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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #25
🕑 Added 2025-04-19 00:00:03 +0000 UTCGale looked at the old man standing before him, then glanced at the stick in his hand. A twig, technically. A well-balanced, dramatically plucked twig—but still.
If this was some kind of third-rate fanfic, Gale figured this would be the part where the old master beat the ever-living snot out of the cocky protagonist to “humble” him. You know, classic formula. Cue the faceplant into the dirt, the shocked expression, the wise lesson about hubris and inner strength and whatever.
But this wasn’t a dream. Or a fantasy. This was real life. He checked often—pinched himself, slapped his cheeks, even licked a rock once, just to be sure. No dice. Still here. Still very real.
And Gale sure as hell hadn’t survived two years of hellish training with the torso-shaped tribesmen of Torino Island just to get clowned on by a matador-looking grandpa wielding a decorative branch.
He stepped forward and unsheathed his rapier with a flick of his wrist. The blade gleamed in the sun like it had something to prove.
“All right, old man,” Gale said, lowering into stance, “let’s see if clarity bleeds.”
Florencio didn’t answer. Not with words. Just a small, knowing smile—so faint it barely existed—and then he vanished.
Not stepped forward. Not moved. Vanished.
Gale’s eyes barely kept up. One second, the old man was across the courtyard; the next, he was in his face.
But… not quite. Gale had seen something. A flicker, a twitch—the old man’s feet had moved in a strange, almost sliding pattern. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t speed. It was like he bent the space between footsteps.
'There’s that weird foot mojo again…'
Gale’s brain kicked into overdrive. He didn’t panic. He analyzed. Florencio was close now—dangerously close—his branch swinging upward from below the waist in a tight arc. Too close for most fighters.
Rookie mistake, Gale thought, narrowing his eyes. You don’t get that close to a swordsman unless you’re begging for a hand cramp.
Instinct kicked in. Almost unconsciously, he decreased his body’s density, letting his limbs move faster—lighter than air. His free hand shot toward Florencio’s wrist, aiming to intercept the swing before it could build momentum.
'Let's see how much “clarity” likes being parried to hell and back.'
Because yeah, sure, the old man was fast. Mysterious. Maybe even cool in a weird flamenco-fencer-grandpa kind of way. But Gale had tricks too. Torino Island didn’t just teach him how to fight—it taught him how to fight weird.
And if there was one thing Gale had learned fighting herbalist bird-warriors and dense-fisted gorillas with a PhD in pressure points, it was this:
There’s always a counter. You just have to be clever—or stupid—enough to find it.
Florencio watched Gale’s counter with a raised brow—just the faintest twitch of impressed curiosity, like a wine connoisseur discovering the cheap bottle actually had decent flavor. Quick thinking. Fluid motion. Not bad for a niño.
But he didn’t stop the swing.
Instead, he took a small, graceful step back. The branch continued upward, carving a lazy arc through the air like it had all the time in the world.
Gale’s eyes widened. What the hell kind of passive-aggressive fencing was this?
Still, he wasn’t about to let up. If the old man stepped back to get space for a bigger swing, then fine—he’d just take that space right back.
Gale lunged forward with purpose, pushing into the vacuum left behind, muscles coiled and eyes sharp. His confidence was already inflating like a smug balloon. He raised his head, lips curling into a gloating grin—
Only to be greeted by Florencio’s own grin, equally smug, impossibly calm.
'That’s not a good sign…'
And just like that, Florencio vanished again.
Not blinked. Not darted. Vanished. Dude had all the subtlety of a magician on a caffeine binge.
Gale blinked, his momentum carrying him forward—and completely off-target—as Florencio reappeared two steps away. Two. Steps. Away.
'Oh great,' Gale thought, twisting around, 'he's got teleportation swagger now.'
Worse yet, he felt something—a whisper of motion at the edge of his senses. The branch.
It was moving again. Slow. Controlled. Like it knew exactly what it was doing. And it was inching toward his open palm.
Gale’s teeth clenched. Hell no. He was not getting punked by a stick.
Without thinking, he increased the density of his hand—flesh hardening into something like tempered steel. Not the prettiest move, sure, but effective.
Let the old man swing. Gale would catch it. Snap it in half. Smile for the camera. End of story.
There were swordsmen out there who could cut steel, sure—but with swords. Not with branches. Not in South Blue, at least. Maybe in some shitty fanfic, but not in real life.
Then Florencio did something unexpected again.
He stepped back—just a hair. Just enough.
The tip of the branch didn’t slam into Gale’s palm like expected. Instead, it grazed it.
A whisper of movement. A breath of contact.
And then pain.
Sharp, focused pain.
Gale flinched, staring in disbelief at his hand. A thin gash stretched across his palm, a ribbon of red against his calloused skin. The same hand that had the density of a cannonball. The same hand that should’ve turned a stick to mulch.
He wasn’t stunned by the pain itself—Gale had stubbed his toe on volcano rocks. He’d taken gut punches from tribesmen with fists like tree trunks. He ate pain for breakfast.
No, what gave him pause… what chilled him just a little… was the quiet, horrifying fact that this elegant old man had cut through his steel-hard hand with a branch.
'With a branch,' Gale repeated in his mind, staring at the cut like it had personally betrayed him.
'I am fighting a matador wizard.'
Florencio, meanwhile, couldn’t have looked less concerned about Gale’s existential crisis. While the younger swordsman stood there, mentally rewriting the laws of physics, biology, and common decency, the old man moved.
Swift, seamless—like a scene that forgot to add transition frames.
In one smooth motion, Florencio’s free hand slipped behind his back, while his sword hand rose, lifting the branch—no, the blade—to chest level. There was a beat of stillness, almost ceremonial, and then—
Boom.
A blur of movement. A flick of the wrist that bent the laws of momentum. And Florencio shot forward like a gust of wind wearing perfume and judgment.
Gale’s eyes widened. For a split second, he wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or if someone had slipped spice into his lunch. But he could’ve sworn he saw rose petals—dozens of them—spiraling around Florencio’s form as he dashed.
They shimmered in the sunlight, blooming upward with unnatural grace. Beautiful. Terrifying.
And apparently sharp.
Because when they passed by him, Gale felt it—a sudden burning on his cheek, like he'd been kissed by a particularly aggressive flower.
Okay. Not a dream. Definitely not lunch hallucinations, Gale thought, resisting the urge to check for thorns.
Before he could even consider countering, dodging, or throwing himself dramatically to the ground, Florencio was already there.
Right in front of him.
Sword—an actual sword now, not that cheating stick—pointed directly at Gale’s throat. Not pressing. Just… present. Firm. Undeniable.
Gale didn’t move. His thoughts were a storm of what the hells and is this guy even real? But outwardly, he kept it simple.
Eyes twitching, he mused 'This might really be some crappy fanfic after all.'
He slowly raised both hands in surrender. “Alright, I lost.”
Florencio didn’t gloat. He didn’t even smirk. Just gave his rapier a final elegant flick—because apparently everything this man did came with flair—and slid it back into its sheath with a crisp shing.
“You pass,” he said with a nod, his tone calm but carrying the faintest trace of appreciation.
Gale blinked. “I passed? Even though I lost?”
Florencio tilted his head. “If you’d won, I wouldn’t take you as a student.”
Gale furrowed his brow. “…Why?”
“Because I’d have nothing to teach you.”
There was a beat of silence, then Gale let out a breath of laughter. “Huh. Yeah, okay. That actually makes sense...”
Florencio turned, walking away as if he hadn’t just violated the Geneva Convention with flowers. “Sort out anything you need today. We begin training tomorrow. You won’t have time for anything else.”
“I don’t really have any business to tend to,” Gale said, scratching his cheek. “Just got to the island, actually.”
Florencio stopped at the far edge of the yard, glancing over his shoulder. “Then do whatever you want. You won’t get the chance again.”
'Comforting,' Gale thought.
He rubbed the back of his head and muttered, “Guess we’re doing this, then…”
There was a pause, awkward but honest. Gale shifted on his feet, then called out, “Hey, uh… what should I call you?”
Florencio turned fully now, hand resting gently on his sword hilt. “My name is Don Florencio de la Rosa.”
He gave a slight bow, one hand across his chest. “But you will address me as Maestro.”
Gale exhaled, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Right. Maestro. Got it.”
'Yup. I’m definitely in a fanfic.'
...
The morning sun filtered through the bougainvillea vines that crawled across the stone archways of the sala de armas, their petals fluttering gently in the breeze—soft, serene, tranquil.
None of which described Gale.
He sat cross-legged in the courtyard, hunched over a battered acoustic guitar that looked like it had been around since the Void Century. His fingers fumbled awkwardly over the frets as he attempted—for the sixth time in the past twenty minutes—to play what Florencio had described as “una melodía simple, para niños con menos dedos que tú.”
Gale didn’t speak much Spanish, but he was pretty sure that was an insult.
He strummed the strings, aiming for something vaguely musical. What emerged sounded like a goose being mugged in an alley.
Thwack!
A swift, practiced flick of Florencio’s branch caught Gale on the top of the head.
“Wrong chord,” the maestro said, like a disappointed piano teacher from hell.
Gale winced, rubbing the sore spot. “You could just tell me I messed up, y’know.”
Florencio raised a brow, arms crossed. “I am telling you. Through percussion.”
Gale grumbled under his breath and tried again. This time, the sound was less mugged-goose and more… accordion falling down stairs.
Thwack!
“Wrong again.”
Another hit. Another wince.
After the umpteenth failed attempt—and the matching tally of skull taps—Gale finally snapped. He slammed the strings with his palm, creating a dissonant TWANG that probably offended every bird within a five-mile radius.
“Alright, that’s it!” he barked. “How is playing guitar even remotely related to swordsmanship?!”
Florencio didn’t even blink. “Music purifies the soul,” he said smoothly. “And a swordsman’s soul must be as clear as his blade.”
Gale stared at him, slack-jawed. “Okay, cool, very deep, very poetic. Love it. Really makes me want to wear a beret and cry into a wine bottle. But is there any practical, non-philosophical reason I’m doing this?”
Florencio paused, tilted his head thoughtfully, and answered with a serene, “No.”
Gale’s eye twitched. “Then why?!”
“Because,” Florencio said, stepping closer, “my style of swordsmanship requires dexterous fingers and fine motor control. Normally, I develop the necessary musculature with highly specific conditioning exercises—”
Gale let out a sigh and muttered, “Let me guess. This doesn’t fall under normally, does it?”
The old man chuckled, the kind of amused laugh that usually preceded a life lesson or a complete breakdown. “No. But not in a bad way.”
Florencio took the guitar from Gale and set it down gently, as though cradling a fragile relic. “Your body already has the muscle groups I would normally spend months building in a student. Flexors, extensors, pronators, stabilizers… all trained with surprising precision.”
He turned to Gale, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Whoever trained your physique was quite the genius. Not a swordsman, certainly—but someone who understood enough to build a body suited for the blade you now wield.”
Gale sighed, long and dramatic, like a man resigning himself to a fate worse than death. Which, in this case, was beginner guitar practice under the threat of blunt force trauma.
But there was nothing he could do. The guitar was back in his lap, Florencio was watching him like a hawk in tight pants, and the threat of future thwacks hung in the air like storm clouds on laundry day.
He adjusted his fingers again, exhaled through his nose, and strummed.
It was clumsy—like a donkey trying to tiptoe across cobblestone—but this time, it didn’t make any neighborhood animals cry. Progress?
As his hands fumbled over the next chord, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, uninvited but warm. His thoughts drifted back to Torino Island, to the wild, windy cliffs and the chaotic treehouses stacked like drunken pancakes. And, of course, to Old Kiwanu.
That madman.
Kiwanu was many things—loud, dramatic, stubborn, and possibly allergic to shirts—but humble? Not even on opposite day. The guy practically invented new synonyms for “genius” just so he could use them on himself.
Still… Gale had to admit, begrudgingly, that the old eccentric had earned it. The man had taken a scrawny, confused castaway and turned him into a living weapon with wrists of iron and a back that could snap coconuts. Even if his “training methods” often involved being chased by angry birds and tribesmen armed with rocket spears.
Thwack!
Pain bloomed on the top of his skull like a cartoon flower. Gale flinched, his nostalgic smile vanishing like a popped soap bubble.
“Wrong chord again,” Florencio said flatly, already raising the branch for a second swing. “Focus, niño. Or I’ll start smacking you with my sword next.”
Gale didn’t doubt it for a second.
And with that ominous promise hanging in the air like a particularly stylish guillotine, he resumed his practice.
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