boy. Human volcano. Guy with the moral flexibility of a brick through a stained glass window. Who else could reduce a mansion to molten slag in seconds? It wasn’t exactly a crowded field.
Gale groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die, and I’m gonna look stupid while doing it.”
Before he could spiral any further into self-directed curses and existential dread, Claribel stepped into the room. Her usual crisp demeanor was gentler today, her voice quieter.
“Everything’s ready,” she said. “They’re waiting to send him off.”
He nodded, more out of reflex than clarity of mind. “Yeah… yeah, alright.”
Sliding the book carefully into his bag—because for all his complaints, he couldn’t just throw it away now—Gale stood up and followed her out into the courtyard.
The sala de armas had never looked so still. The morning sun cast soft shadows across the terracotta tiles, and the usual scent of steel and sweat was now replaced with the faint sweetness of incense.
A makeshift pyre stood at the center, simple and elegant—just like the man it honored.
Gathered around it were a small handful of people. Poqin, fidgeting uncomfortably in a too-formal robe. The monk—his master—stood silently beside him, hands clasped, his expression a picture of quiet respect. Gale still didn’t know the guy’s name.
He wasn't sure if he did tell him, but even if he did, Gale had probably been bleeding from the nose and distracted by a pigeon stealing his sandwich at the time.
Claribel stood a step behind him, arms folded, eyes sharp but red-rimmed. Beyond them… no one else. Just four people to say goodbye to a man who had once been famous enough to duel kings.
Gale stepped forward, scratching the back of his head. Public speaking wasn’t exactly his thing. Neither was eulogizing. But someone had to say something.
He cleared his throat. “Florencio de la Rosa was… uh, difficult.”
Claribel snorted softly behind him.
“I mean that in the best way,” Gale continued, adjusting his tone. “He was strict. He was dramatic. He made me repeat the same footwork drill so many times I started seeing sword stances in my dreams. He was allergic to flowers but carried one around anyway because—and I quote—a matador does not bend to pollen... which was a blatant lie... he just wore it cause his wife loved roses...”
That got a tiny chuckle from Poqin, even if he tried to stifle it.
“But more than that, he was…” Gale paused, his throat tightening for a second. “He was the kind of man who carried his pain with style. Who loved deeply and quietly. Who taught with everything he had, even when he had nothing left. He didn’t want me to carry his burden. And honestly? I don’t blame him. It’s a lot.”
He glanced at the pyre, then back at the others.
“I'm not sure if I could carry out his will, but I will carry one thing,” Gale said, voice steadier now. “His memory. The good, the bad, the embarrassingly long lectures about wrist posture. All of it. And maybe someday… I’ll be able to do something with it. Something he’d be proud of.”
He scratched his cheek awkwardly. “But, uh, don’t haunt me or anything if I screw it up. Seriously, I don’t need ghost sword training in my sleep.”
With a small nod, he stepped back. Claribel gave him a faint smile. The monk bowed. Poqin wiped his nose on his sleeve and muttered something about allergies.
And together, they lit the pyre.
The flames rose slowly, crackling softly in the morning air. The smoke drifted upward, curling like petals caught on the wind.
Gale stood in silence for a long time, watching the fire.
“Goodbye, old man,” he whispered. “Thanks for everything.”
...
The morning sun hadn't even stretched over the rooftops yet, and the sala de armas was still wrapped in that soft, dreamlike stillness that only exists at dawn. Gale moved quietly through the courtyard, his boots making barely a sound on the worn tiles.
He paused near the low bench where Claribel had fallen asleep sometime during the night. She was curled up beneath a thin blanket, one arm hanging limply off the side like she’d lost a duel with gravity.
He crouched beside her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face and tucking it gently behind her ear. She didn't stir.
Gale sighed, adjusting the straps of his beat-up old backpack. Part of him wanted to wait. Just one more day. One more morning together. Maybe breakfast. Or a nap. Or five naps.
But he couldn't.
Even if it weren’t for Florencio’s journal and the absolutely insane suicide mission it basically dared him to take, he wouldn’t have stayed much longer. Another year, tops. Not because he didn’t care—he did, maybe more than he should’ve—but because the world was calling. Literally.
He swore he heard seagulls chanting his name once. Might’ve been sleep deprivation, might’ve been destiny. Hard to tell these days.
He'd spent too many years stuck in one place before this world—working dead-end jobs, living for the weekend, watching time crawl past like a lazy turtle. That life had nearly suffocated him. He wasn’t about to let it happen again, not now that he had oceans to cross and stupidly powerful enemies to accidentally piss off.
With a last look at Claribel, he turned and walked toward the exit, slipping out of the courtyard and down the narrow path past the bougainvillea vines that still hadn't wilted.
Florencio really had one hell of a green thumb.
He didn’t get far before a lazy voice drifted down from above. “Where you sneaking off to so early, adventurer boy?”
Gale stopped and glanced up.
Poqin was sprawled out across a thick tree branch like a cat that had been trained in the fine art of eavesdropping. One eye cracked open just enough to give him a look of sleepy judgment. The other eye remained shut, possibly still dreaming about snacks.
Gale raised an eyebrow. “Where’s it look like I’m going? Morning jog?”
Poqin stretched with all the enthusiasm of someone who absolutely wasn’t going to jog, then grinned and hopped down from the branch with the finesse of someone who did have monk training, even if he used it mostly for mischief. “You’re leaving Karate Island, right?”
Before Gale could answer with anything clever, Poqin pointed at him, thumbed his chest, and said with a grin that was equal parts trouble and excitement, “Take me with you.”
Gale blinked. “Wait, what?”
He looked around like this might be some prank. “I’m pretty sure your master would not be cool with that. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’d chase me halfway across the world with a flaming rake.”
Poqin just shrugged. “Probably. But hey, I’m already corrupt. May as well go full-on delinquent while I’m at it.”
Gale squinted at him. “You do realize traveling with me involves a lot of danger, sleepless nights, and probably more than one run-in with a pirate who thinks hygiene is optional...”
Poqin’s grin didn’t falter. “Sounds more fun than sweeping temple floors.”
Gale opened his mouth to protest again, but nothing came out. He stared at Poqin for a moment, then rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Okay, first of all, you’re insane. Second of all…” Gale let his shoulders drop and exhaled in surrender. “Whatever... just suit yourself. Be warned, though—whatever expectations you’ve got, they’re gonna be dashed. Hard. Like, slammed-into-a-brick-wall-of-reality kind of dashed. So keep your dreams light and your hopes disposable.”
Poqin gave a cheery thumbs up, completely unfazed. “Great! So where are we going next?”
Gale turned, starting down the dirt path that led away from the dojo. “Nearest World Government–affiliated country.”
That stopped Poqin for half a second. “Wait, really? Why? We going undercover? Planning an inside job? Gonna rob a noble or something? ‘Cause if so, I’m in. I got a disguise kit and everything.”
Gale chuckled dryly. “Nope. Nothing that fun.”
He didn’t look back, but he could feel Poqin’s confusion growing behind him like a fog.
“I’m joining the Marines.”
Silence. Pure, stunned silence. The kind that made Gale grin even though he knew he shouldn’t.
“…What?” Poqin finally said, his voice cracking like a teen monk who just got told enlightenment requires taxes.
Gale just kept walking, tossing a wave over his shoulder like he was heading off to pick up groceries and not willingly enlisting into the very institution that had nearly barbecued his mentor's old home.
“Yep. Gonna be a proud cog in the bureaucratic war machine,” he said with mock enthusiasm. “Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a justice-themed keychain.”
Behind him, Poqin sputtered something unintelligible, probably a mix of “what the hell” and “are you serious,” but Gale didn’t slow down.
His steps were steady, his mind buzzing with a thousand doubts, and his heart... surprisingly calm. Maybe it was the madness of it. Maybe it was Florencio’s ghost whispering bad ideas in his ear.
Or maybe, just maybe, he was finally starting to figure out where he needed to go.
Either way, there was no turning back now.
Comments
Potato
Loved it
Jimmeuht
Easiest way to get access to the dragons and the red dog, i guess. (Well unless you are already in sabaody)
