Wicked_Fiction
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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #29
🕑 Added 2025-04-23 00:38:27 +0000 UTCIt was another perfect night. The stars twinkled, the air smelled faintly of grilled fish and pipe smoke, and Gale was strolling back toward the sala de armas with a goofy smile stretched across his face like a man who’d just won a bar fight and free dessert.
“Honestly,” he muttered, swinging his cloak over his shoulder, “you’d think Larson would’ve taken the hint by now. Every time he shows up, he gets humiliated, pantsed, or punted into the stratosphere. I’m starting to think he wants me to ruin his pants. Maybe it’s his weird hobby. Like stamp collecting, but for emotional trauma.”
He was mid-snort when he stepped into the courtyard—and froze.
Florencio was there. Standing in the center of the moonlit tiles like a statue carved from disdain. His arms were crossed, his silhouette sharp and unmoving. Only his eyes gleamed beneath the shadows, cold as a sword left too long in snow.
Gale stopped, instantly sobering. “Maestro?”
Florencio’s voice was low and clipped. “My locket is missing.”
Gale blinked. “Huh? The one you always wear? But you never take that thing off. I thought it was, like, magically fused to your chest or something.”
Florencio’s eyes narrowed. “Did you take it?”
“Wait, what?” Gale raised both hands. “No! Why would I—Maestro, I wouldn’t touch that thing even if you gave it to me! I figured you’d kill a man just for breathing too close to it.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Florencio snapped, voice suddenly sharp enough to slice onions. “Not you.”
Whoa.
Gale took a careful step back. This wasn’t the usual “you forgot to clean the blades” grump. This was a whole new flavor of furious.
“Okay, whoa, let’s all take a deep breath—maybe two. You’re clearly upset, and I don’t even have any idea what’s—”
SHHHHHHRACKK!
A horizontal slash of air exploded past him, slicing clean through the stone arch behind him like it was made of cardboard. The top half crashed to the ground, dust and chunks flying. Gale stared at it, slack-jawed.
“...Okay. So we’re doing this now.”
Florencio had already drawn his rapier, but it wasn’t the elegant, dancing style Gale had trained under. This was raw. Reckless. Slashes that sent arcs of cutting wind tearing across the yard, uprooting tiles and shredding bougainvillea vines from the walls.
Gale dove to the side as another slash buzzed past him, hot and angry.
“Maestro! Please!” he shouted, landing in a roll. “Would I really be this dumb if I stole something from you? I mean—c’mon—I like living!”
But Florencio didn’t answer. He just kept slashing. Each movement lacked his usual grace. This wasn’t the poised maestro with petal-light footwork and poetic critique. This was a storm in human form, wild and furious, eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to hate.
“Alright, now you’re really starting to worry me,” Gale muttered, ducking another flying arc of death. “Where’s the cryptic wisdom? The dramatic monologues? The totally unnecessary twirls?”
He vaulted over a shattered column, barely avoiding another slash that cleaved through the tile like butter. The wind it kicked up blew back his hair and nearly knocked him over.
Gale grit his teeth, hand twitching at the hilt of his own blade.
He didn’t want to draw on him. Not like this.
But it was getting harder and harder not to.
“This isn’t like you,” he said, more to himself than anyone. “You wouldn’t attack me without a reason. Something’s wrong.”
And judging by the unrelenting bloodlust in the old man’s eyes?
Something was very wrong.
And Gale wasn’t sure if talking would fix it... or just give Florencio better aim.
Florencio came at him again—blades of wind screaming through the air like banshees on espresso. The air pressure alone made Gale’s coat whip around him like a cape, which, to be fair, looked kind of cool. But that wasn’t much comfort when said cape was almost sliced off his back.
“Give it back!” Florencio roared, slashing the air once more. The arc tore a scar into the courtyard tiles, narrowly missing Gale’s feet.
“I don’t have it!” Gale shouted, leaping backward, nearly tripping over a cracked chunk of masonry. “Do I look like a guy who carries keepsakes that aren’t his?! I barely remember to carry snacks!”
Another arc came flying—this one aimed right at his face.
“Oh come on!” he yelped, rolling to the side. The attack tore a line through a support pillar behind him with a low rumble. “This feels excessive! Like, 'call the HOA' excessive!”
He landed in a crouch, panting now, watching the maestro advance with slow, deliberate steps. The Florencio he knew—the one who lectured him on footwork and posture and “the poetry of the strike”—was nowhere to be seen. His form was wild, his movements frantic, more brute force than finesse. And the look in his eyes—
Gale faltered.
That wasn’t just anger. That was grief, rage, and something darker gnawing away behind his glare. The kind of fury that wasn’t thinking. The kind of fury that had made up its mind already.
“Please,” Gale tried again, desperation creeping into his voice, “just listen for a sec! I didn’t take it! Maybe it got misplaced, or maybe someone else—”
Whoosh.
He felt the air ripple, and his eyes widened.
Another slash—coming fast. Too fast.
No room to dodge.
“Ah, crap.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, grit his teeth, and poured every ounce of his power into his body. Muscles locked down. His skin shimmered faintly. Density surged.
The slash hit.
It felt like being punched by a hurricane with a personal grudge. His arms took the brunt of it, but the impact still sent him skidding across the tiles, boots scraping loud enough to make sparks. Pain tore through him—a searing gash slashed across his forearms and a deep cut down his left side.
He hissed in pain, staggering upright, blood trickling down his arms.
“You know,” he wheezed, swiping the blood from his brow, “if this was training, I’d be reporting you to HR. So fast. So rude.”
He turned to glare at Florencio—but whatever comeback he had planned dried in his throat.
Because he saw the look in the old man’s eyes.
Not anger. Not disappointment. Not even the usual disapproving “your form is garbage” squint.
Just… intent. Cold, unwavering, violent intent.
Florencio wasn’t going to stop.
Gale’s breath caught.
“This… this isn’t a duel,” he muttered. “This is an execution.”
Panic threatened to rise, but he shoved it down. No time for that. His body was already aching, his arms were bleeding, and Florencio looked like he could go another five rounds without breaking a sweat. And the worst part?
Gale knew he couldn’t win this. Not even close.
If it came down to a real fight, his odds were roughly the same as a snowball’s in Marineford.
“Great,” he muttered under his breath. “I finally find a girl who likes me, and now I’m gonna die shirtless in my mentor’s courtyard. Classic Gale.”
All he could do now was defend. Dodge. Absorb what he could.
And pray—really pray—that the old man got tired before he bled out or had to start blocking with his face.
“Okay,” he whispered, cracking his neck and steadying his stance, “plan B: survive until someone else shows up, or the maestro remembers that murder is usually frowned upon in teaching curriculums.”
Florencio raised his sword again, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
Gale braced himself. This was going to be a long night.
...
Ten minutes.
Just ten minutes since Florencio had drawn his blade, and Gale’s body was already looking like a sketchpad for an overzealous anatomy student.
Cuts lined his arms, legs, even his ribs—some shallow, others not so lucky. His coat was torn to ribbons, his shirt was barely clinging on by a single, heroic button, and his favorite pair of pants was now officially downgraded to “ragged apocalypse wear.”
Even Kwianu’s rapier—the sleek, elegant blade he’d trained with day after day—wasn’t faring any better. The once-pristine metal was chipped in several places, the tip bent from too many parries against Florencio’s monstrous strikes. One more clash and it’d probably shatter like a teacup in a bar brawl.
And still, still, the old man wasn’t slowing down. If anything, his attacks were getting worse. More vicious. More unrelenting. Each strike came like a thunderbolt, each step forward like the tolling of a funeral bell—Gale’s funeral, specifically.
And yet, like the idiot optimist he was, Gale dared to hope.
Because finally—finally—Florencio paused. His shoulders lifted with a slow inhale, his blade lowered, and for a split second, Gale thought maybe, maybe, this nightmare was over.
Maybe he’d gotten it out of his system. Maybe the sword possessed by the ghost of Florencio’s tragic backstory had settled down. Maybe the moonlight reminded the maestro of beauty and love and not stabbing your student repeatedly.
He let out a breath and straightened, weakly lifting his hand. “Okay, I think we’ve all had a very productive, deeply traumatic bonding experience—”
Then Florencio spoke.
“This is your last chance, niño. Tell me where the locket is… or you will die.”
Bubble. Burst.
Gale’s mouth opened to deny it again—because holy hell, how many times did he need to say he didn’t take the stupid locket?—but he didn’t even get halfway through the sentence.
Because Florencio moved.
No warning. No wind-up. Just—bam. A blur. A streak of light and death and rage all wrapped up in one flaming-hot grandpa package.
Gale’s instincts screamed at him to move. Dodge! Roll! Jump! Pretend to faint!
But his body… didn’t listen.
Something pressed down on him. Not a weight, but a force—crushing, invisible, and all-consuming. It felt like the very air turned to stone. His limbs locked. His legs felt bolted to the earth. His chest tightened like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
“Wh-What… the hell…” he whispered, eyes wide as saucers.
And then he looked.
Really looked at Florencio.
And what he saw—
That wasn’t his teacher.
That wasn’t the elegant master of form and grace. That wasn’t the man who recited poetry between parries and lectured Gale on the emotional symbolism of rose petals during combat.
That was a demon.
Eyes burning. Aura seething. Killing intent pouring off him in waves so dense it warped the air. It wasn’t just malice—it was an unholy cocktail of grief, wrath, and raw, unfiltered obsession.
And it was all aimed at Gale.
He saw it.
His death.
It was coming. Fast. Inevitable.
Time slowed.
His heart thundered in his chest. Every instinct screamed in terror, adrenaline flooding his veins like someone had jammed a syringe full of panic straight into his soul.
He was going to die.
He was going to die here—bleeding in a courtyard he used to train in—over a locket he didn’t even touch.
And something inside him snapped.
Not fear. Not despair.
Resolve.
“…I don’t have a choice, do I?” Gale whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
If he didn’t fight back now—right now—he wouldn’t get another chance. He’d be a smear on the tiles. A tragic anecdote for future students. “Remember Gale? He didn’t block. What a legend.”
Nope. Not today.
He clenched his teeth, eyes narrowing, and forced his body to move. Pain flared in every nerve. His arm screamed as he raised the battered rapier. The blade groaned like it was protesting the effort. His whole body was shaking.
But he stood.
And as Florencio closed the final step—blade flashing—Gale swung.
A desperate, defiant arc of steel and willpower, his final stand in the form of a sword slash.
A desperate, defiant arc of steel and willpower, his final stand in the form of a sword slash—
—and then it happened.
A flash of light exploded from Gale’s battered rapier, almost blinding, brilliant and cerulean-blue, like moonlight igniting on metal. For a split second, the entire courtyard lit up in that sharp, ethereal glow, casting shadows like a lightning strike caught in slow motion.
From the blade, a shockwave of compressed air and raw force erupted—a flying slash, slicing forward with a sound that could only be described as a whoosh-thwip-BOOM. It wasn’t just a cut. It was a statement.
Florencio’s eyes widened, and he brought up his sword to meet it with a clean, practiced motion.
The impact cracked through the night like a thunderclap.
The force behind the slash shoved Florencio back—back—his feet skidding against the tiled floor, leaving twin trails of displaced dust and rose petals in his wake. Gale could hardly believe his eyes.
Florencio, the immovable sword sage of swishy elegance, being pushed?
He was halfway across the yard before he finally flicked his wrist with a casual grace that felt downright insulting, and deflected Gale’s flying slash skyward—skyward, like he was shooing away an overambitious firework.
The glowing slash vanished into the clouds with a sparkle.
Gale stood frozen, sword still outstretched, mouth slightly agape.
“…Did I just do a flying sword slash?” he asked no one in particular, voice squeaking at the end like his dignity had short-circuited.
He looked at his blade. Then at his hands. Then at the sky. Then at Florencio. His jaw slowly unhinged like it was trying to escape the scene altogether.
“I just swung my sword like an anime character… and it actually worked. Oh my God, this is the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t care if I’m bleeding out, I am never shutting up about this.”
For just a moment, he forgot he’d nearly died.
Forgot the blood on his coat, the pain in his ribs, the fact that his rapier had less integrity than a tourist trap sword bought from a gift shop.
Then Florencio looked up—smiling.
Not his “I’m about to turn you into a julienned steak” smile. No. This was the soft, refined, almost proud expression Gale hadn’t seen since… well, ever.
“Muy bien, niño. You don’t disappoint.”
Gale blinked.
Then blinked again.
“…Wait, what?”
Florencio straightened his posture, lowering his blade. The murderous aura that had been suffocating the air moments ago was just… gone. Like it packed its bags and left the moment Gale launched that anime attack.
Gale tilted his head, question marks practically materializing above him like a confused NPC.
Was… was Florencio possessed?
Was he cursed? Was the locket some kind of phylactery? Did Gale just purge the evil with the power of friendship and laser swords?!
“Wait, does that mean my sword has holy attributes now?” he muttered. “Am I… am I a paladin? That doesn’t even fit the setting. Crap, did we genre-jump? I’m not emotionally prepared for high fantasy.”
His thoughts started spiraling, already halfway into a mental rabbit hole where he had to fight demons, rescue princesses, and maybe adopt a talking horse sidekick named Clarence.
Then a much more horrifying thought occurred to him.
“…Wait. Did he just do all this to push me to my limit? Was this some kind of twisted anime logic training arc?!”
Comments
Wanderer
I knew it was a test from the start but the thought that maetro literally went mas with grief was always nibbling at the back of my mind
Wicked_Fiction
if by crew you mean the strawhats, then it will be a while. Even then, they won't be a major part of the story... until the latter parts of it anyway.
bone lord
When does he encounter the crew or does he
