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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #22
🕑 Added 2025-04-16 00:21:27 +0000 UTCGale sat on the wooden railing of the Jackdaw, one leg swinging lazily over the side, the other tucked under him for balance. The salty breeze tugged at his coat, and the ocean stretched out in front of him like a big, blue apology for everything that had happened on land.
Below, Captain Jack was screaming at a poor deckhand who had somehow managed to tie a knot so bad it was being considered for war crimes.
"Get that rope off the mast, you cabbage-brained bilge monkey!" Jack bellowed, flapping one arm wildly. “You trying to get us killed before we leave port?!”
Gale smirked. It was weirdly comforting—watching competent chaos unfold from a safe distance. Like dinner with his extended family.
Centaurea was finally behind him. Sort of. Not physically yet—the ship was still moored—but emotionally? Spiritually? Existentially? Oh, he was so gone.
Brief stay, sure. But eventful? Absolutely. Fruitful? Very.
He patted the pouch at his hip, heavy with 15 million beri. Ten for turning in Bruno Malko, the infamous toothbrush-mustache-having pirate captain, to the Marines. The other five? Courtesy of Captain Jack, who paid him to keep the Jackdaw from being turned into firewood by said pirate.
Honestly, a good week.
Well—almost a good week.
Gale exhaled, leaning back against the mast behind him. “Still mad about those ten million beri,” he muttered to himself. "You beat a man built like a prison gate, in front of a screaming crowd, and all you get is a thank-you punch card? No bonus round? Rude."
The prize money for defeating Rigel had been tempting. Very tempting. But walking away without claiming it had probably saved him from about seven different types of targeted assassination attempts. Maybe more, depending on what mood Magnon was in.
And considering that Gale had essentially tenderized the man’s prized pit-fighter in front of a thousand nobles? Yeah. He’d count that 10 mil as the cost of dodging a very creative death. Worth it.
So Bayle of Jagged Peak? He was gone. Back in the vault, where all his other fake names lived—next to Lance Rivers, Tobias the Tall, and “Definitely Not the Guy You’re Looking For.”
Now he was just Gale again. A drifter with a stolen coat, a sword he didn’t quite know how to use right, and a questionable moral compass that mostly pointed toward “survival.”
He watched the crew prepare the ship, the sails already catching the rising wind. The Jackdaw would be leaving any moment now, bound for another island, another job. And maybe—just maybe—another chance to figure out what the hell he was doing with his life.
As for Rigel?
Gale exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “He’ll be fine,” he said aloud, though no one was listening. “Probably.”
Truth was, he didn’t really care what happened to the guy. Whatever fate waited for Rigel—be it another year chained up in the coliseum or execution by angry noble—was still probably better than what would’ve happened if Gale hadn’t interrupted things.
He had saved him, in a roundabout way. Right?
...Okay, maybe mildly saved him.
Still, Rigel was strong. Gale knew that kind of strength when he saw it. The kind that wasn’t just built in gyms or training fields—but forged in pain. Survival. Willpower. That guy didn’t just punch mountains—he probably won arguments with them.
Gale doubted anyone in Centaurea could take Rigel in a straight-up fight. Not the commodore. Not Magnon’s cronies. Maybe not even Gale himself, if he hadn’t cheated just a little.
He snorted. “I’m not even sorry.”
Now that Rigel’s golden-boy status with the nobles had officially exploded in a shower of blood, dust, and broken expectations, there was no way he could stay passive much longer. If he really had a crew locked up somewhere—friends, allies, maybe even family—he’d have to move.
And when he did?
Well, Gale wouldn’t be around to see it. Which was kind of a shame. He’d actually liked that headbutting maniac.
And maybe—just maybe—Rigel deserved a second chance.
Not that Gale was in a position to hand those out. He could barely hand out compliments without sounding sarcastic.
Still… the wind smelled nice today. The sea stretched wide and waiting. And his pockets were heavy.
The Jackdaw gave a sudden lurch as the last mooring lines were cast off, the hull groaning like it wasn’t entirely on board with the idea of leaving port. Sails flapped overhead, catching the wind with a sharp snap, and Captain Jack—ever the embodiment of barely-contained maritime chaos—started barking orders at his crew with the grace and clarity of a drunken parrot.
“Get that boom secured before it swings and cracks someone’s skull, you gull-fed numbskulls! And who hoisted the anchor without asking?! That’s mutiny, you barnacle-brained sea lice!”
Gale blinked, watching the man with a sort of casual amusement. Jack was the kind of captain who’d somehow survived fifty voyages on pure volume and bad luck.
The man could probably scream a storm away.
But as Jack ranted and pointed, a thought bubbled up from the back of Gale’s mind—uninvited and slightly annoying, like a hiccup of paranoia.
That sailor.
The one who'd shown up at the inn back in Centaurea. Knew exactly where Gale was staying. Knew who he was—even beneath the Bayle disguise, which should have been foolproof.
(He wore a mask and everything!)
It had seemed weird at the time, sure, but Gale had brushed it off. He was good at brushing things off. Especially responsibility.
Now, though… something about it itched.
He hopped off the railing and walked over to Jack, who was mid-rant about someone stowing the rigging rope in the "snack barrel."
“Hey, Cap. That sailor who pointed me to you—big guy, weirdly clean teeth for someone on a ship crew—where is he?”
Jack squinted. “Which one? The one with the beard shaped like a dolphin or the one who tried to fight the cannon?”
Gale sighed. “The one who told me to come and get my money. Showed up at the inn like he knew exactly where I was....”
“Oh!” Jack said, his face lighting up. “Yeah, that fella, pretty capable lad... a shame he stayed behind.”
“Stayed behind?” Gale echoed.
“Said he met some old friends. Had a big project to work on. Sounded important.”
Gale stared at him. “...What kind of sailor gets off a ship to do work?”
Jack shrugged. “The suspiciously helpful kind, apparently.”
Gale frowned, gaze drifting back toward the shrinking silhouette of Centaurea behind them. The city was just a haze now—golden spires and sun-bleached rooftops slowly being swallowed by the horizon.
Something didn’t sit right. The sailor. The timing. Rigel. Magnon’s sudden interest. All of it felt like he’d walked into someone else’s chess game without realizing he was the pawn.
Used.
That really chapped his ego.
A part of him—small, irrational, and extremely bad at self-preservation—wanted to leap overboard, swim all the way back to Centaurea, kick in someone’s door, and demand answers. Preferably while dramatically dripping seawater.
But another, much smarter part of him reminded him that Centaurea was also where Magnon lived. And where that whole tangled mess of human trafficking, underworld emperors, celestial dragons mess was.
“Nah,” Gale muttered to himself, turning away from the railing. “Not my circus. Not my flaming, backstabbing monkeys.”
He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the tension, and turned back to Jack. “So. Out of curiosity… where are we headed?”
Jack gave him a look. Not an annoyed look. Not even confused. It was more like the face you make when someone casually asks if boats float.
“Wait,” Jack said slowly. “You boarded my ship without knowing our destination?”
Gale blinked. “Yeah?”
There was a pause.
Jack blinked back. “Why?”
Gale shrugged. “I’ve already seen everything Centaurea had to offer. Gladiator death matches, exploding wine glasses, mildly aggressive goat merchants. Honestly? Not impressed.”
Jack threw his head back and laughed. “You’re insane.”
“Little bit,” Gale admitted. “But charmingly so.”
“Well then, my bold mystery passenger,” Jack said, slapping a hand on Gale’s back hard enough to rattle a lung, “prepare to be impressed. We’re headed to Karate Island.”
Gale raised an eyebrow. “That sounds made up.”
“Most islands do until you get punched in the face by one of their monks,” Jack grinned. “Hope you brought a mouthguard.”
Gale gave a slow grin, already imagining the kind of mess he was sailing into. New place. New problems. Probably new bruises.
But hey—at least it wasn’t Centaurea.
...
The infirmary was quiet.
Too quiet, if you asked Rigel. Not that he was in the mood to talk.
He lay motionless in a bed that creaked under his weight, his forehead wrapped in a bandage that still felt damp with whatever herbal paste the medic had smeared on it.
His chest ached with every breath—tight, bruised, probably cracked. But none of it hurt nearly as much as the weight in his chest that had nothing to do with broken ribs.
He’d lost.
And not in the dramatic, last-man-standing, both-fighters-collapse kind of way. No. He’d been defeated. Decisively. Publicly. And for the first time in his life, he had no idea what to feel about it.
Anger?
Shame?
Relief?
That last one burned the worst.
Because deep down—beneath all the bravado and the ironclad will and the defiant speeches—Rigel had been afraid. Not of losing. He could handle losing. He’d trained men who died on the battlefield and honored them with pride.
But becoming a slave?
To a Celestial Dragon?
That thought made his skin crawl worse than any fever.
He'd never met one, but he’d heard the stories. Everyone had. The sheer cruelty. The total disregard for life. The way they collected people like decorations—toys to be broken when bored.
Even for someone as principled and proud as Rigel, there was a very real, very ugly fear that had dug into his spine the moment the nobles offered that deal: keep fighting, keep winning, and soon enough, your debts will be paid, and your men will be free.
But there’d always been a catch.
Rigel knew that.
They always lie when they smile that sweet, political smile.
He gritted his teeth. The pain flared in his ribs, reminding him to breathe slower. Not that slow. Okay. Slower-ish.
His men… What would happen to them now?
They hadn’t been imprisoned. That much was true. They kept their jobs, kept their armor, and marched under Centaurea’s flag like everything was fine. But Rigel knew better. They weren’t soldiers anymore.
They were shields. Expendable pawns the nobles could throw into any bloodbath without blinking. And with pay so low they could barely afford bread.
The nobles hadn’t broken their promise. They’d just twisted it.
And he’d let them.
Even after cooperating—compromising—he couldn’t protect them. Not really.
Maybe that’s why losing hurt so much. Not just because of what he lost, but because he had to admit the truth: even if he had won… even if he'd gone undefeated, built a legend so great that Celestial Dragons fought to bid for him at auction… there was no guarantee the king and his backstabbing court wouldn’t turn on his men the moment the ink dried.
Rigel clenched his fist, then winced. The bandages tugged at his skin, reminding him he was still broken—on the outside and the inside.
And yet...
Before Rigel could even make sense of the mess bubbling in his chest—was it regret? Guilt? Quiet rage? Dread with a side of bandage rash?—the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his spiral.
Soft, but deliberate.
Not the clanking boots of a soldier, or the nervous shuffle of a medic with bad news and worse handwriting.
No, this was different.
His head turned toward the door just as it creaked open. And what stepped through it made Rigel blink twice and wonder, maybe the concussion’s worse than I thought.
The visitor was... well, furry.
A humanoid cat, walking upright, with tan-orange fur and a sharp feline grin that gave off equal parts “friendly traveler” and “mad inventor.” He wore a pale button-up shirt, light trousers, dark boots, and a long, dark coat buttoned to the collar.
Two pairs of goggles adorned him—one with bright blue lenses strapped over his eyes, the other perched on the brim of a top hat, with orange-tinted glass and a curved rim like something out of a steampunk fever dream.
Rigel frowned, already bracing for weirdness. “Who... what are you? A Devil Fruit user?”
The feline gave a toothy grin. “Lindbergh. Commander of the Southern Revolutionary Army,” he said, as if announcing the weather. Then he gave a slight bow, tail flicking behind him. “And as for what I am... a Mink tribesman.”
Rigel’s brows lifted, realization dawning like thunder. The Revolutionary Army.
Ah. That explained a lot. The infirmary. The medics. The fact that he hadn’t been quietly disappeared by the state the moment he lost. His gaze sharpened as he stared at Lindbergh. “I suppose I have you to thank for ending up here?”
Lindbergh grinned wider, pleased. “You catch on fast. That’s why I like you.”
That grin—too sharp, too satisfied—made something click in Rigel’s gut. This wasn’t some accidental rescue. This was planned. And not just by chance. Lindbergh wanted something from him. That much was clear.
Rigel had been called many things—rebel, warlord, traitor—but to the Revolutionaries, he was something else entirely.
A chance.
The strongest man in Centaurea. That was a fact. Not pride—just truth. In a country where your position was measured by the weight of your sword arm, that strength alone gave him a legitimate claim to the throne. People had followed him once already. Brave men. Loyal. Maybe reckless. They followed him because he could win.
And if not for a certain Vice Admiral showing up at exactly the wrong moment, maybe they would have.
Lindbergh approached the bed, arms crossed behind his back like some genteel professor. “To be fair, we did arrange for that ‘Bayle’ kid to enter the tournament,” he said. “Though I’ll admit... I didn’t expect him to actually beat you, let alone this badly.”
Rigel snorted, then coughed—damn ribs. “You and me both. That string bean lands quite a punch.” He chuckled, but it was dry, hollow. “Who knew.”
He leaned back against the pillow, letting out a tired breath. “Is he one of yours?” he asked. “Bayle, I mean.”
Lindbergh shook his head. “Nah. We just waved the prize money in front of him and stepped back, though he vanished right after the fight. If I had to guess…” He gave a casual shrug, “He’s already halfway to the nearest island. Probably sipping juice out of a coconut and wondering why everyone’s so angry.”
Rigel let out a full laugh this time. It hurt. A lot. But it felt good. “Then he’s clever. Very clever. Magnon and whoever’s backing him are probably rearing to have Bayle’s head on a pike by now.”
Lindbergh smirked. “They’ll have to find him first.”
He leaned forward slightly, his voice shifting just enough to make Rigel sit up straighter—carefully. “But I’m not here to talk about him.”
Rigel raised a brow. “No?”
“No,” Lindbergh said. “I’m here to make you an offer.”
Rigel didn’t say anything at first.
He just stared, one brow raised, the edges of his mouth twitching into something caught between a smirk and a scowl.
“Of course you are,” he muttered. “Because nothing says ‘rest and recovery’ like another damn revolution.”
