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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #28
🕑 Added 2025-04-22 00:24:34 +0000 UTCTwo months.
That’s how long it had been since Gale took up the sword and the cloak, and began this ridiculous-yet-incredibly-dangerous dance called Espada y Capa. Two months since he started learning how to slap people with glorified curtains while trying not to stab himself with his own rapier.
He still had rope burns from the first week.
But now? Now he was beginning to understand the art. The flow. The weight distribution. The mind games. Fighting with a cape wasn’t just about flapping it dramatically like a stage magician—it was misdirection, entrapment, deception. Like chess, if your pawns were made of silk and occasionally hit like bricks.
He was in the courtyard again, terracotta tiles warm underfoot, the scent of bougainvillea thick in the air. The afternoon sun cast long shadows as he faced off with Florencio, each of them armed with a rapier in the dominant hand, and a half-cloak wrapped around the other.
Gale’s was black with silver threading—edgy, yes, but practical. Florencio’s was still his crimson masterpiece, roses sewn along the hem like he’d mugged a parade float.
They circled each other slowly, feet tracing invisible geometry. Florencio had taught him about the “mysterious circle,” the idea at the heart of La Verdadera Destreza—the True Skill.
Geometry and timing. Everything measured. Everything elegant. Gale still didn’t know if he was sword fighting or auditioning for a flamenco-themed kung fu movie, but it was working.
'Florencio’s been weird lately,' Gale thought as he advanced a step, cloak lifted in a defensive flare. 'He barely even watches my practice now. Five minutes of critique, and then he ghosts me like an awkward Tinder date. Something’s off.'
But for now, the old man was here. Focused. Watching him like a hawk with a fencing license.
They clashed.
Steel hissed against steel as Gale lunged, his blade seeking centerline. Florencio parried smoothly, using his cloak to obscure the angle of his riposte. Gale twirled out of reach, stepping along the arc of the circle, cloak snapping back to his shoulder.
He followed with a medio tiempo thrust—interrupting Florencio’s tempo mid-action—but the old man spun, wrapping Gale’s strike with a flourish of his cloak and pivoting behind him. Gale barely twisted away in time.
They continued like that: thrusts, evasions, cloak traps, footwork measured in arcs and spirals. Gale countered with a contratiempo, angling his blade low, feinting right, then striking left. Florencio’s rapier flicked down to block—but Gale wasn’t aiming for him.
The cloak.
He lashed it forward, catching Florencio’s wrist and jerking hard, using the momentum to break contact. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked. Florencio stepped back, cloak unfurled, surprised for just a second.
Gale saw it then. The opening. Florencio’s guard dipped—just slightly—his shoulder exposed, his wrist high.
'A fake-out? Or a mistake?'
His instincts screamed GO FOR IT, and honestly, when was the last time those instincts didn’t get him smacked upside the head?
He lunged.
Time slowed. Cloak tucked, blade forward, heart pounding. This was it—he had him. Finally.
Then, faster than thought, Florencio’s cloak snapped around Gale’s wrist like a silk viper, yanked hard, and—
CLANG.
His rapier clattered against the tiles. And before Gale could even blink, he found the tip of Florencio’s sword just shy of his Adam’s apple.
“…Dang it,” Gale muttered. “Got punked again.”
Florencio held the position for a breath longer, then relaxed and stepped back, shaking his head like a disappointed theater director.
“Your sword,” he said, voice soft but precise, “is too honest.”
Gale blinked. “...Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Yes,” Florencio replied with a faint smirk. “But I will say this—you’ve improved. You read the opening. You committed. Most students would still be flinching at shadows.”
“Thanks, I think?” Gale said, rubbing his wrist. “Still got disarmed by a glorified tablecloth, though.”
Florencio waved him off. “Enough for today. Go. Rest. Let the lessons settle in your bones.”
Gale saluted half-heartedly with his free hand and turned toward the house. His cloak flapped behind him, just a little too dramatically for someone who’d just lost.
As he stepped through the archway into the shade, he glanced back.
Florencio was walking toward the table at the side of the courtyard, his posture poised—but not as regal as usual. Halfway there, his knees buckled.
He caught himself, barely, one hand braced on the table’s edge.
Gale had already turned away, missing it.
Florencio coughed—once, twice—then pressed his palm to his mouth. When he drew it back, crimson streaked across his fingers.
He stared at it.
Not in shock. Not in fear. Just quiet acknowledgment. Then a wry smile spread across his face, like he’d just realized the punchline to a joke only he could hear.
“…Tch. Too honest, huh?” he murmured, voice hoarse.
He looked at the spot where Gale had lunged for his shoulder just moments ago.
“I'm starting to show opening… he really could have had me...” he whispered, his smile flickering. “Might not have enough time left to fake another.”
The wind stirred the petals on the ground as the master leaned on the table, sword still in hand, cloak rustling like distant applause.
...
The moon hung like a lazy coin in the sky, spilling silver light across the courtyard tiles of the sala de armas. Everything was still—eerily so. Crickets chirped like they were on union break, and even the vines that usually rustled like gossiping old ladies had gone quiet.
Gale tiptoed across the tiles, doing his best impression of a ninja with a bedtime curfew. His cloak swished softly behind him—dramatic, yes, but also very inconvenient when trying to sneak past a guy who could parry a bullet if he felt like it.
Okay, almost there, he thought, hugging the shadows like a guilty conscience. Just past the archway, down the stairs, no sudden sounds, no yelling, no—
“Ahem.”
Gale nearly jumped out of his own soul. His legs flailed midair like a startled goat, and he spun around so fast his cloak nearly strangled him.
There, in the shadows behind him, stood Florencio de la Rosa—robes immaculate, arms crossed, expression equal parts disappointed father and bored falcon.
“Maestro! I was just... uh... getting some... night air?” Gale offered, scratching the back of his head like the world's worst actor in a school play.
Florencio scoffed and stepped forward, his cane tapping against the tiles with theatrical weight. “Spare me the excuses. If you wish to go out and visit your lover, then do so.”
Gale blinked. “...Just like that?”
Now that didn’t track. This was Florencio. The same man who once smacked him with a wooden sword for tying his sash too loosely.
The same man who demanded precision in swordplay, posture, and even how to sneeze. Gale would’ve bet his left kidney—the good one—that sneaking out like this would’ve earned him at least one thwack to the ribs. Maybe two, if the old man was feeling sentimental.
Florencio turned his gaze skyward, as if speaking to the stars instead of Gale. “Love,” he said, “is the most precious thing in this world. A man should never stop searching until he finds it...”
That caught Gale off-guard. Florencio speaking earnestly? No lecture? No threat of impalement? Was this a fever dream?
The old swordsman exhaled, slow and heavy. “I, of all people, know what it means to be separated from a loved one.”
Gale’s brow arched. No way. Is this it? Is the old man finally opening up?
He’d tried to ask before. About Florencio’s past. His youth. The rose-shaped locket he always clutched when he thought no one was watching. Each time, he got deflected harder than a rookie swordsman’s jab.
Sensing a rare opportunity, Gale couldn’t resist. He grinned. “Is that the lady in the locket? Y’know, the one you keep looking at when you think nobody’s watching?”
Florencio’s eyes widened—just a flicker—but enough to make Gale feel like he’d struck gold. The older man turned away slightly, the shadows catching the tired edges of his face.
He sighed. Not dramatically. Not poetically. Just... softly.
“Don’t push your luck, niño,” he said, voice cool but not unkind. “Go. Meet your lady. It is not polite to keep a damsel waiting.”
Gale gave a mock salute and backed away toward the exit, half expecting a surprise flying sandal to come whistling through the air.
None came.
Still grinning, he stepped out into the night, heart a little lighter.
And behind him, under the soft light of the moon, Florencio stood silently for a while longer, his hand brushing against the rose-shaped locket beneath his coat.
...
The night was soft and warm, like a fresh pastry. Lanterns glowed above the cobbled streets, painting everything in gentle gold, and the distant sound of an accordion gave the air a tipsy kind of charm. Gale walked with Claribel at his side, their hands brushing just enough to make his heart thump like a kettledrum.
She was laughing at some stupid pun he’d made—something about rapiers being sharp conversation pieces—and the way she tilted her head when she smiled made him seriously consider whether being a pirate, a bounty hunter, or even a morally flexible Marine deserter was still his thing after all.
“I had a great time tonight,” Claribel said, nudging him with her elbow. “Though, I’m still not convinced that sword dance move you did wasn’t just you tripping.”
“I’ll have you know, that was a completely intentional maneuver I call the Falling Crane,” Gale said with mock pride. “Very advanced. Requires years of tripping—I mean training.”
She snorted, which somehow made her even cuter. And for a blissful second, Gale let himself imagine a peaceful evening: just him, Claribel, maybe a warm room at the inn, and—
“Well, well,” came a voice like a mosquito with unresolved anger issues.
Gale’s romantic bubble popped like a balloon under a sledgehammer. Standing across the street were ten rough-looking guys in baggy pants and matching scowls. And front and center, scowling hardest of all, was none other than Larson—no longer hanging from a tree, but his ego still visibly bruised.
“Oh great,” Gale muttered. “It’s Captain Crawlypants.”
Claribel blinked. “Who?”
“The guy from the tree. Long story. It involves a the said tree, some rope, and a very adventurous spider.”
Larson stepped forward, puffing out his chest like a rooster that’d lost too many fights. “I’ve come to wash myself of the humiliation you put me through!”
Gale laughed. Loudly. “With ten people? Buddy, you’ve got a weird idea of sentimental hygiene.”
A few of Larson’s goons looked at each other awkwardly.
“If nothing else,” Gale continued, gesturing to the posse, “you’re just making things worse for yourself. Honestly, it’s kinda impressive how deep your well of embarrassment goes.”
“Shut up!” Larson snapped, red creeping up his neck. “You and that Poqin guy ganged up on me before!”
“Poqin?” Gale raised a brow. “He sat there and ate popcorn the whole time. The only thing he attacked was a bucket of caramel corn. And even if we did gang up on you, that was two people. This is ten. Are you not even a little ashamed of yourself?”
“SHUT UP!” Larson roared, and pointed. “Get him!”
Gale sighed and turned to Claribel, who was already backing toward the side of the street. “Won’t be a minute,” he said, giving her a wink.
And with a swirl of his cloak and a flash of steel, he stepped into the fray.
The first guy lunged, only to find his pants suddenly three pounds lighter—because Gale’s rapier had sliced clean through the belt. His trousers hit the floor with a tragic flump, revealing a pair of heart-print boxers that screamed “not ready for combat.”
The second guy got tangled in Gale’s swirling cape, spun around twice, and ended up mooning a confused cat on a nearby windowsill.
Within seconds, it was chaos. Gale moved like a dancing shadow—cloak flicking, blade flashing. He didn’t land a single cut on skin, just fabric. But that was enough.
Belts snapped. Pants dropped. Honor shattered like a porcelain tea set on a rollercoaster.
And then there was Larson.
Gale flicked the tip of his rapier, slicing just above the waistband—and everything came down. Turns out, Larson had decided to go commando that night. A decision he would regret for the rest of his life.
Claribel screamed and covered her eyes. Gale just stared in stunned horror.
“Oh NO! You animal!” he barked, then promptly delivered a flying kick that sent Larson soaring out of sight, pants flapping like a sad flag of defeat.
The rest of his gang scattered like roaches under candlelight, clutching their trousers and screaming things like “I didn’t sign up for this!” and “Why didn’t I wear drawstrings!?”
Gale sheathed his sword and walked back to Claribel, who was trying to bleach her brain of what she'd just seen.
“Well,” he said, offering his arm with exaggerated calm, “that happened.”
She gave him a flat look. “Did he seriously not wear underwear?”
“I’m afraid we’ve all been changed by this night.”
They resumed walking toward the inn. A little less romantic now, maybe. But a whole lot more memorable.
Comments
Wanderer
Oh no the Grumpy mysterious master has a hidden illness and he's about to die. . . . Anyways will Gale be using any type of range weapon?? Or will he go the path of flying sword slashes
