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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #27
🕑 Added 2025-04-21 02:22:51 +0000 UTCThe morning sun hung lazily over the sala de armas, its golden rays casting long, dramatic shadows across the terracotta tiles and making the dew-kissed bougainvillea petals shimmer like little pink gemstones. Birds chirped. A breeze danced lightly through the vines. Somewhere, probably, a harp played.
And in the middle of it all stood Gale.
Half his face wrapped in a thick scarf, the ends tucked so tightly around his neck that he looked like a stylishly bundled desert nomad—or a man desperately hiding something.
Which, of course, he was.
He stood motionless in the courtyard, sword in hand, but utterly distracted. His thoughts weren’t on posture or form or the subtle art of controlling breath through motion. No, they were stuck on last night—on her.
Claribel.
Even the name sounded like a lullaby.
She’d turned out to be as fun, clever, and flexible as he’d hoped. And judging by the way she’d kissed him goodbye that morning—tightly holding on to him—he had a strong feeling this wasn’t going to be a one-night kind of thing.
He didn’t know when “next time” would be, of course. Florencio had only given him one day off, and that already felt like a rare planetary alignment. But hey—if it came to it, Gale was fully prepared to skip sleep, sneak out, or fake his own death. Priorities were priorities.
A silly, smug grin started to spread under his scarf, and a low, lewd chuckle slipped from his throat like a toad hopping off a lily pad.
“Tch.”
THWACK.
A sharp, precise flick of a wooden practice sword struck the top of Gale’s head like divine punishment.
He yelped, staggering slightly. “Ow—!”
“How many times must I hit you in the head to get you to focus, niño?” came the familiar, exasperated voice of Don Florencio de la Rosa, master swordsman, fashion icon, and part-time punisher of lustful daydreamers.
Florencio stood across the courtyard, one hand on his hip, the other lightly resting on the hilt of his cane-sword. He was dressed in his usual matador-inspired training attire—tight crimson vest, high-collared shirt, decorative embroidery that somehow didn’t restrict a single deadly movement.
He looked like he’d stepped out of a romantic painting and directly into a telenovela.
Florencio narrowed his eyes at the scarf. “It must be that damned thing cutting off circulation to your brain. Take it off. Immediately.”
Gale stiffened. “I-it’s cold,” he said, forcing a cough. “Really chilly this morning, you know? Might be catching a fever. Probably better if I—”
“Don’t make me say it again,” Florencio said, dangerously calm.
“I’m just being responsible,” Gale insisted, gripping the scarf tighter. “Gotta protect the throat. Can’t fight if I’ve got strep, right?”
Florencio gave him a long, knowing stare. “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Very well. Perhaps you’re right.”
Gale blinked. “Wait, really?”
“Absolutely,” Florencio nodded… then, like lightning wearing leather gloves, his hand snapped forward, and with a single elegant tug, he yanked the scarf clean off Gale’s neck.
“What the—!”
The scarf fluttered dramatically to the floor.
And there they were.
A veritable constellation of hickeys. His neck, jawline, and even the slope just under his ear were marked like some deranged cartographer had drawn a treasure map with their mouth.
There was a long, beatific silence as Florencio slowly turned his head, eyes widening slightly.
“…Por Dios,” he muttered. “You look like you lost a fight with a squid.”
Gale flushed red. “I can explain.”
“No,” Florencio interrupted. “Please don’t. I am already fighting enough demons.”
Gale chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar—and the jar was still dangling from his wrist.
Florencio shook his head, sighing with a level of disappointment usually reserved for bad theatre performances and undercooked paella.
“In any case,” he said, gesturing dismissively toward the scarf now lying limp on the floor like a deflated balloon animal, “since you’ve learned to play the guitar to a barely satisfactory degree—emphasis on barely—it’s time to move on to the next step of your training.”
Gale perked up immediately, all thoughts of hickeys and hot waitresses momentarily shelved. “The next step? What’s that?”
Florencio didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached slowly for the handle of his rapier, fingers gliding along the grip like a concert pianist preparing to strike the opening note.
“I will explain shortly,” he said, voice soft and dramatic in that tune in next episode sort of way. “But first… you must see what you’re training for.”
Gale leaned forward slightly, watching with wide, curious eyes.
Somewhere deep inside, a spark of anticipation flickered.
Florencio raised his rapier, blade gleaming in the sun like it had its own personal spotlight. Then—his wrist began to move. No, not move. Vibrate. Wiggle? Shimmy? Whatever it was, it looked like he was trying to strum the air with his sword.
Gale squinted. “Wait, is he... having a seizure? Should I—?”
Then it happened.
Rose petals.
Dozens of them, maybe hundreds, exploded into the air in a flurry of crimson and pink, whirling around Florencio like some absurdly romantic snow globe. The petals caught the wind and danced—no, twirled—as Florencio blurred and vanished from where he stood.
Gale blinked.
Then gasped.
Florencio now stood behind one of the training dummies at the edge of the courtyard, his rapier lowered at his side, the wind tousling his perfectly coiffed silver hair like a shampoo commercial.
The dummy?
Absolutely shredded.
Tiny gashes crisscrossed its frame in a delicate pattern, like a lace doily carved into wood. And right in the center of its chest was one large, single, clean stab mark—deep enough to make a grown scarecrow reconsider its life choices.
Gale’s jaw dropped. “Okay… wow.” He stepped closer to examine the poor, desecrated dummy, eyebrows high enough to make his forehead ache.
'That was insane. I’m quick with a blade, but not that quick. Even if I could somehow drop my body’s density to featherweight levels, I couldn’t manage that many strikes in that short a time.'
He turned toward Florencio, a grin already spreading across his face. “Is this what I'll be learning next?”
Florencio stared at him blankly. Then, without missing a beat, he said, “No.”
“…Wait. What?”
Florencio sighed again, patting the dummy's ruined shoulder as though mourning a fallen comrade. “You? No. You’re not ready for that.”
Gale blinked twice. “But I just—”
“You’re like a newborn puppy holding a sword,” Florencio interrupted flatly. “Adorable. Clumsy. Utterly unprepared.”
“…You forgot dangerously unqualified.”
“I was being generous.”
Gale deflated slightly, the grin fading. But only slightly. Somewhere deep in his gut, the fire was still burning.
Because if that kind of ridiculous, anime-worthy sword technique was on the table, then damn it—he wanted it. He would earn it. One petal-blade, wind-dancing technique at a time.
Gale cleared his throat, trying to shake off the sting of being told he wasn’t ready for anime-level sword magic. “Alright then,” he said, “if not that, what am I learning next?”
Florencio clasped his hands behind his back, chin lifted in dramatic gravitas. “You will be learning La Verdadera Destreza,” he said, rolling the words off his tongue like he was introducing a bullfight or a forbidden dance.
Gale blinked. “...Okay, not gonna lie. That sounds really cool.”
Florencio smiled faintly. “It should. It means ‘The True Skill.’”
“Oh, yeah,” Gale nodded, mentally filing that away under Techniques That Sound Like Final Boss Moves. “So, what’s the true skill?”
Florencio stepped toward a nearby rack of training gear, gesturing as he explained, “It is a sophisticated form of swordsmanship centered around the use of rapiers, often accompanied by a side arm. There are two primary options: a dagger… or a cloak.”
Gale scratched his head, gears beginning to turn. “Alright, I get the dagger thing,” he said thoughtfully. “Rapiers are great for reach, not so much for up-close brawling. A dagger can be used to parry, maybe even jab when someone gets inside your guard…”
He trailed off, then glanced at Florencio with a skeptical squint. “But like… what’s a cloak gonna do? Keep the opponent fashionably insecure?”
Florencio grinned, the kind of grin that always meant trouble was on the horizon. “I’m glad you asked.”
He moved to the wooden table at the side of the courtyard and picked up a short, half-length cloak—deep navy, with intricate red roses sewn along the edge. It looked like something you’d wear to a masquerade ball where people politely stabbed each other.
Florencio draped it over his left shoulder with a flourish that made the fabric billow slightly in the breeze. “Try to stab me,” he said, settling into a stance with casual elegance.
Gale stared at him, deadpan. “You want me to stab you. While you’re wearing a cape.”
“It’s a cloak,” Florencio corrected.
“Right, sorry. Cloak. That changes everything,” Gale said, voice thick with sarcasm. “This feels a lot like that time you told me to attack you and then hit me with a stick for ten minutes.”
“Correct,” Florencio said, still smiling.
“...You enjoy this, don’t you?”
“Immensely.”
Gale sighed and glanced up toward the sky, as if asking the universe why it kept sending eccentric old men to humble him. Somewhere out there, some celestial force was definitely laughing.
Still… curiosity gnawed at him. Florencio wasn’t the kind of guy to throw out empty lessons. If he said the cloak was useful, then there had to be a reason. A cool, mysterious, possibly stupid reason—but a reason nonetheless.
“Alright,” Gale muttered, steeling his nerves. “But if you hit me with that cloak, I swear I’m stealing your wine cellar.”
He stepped back, drew his rapier with a metallic whisper, and took his stance. This time, he wouldn’t get punked. He wouldn’t fall for another trick.
Taking a deep breath, Gale adjusted his stance, letting his muscles tense like coiled springs. He narrowed his eyes at Florencio, who looked entirely too smug in his silly flower cloak.
“Alright, old man,” Gale muttered under his breath, “no more surprises today.”
He tapped into his Devil Fruit powers, decreasing the density of his entire body except for his muscles, which he reinforced to an absurd degree.
It was a reckless move—like turning himself into a human cannonball made of pain. His joints ached in protest, and he could practically hear his tendons whispering, “You fool.” But he was committed. If this ended with him face-first in the dirt again, at least he’d go down swinging.
With a heavy step that cracked the tile beneath his feet and made his bones seriously reconsider their career choices, Gale launched himself forward like a fired shot. His rapier glinted in the sun, aimed dead-center at Florencio’s chest.
'No more getting clowned by furniture. No more random props. No more sticks.'
But of course, Florencio didn’t even raise his sword.
Instead, with the most casual flick of his wrist, he snapped the cloak up—and it wrapped around Gale’s blade like it had a personal vendetta against metal. Gale barely had time to blink before the old man yanked.
His rapier tore from his hand and flew behind Florencio with a mournful clatter.
“What the—?” Gale managed, right before the cloak, now free of its burden, came flying straight at his face like an aggressive laundry ghost.
“Not again—!” he shouted, voice muffled as the fabric smothered him. His arms flailed like a cat wrapped in a sweater, and he barely managed to tear the cloak off—
Only to find Florencio standing inches away, the tip of his rapier gently tapping the spot between Gale’s eyes.
There was a long beat of silence.
Gale blinked. “...I got punked again, didn’t I?”
Florencio gave a soft, victorious snort. “Indeed. But at least this time, you made it slightly entertaining.”
Gale sighed, dramatically flopping backward like a man whose pride had just been triple-pierced. “If you pull out a hat next time and beat me with it, I swear I’m going to find that Larson guy and beat him up again…”
Florencio sheathed his rapier with a sharp click, his expression as serious as ever—though there was a familiar twinkle in his eye that usually preceded physical pain or philosophical torment.
“I don’t know who this 'Larson' is, niño, nor do I care,” he said, brushing an invisible speck of dust off his ornate sleeve. “It’s time to choose. Capa o daga?”
Gale scratched his head, his fingers ruffling through his hair as he mulled it over. Dagger or cloak. One screamed classic. The other screamed completely unnecessary flair—but also, maximum chaos.
'Okay, let’s think about this,' Gale mused to himself. 'Daggers are cool. Very stabby. Practical, lightweight, easy to conceal, blah blah. But…'
His eyes drifted to the discarded cloak, still smelling faintly of roses and smug superiority.
'But I’m not a regular guy, am I?' He smirked under his breath.
With his Devil Fruit powers, a cloak wasn’t just fabric—it could be a whip, a shield, a weighted trap, or a projectile that could crater the earth if he dialed it up enough. The sheer disrespect of slapping someone with a cloth that hit like a freight train? Chef’s kiss.
Plus, it made it easier to hide other weapons underneath. Like, say… that revolver he still had from Bruno… Marco? No. Malko. Yeah, that guy. Patchy beard, bad attitude, talked like he chewed gravel for breakfast.
Gale chuckled to himself, a low, mischievous sound bubbling out of him as he imagined the sheer psychological damage of getting clobbered by a cloak and then shot. That kind of trauma sticks with you.
He looked up at Florencio with a grin that stretched just a little too wide.
“Espada y capa, Maestro,” Gale said, spreading his arms like he was accepting a role in an overly dramatic stage play.
Florencio nodded approvingly, turning to retrieve a custom cloak from the rack—a deep crimson half-cape with gold stitching and a weighty drape. He handed it over without a word.
Gale took it reverently, already fantasizing about slapping someone across the face with it while screaming something poetic in slow motion.
Oh yes. This was the beginning of something very stupid—and very fun.
