Wicked_Fiction
patreon
One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #36
🕑 Added 2025-04-30 06:42:01 +0000 UTCGale woke up to the kind of smell that made you second-guess your surroundings. Sweet, rich, earthy—but not in a rotting-fish-on-a-dock kind of way. More like someone brewed a pot of tea using flower petals and unicorn tears. He groaned and rubbed his face, already gearing up for a dramatic morning yawn and stretch combo, but then he opened his eyes.
And froze.
The clearing was transformed. The full moon hung high and proud in the sky, bathing the field in a silver glow like some diva spotlighting her own performance.
All around him, the black roses were blooming, one after the other, like a perfectly timed orchestra of petals. Their buds gently unfurled, revealing velvet-black blossoms that shimmered as golden pollen puffed into the air.
The pollen sparkled under the moonlight in a way that didn’t just catch the eye—it hijacked it, tickled the back of the brain, and whispered “Hey, maybe cry a little. It’s okay.”
It was the kind of scene that could inspire a poet to write a piece so moving, schools would force students to study it a thousand years later and absolutely ruin its magic forever.
Too bad Gale’s poetic ability capped out at “roses are red, I hate waking up.”
He sat there in a daze, legs still crossed from his nap, a stupid half-smile creeping up on his face. If someone had asked him, back before all this madness, where he wanted to end up, he probably would’ve picked something safe. Comfortable. A life with air conditioning and free Wi-Fi.
But even if he had that option… it was hard to imagine any version of Earth that looked quite like this. Dangerous as this world was—full of pirates, sea monsters, and unpredictable fruit-based superpowers—it had moments like this too. Moments that made him feel like he wasn’t just surviving, but living.
Still smiling, he rose to his feet and walked forward slowly, careful not to trample any of the roses. He knelt beside one of the blooms and reached out, fingers brushing against its soft petals. It looked delicate, like it would crumble under a strong breeze, but it held firm under his touch.
He hesitated.
This whole field was just sitting here, unguarded, full of a flower that Florencio swore up and down was more valuable than a politician's soul. Gale’s original plan had been simple: pick everything. Strip the field clean.
Bring the medicine to Florencio, then come back and haul the rest in loads, sell them for a king’s ransom, and maybe finally afford some actually decent booze.
But now…
Looking at the way the moonlight filtered through the rising pollen, the way the flowers seemed to bloom with purpose rather than for show—he couldn’t bring himself to wreck it.
This place was like a secret, and stripping it bare felt a little too much like betrayal. Of what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. The flowers? The moment? Himself?
“Tch. Look at me,” he muttered, plucking one carefully. “Getting soft.”
He stood and gently bundled a few more. Just enough to count as a bouquet. Just enough to justify the trip.
If Florencio could make the medicine with a few flowers, he’d be fine. As for the rest, well… they deserved to keep blooming under the moonlight, untouched and perfect.
Besides, Gale wasn’t completely reformed. He was still going to keep a few extra on hand. Maybe give some to Poqin—if the guy didn’t complain too much on the way back. With a stash like this, Poqin could drink himself into a blackout nap that might last till the next lunar cycle.
Gale adjusted the bundle under his arm, gave the field one last look, and sighed.
“Alright, you glowing bastards. Stay magical.”
And with that, he turned back toward the forest, the scent of moonlit roses trailing faintly behind him.
...
The afternoon sun was warm, but not aggressively so—the kind of warmth that made old joints ache a little less and made the terracotta tiles of the sala de armas glow like baked honey. The courtyard was quiet, save for the soft chirping of birds and the rustling of bougainvillea vines swaying gently in the breeze.
A couple of petals had fallen on the tiles, dotting the ground with pink and purple like confetti left over from a party the wind forgot to clean up.
Florencio sat beneath the shaded archway at the far end of the yard, back straight despite the stubborn creak in his spine. A quill was poised in his thin, wrinkled fingers, hovering over a parchment that bore several lines of his neat, elegant script.
The kind of handwriting that demanded to be read aloud with flair, maybe while wearing a cape.
He finished the last few strokes, dotting the final “i” like he was putting the period on a lifetime.
Holding the page at arm’s length, he squinted at it through tired eyes and read it over. Once. Then again. Slowly, he lowered the paper, his gaze drifting from the words to the courtyard around him.
The sala de armas was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. The sword racks gleamed faintly in the corner—each blade sharpened, oiled, and positioned just right, as if waiting for a duel that would never come.
The training dummies stood to attention, patched and worn, their straw bellies puffed out with pride. And near the far wall, the little fountain still bubbled away, stubbornly cheerful despite its cracks.
A single white rose had somehow found a way to grow from the base of the old stonework, blooming defiantly in a place it absolutely should not have survived.
Florencio let out a soft chuckle through his nose, his lips curling into a small, satisfied smile. “Still beautiful,” he murmured. “Still mine.”
He looked back at the parchment and, after a short pause, scribbled one final note at the bottom. Something quick. Personal. He blew gently across the ink, waiting for it to dry, then folded the paper with care and tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket.
“All in order,” he said quietly, nodding to himself. “Now I just need to burn that thing…”
His hand rested briefly on the spot over his heart where the parchment lay. Then, with the kind of determination only the elderly and the deeply dramatic can muster, he pushed himself to his feet.
Well—he tried to.
His knees buckled halfway up. He staggered like a drunken matador and crumpled back to the ground with a grunt and a grimace. Pride stung harder than pain. Gritting his teeth, he planted his palms on the warm tile and tried again—only to be struck with a violent cough that racked his entire frame.
Blood splattered across his hand. Then more. A mouthful painted the stone red.
Florencio stared at the red bloom blooming across his skin. It matched the bougainvillea. In another life, he might’ve laughed at the irony. Instead, he gave a long, shaky sigh and leaned back against the wall.
“So… the curtain falls… a day earlier than planned,” he muttered, almost amused. “Typical.”
The breeze shifted slightly, carrying the scent of roses—some real, some just memories.
...
The sun was just starting to dip when Gale returned to the sala de armas, the light casting long, lazy shadows across the terracotta tiles. He strolled through the arched gate with a little more swagger than usual, one hand slung casually over his backpack strap.
There was a spring in his step—well, more like a smug little hop—as if the very stones under his boots should’ve been proud of him for not dying out in the middle of nowhere.
He was even humming. Not a real tune, mind you. Just that random kind of hum that said “I’m in a good mood and no one’s around to judge me.”
Sure, there’d been that weird moment when Poqin gave him a look—a real long, squinty one—after realizing the medicine Gale brought back was made from black roses.
However, Gale waved it off. Poqin gave a lot of weird looks. The guy could probably make brushing your teeth feel like a moral dilemma. Gale wasn't going to let that get in the way of his moment.
Not today.
Besides, he was back a whole day early. That was practically unheard of for someone like him. His original ETA was “eventually,” so shaving a day off was nothing short of a miracle.
Of course, he wasn’t going to give Poqin the satisfaction of knowing it was because of his shortcut through the bamboo forest. Gale would sooner eat dirt than say “thank you” to that smug monk. Or worse—owe him one.
He stepped into the yard, expecting to hear the familiar swish of a broom or maybe some theatrical muttering as Florencio lectured an imaginary student.
But the sala was still.
No sign of the old man anywhere.
The training dummies stood at attention like a bunch of straw-filled sentries, the breeze nudging the vines along the walls like they were trying to wake someone up.
“Maestro!” Gale called out, cupping a hand around his mouth. “I’m back! And I brought your miracle flowers!”
No reply.
He frowned. That wasn’t normal. The old man usually couldn’t resist a dramatic entrance—even if it was just popping out of nowhere with a sarcastic quip about Gale’s form or his posture or the disgraceful way he tied his boots.
“Did he… go out for a walk?” Gale muttered, half to himself, half to the courtyard. “Old guy’s been acting more dramatic than usual lately…”
He was just about to head back into town—mentally preparing his explanation for why he was hunting down a flamboyant old sword master with a flair for vanishing acts—when a ragged cough echoed from deeper within the courtyard.
Gale stiffened.
He bolted toward the sound, weaving past the fountain and the flower beds, until he spotted a crumpled figure near the shaded wall. “Maestro!” he shouted, dropping to his knees beside Florencio.
The old man looked like hell. Pale, trembling, his mouth flecked with fresh blood. He was propped up slightly on one arm, the other covering a wracking cough that sounded like it came from deep within his bones.
Gale reached out instinctively, hands hovering uselessly. “Are you alright? Hey—old man, hey—don’t pull a dramatic exit on me just yet, okay?”
Florencio opened his eyes slowly, blood staining the corner of his lips. Despite that, he gave Gale a soft, almost fond smile. “Niño... you’re back… early.”
“Yeah, well,” Gale said with a nervous laugh, trying to keep his voice light despite the hammering in his chest, “some of us believe in punctuality.”
Florencio gave a small wheeze of amusement—or maybe that was just another cough. “Did you… succeed?”
Gale’s grin returned, crooked and proud. “Sure did.”
He shrugged off his backpack and unzipped it with a flourish, pulling out a carefully wrapped bouquet of pitch-black roses. The golden pollen still shimmered faintly in the dying sunlight, giving the whole thing an otherworldly glow.
He held it out like a knight presenting a relic to a king. “Tada. Full bouquet. Premium grade. Picked them myself. Risked my life and my dignity. You’re welcome.”
Florencio looked at the bouquet for a long moment, his eyes softening as he took in the flowers. His fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach out and touch them, but he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled slowly and said, “One would have sufficed.”
Gale blinked. “What?”
The old man chuckled, though it came out more like a wheeze. “But no matter… these will look good on my grave.”
Gale’s grin twitched, faltered, then collapsed entirely like a house of cards in a wind tunnel. “Okay, no. We’re not doing this,” he snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at Florencio like he was scolding a particularly dramatic houseplant.
“I didn’t hike through murder-forest and swim halfway across a freaking island just for you to go all ‘farewell cruel world’ on me, alright?”
He shoved the bouquet into the old man’s hands—gently, because he wasn’t that heartless—and dropped to his knees beside him, backpack already open.
“So come on, maestro. Chop-chop. Tell me how to turn these into soup or a tea or a life-saving rose smoothie or whatever the hell it is you’re supposed to do with them. I’m good with herbs now. I’ve got at least five percent of a medical degree from the Torino tribe.”
Florencio just looked at him, eyes half-lidded and soft in a way that made Gale feel like a particularly loud puppy. “Ay, niño… you silly boy,” he said, voice rasping like dry leaves. “There was never a cure.”
Silence. Just for a moment.
Then Gale’s whole face scrunched up like he’d just bitten into a lemon stuffed with betrayal. “What.”
“I said,” Florencio began again, more slowly this time, “there never was a cure. My time has simply come.”
For once in his life, Gale was speechless. Then it hit him all at once, like a slap across the face with a soggy sandal.
His eyes widened, the confusion twisting into something messier—something sharper. “You—what—are you serious right now?!”
He stood up, took two steps away, ran his hands through his hair, spun around, then marched right back. “If you thought there was no cure, you should’ve told me! I studied medicine! Actual medicine! Okay, yes, the Torino people look like potatoes that learned kung fu, but they’re geniuses! They’re like weird little sages with stethoscopes!”
Florencio smiled faintly. “I remember.”
Gale didn't even seem to register Florencio's words. “I could’ve helped you!” He went on, his voice cracking a little—not that he’d ever admit it. “If you just told me, instead of sending me on some ridiculous flower-hunting quest—!”
Florencio cut him off with a gentle wave of his hand. “Do I look like someone who’d give up on life so easily, niño?”
Gale froze, mouth still half-open like a stuck window.
“I went to Torino,” Florencio said, leaning his head back against the wall. His voice was softer now, but not weak. Just tired. “Many years ago. Spent months living among them. Had a big argument with one about whether a rapier could defeat a club if used properly. It could, of course.”
“…Of course,” Gale muttered, more out of reflex than agreement.
Florencio gave a little chuckle. “One of them was curious. Stronger than the others. Smarter too. I taught him the basics of the sword. Grace, rhythm, posture. Not the full art, but just enough.”
Gale blinked. “Wait. You mean—?”
“That’s why I took you on,” Florencio continued, eyes twinkling now. “The moment I saw you standing there in that ridiculous stance, trying to look tough with your sword—I recognized it. My own lesson, half-remembered and passed down. You learned from him. That’s fate, niño. You can’t plan for that.”
“I…” Gale began, voice barely above a whisper. But the words stopped there, dead on arrival.
He wanted to say something. Anything. Something comforting, something wise, hell—even something stupid would’ve been fine if it could fill the air between them and keep the moment from collapsing in on itself like a dying star.
But nothing came.
He just sat there, jaw clenched, hands useless in his lap as the weight of everything started to crush him in slow motion.
And it hurt. It hurt in a way he hadn’t prepared for—because Gale always thought if something like this happened, he’d be angry, or numb, or ready with some bold declaration.
Instead, he felt like a kid again. Helpless. Angry at that helplessness. Angry at himself. Angry at everything.
Florencio must’ve seen it—how close Gale was to shattering—because he gave a long, weary sigh, like it took effort just to draw the air in. “Listen to me, niño… I don’t have much time.”
Gale looked at him sharply, shaking his head like he could will those words away. Deny them out of existence. But Florencio kept going.
“My sword… my cloak… this sala de armas… everything I own. It’s yours now to do with as you please...”
“No,” Gale muttered, fists clenching tight enough that his knuckles went white. “Don’t do that. Don’t start handing out your crap like we’re at the end credits. You can’t throw in the towel yet. You still haven’t taught me anything! I don’t even know how to do the petal thing! Or—or that fancy foot pivot you always smack my ankles over!”
Florencio gave the faintest smile, the kind that came with more regret than joy. “In my study,” he said, “there is a manual. Every stance. Every flourish. Even the rose petals. You’ll find it all there. With time… you’ll surpass me, Gale.”
Gale swallowed hard, chest tightening. He didn’t want a book. He wanted his teacher. The ridiculous old man in flamboyant clothes who gave him endless grief about foot positioning and insulted his sword grip with poetry.
He didn’t want a hand-me-down legacy.
He wanted to keep arguing about form and balance and dinner.
Florencio shifted, clearly struggling, his voice rasping again. “You may have it all… except one thing. There’s a book with a purple cover. That one… you must burn.”
“Burn it?” Gale blinked, confused. “Why?”
The old man’s eyes drifted toward the ceiling. “Because… humans are torches. In this dark world, our only mission is to shine as best we can… and pass the flame to another before we go out. That is the way of man.”
He coughed again, harder this time, and Gale instinctively reached forward, steadying him.
“But my flame…” Florencio continued, eyes now glassy, distant. “It’s too heavy. It was never meant to be passed down. You must not inherit it, Gale. Not that part of me…”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Gale asked, voice rising in panic. “What do you mean, too heavy? Why would you even say—”
But Florencio didn’t answer.
His hand trembled as it reached for the locket that always hung around his neck.. With slow fingers, he thumbed it open and stared at the photos inside.
“Aurora… Alma…” he whispered, so softly it was almost lost on the wind. “I’ve missed you, my loves… I’m coming home.”
And then… nothing.
No dramatic gasp. No final quip. Just stillness. The kind that didn’t feel peaceful, only cruel.
Gale sat frozen, staring at the man who’d taught him how to wield a blade, who yelled at him like a disappointed uncle and laughed like someone who’d lived through hell and come out the other side wearing velvet.
His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes burned—and then overflowed, tears cutting warm lines down his cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away.
He just stayed there, kneeling beside the body of the man who’d changed his life, wishing desperately—stupidly—that this was one of those dramatic training scenarios where the master pretends to die just to teach the student a lesson.
But it wasn’t.
Florencio de la Rosa was gone. And all that remained was silence, the scent of roses, and a boy who hadn’t been ready to say goodbye.
Comments
Potato
Damn
