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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #19
🕑 Added 2025-04-13 13:58:36 +0000 UTCThe peacock-man leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over a stomach that seemed to defy basic physics, his expression radiating smug diplomacy.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he began, voice smooth like expensive oil. “I am Magnon Frévall, merchant, patron of champions, and—at present—your most unfortunate inconvenience.”
Gale stared at him flatly. "That's quite the résumé. Do I clap now or later?"
Magnon chuckled, brushing past the sarcasm like it was lint on his sleeve. “I came to apologize. You wanted to fight Rigel today, did you not? A real shame, that. A man like you deserves better than a scheduling hiccupt...”
Gale narrowed his eyes. “Right. Having thought about it my request didn’t make much sense. The organizers would want to squeeze every last beri out of a packed house. Ending the show a day early is the last thing they'd want to do unless they were planning to sell popcorn at triple price tomorrow.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“But that can’t be why you’re here. You didn’t drag me out of bed just to say sorry. What do you really want?”
Magnon smiled wider, which somehow made him even less trustworthy. “Sharp. I like that. And no—you’re right. I am not one of the organizers, nor am I here at their behest. I’m just... an interested party.”
He waved a hand dismissively, and Gale half-expected confetti to come out of his sleeve.
“I have a stake in Rigel,” Magnon said, his voice suddenly more grounded. “And that’s why I asked for today’s fight to be postponed. I needed a word with you first.”
Gale exhaled through his nose. “You’ve had more than a few and I'm still waiting for you to get to the point.”
Magnon tapped a bejeweled finger against the table.
“I’m here to ask you to throw the fight.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through Magnon’s cologne.
Gale blinked once. Then scoffed. “Ten million on the line, and you want me to just lie down and play dead? You think I went through all this trouble to take a nap in the dirt?”
“You’ll be compensated,” Magnon said smoothly, as if that explained everything.
Gale’s expression didn’t budge. “Define ‘compensated.’”
Magnon leaned in slightly, his smile turning confidential. “You don’t have to try to lose. Accidents happen. Exhaustion, nerves, an unfortunate misstep. You’re human. But if Rigel wins—and wins well—I’ll make sure you walk away with more than the prize money. Much more.”
Gale’s fingers curled under the table. His voice was low, cautious.
“Why are you doing this?”
Magnon’s eyes glinted. He didn’t hesitate. “Because I deal in high-value commodities. And my goods of choice are humans. Slaves, if you want to be blunt. But not just any slaves—special ones. Champions, heroes, warriors with names and reputations. The kind the Celestial Dragons drool over like drunk dogs.”
He folded his hands, pleased with himself.
“I purchased Rigel over a year ago. Spent a fortune building his mythos here in Centaurea. Made sure he fought the toughest opponents and never lost... not that he needed help with that until now... I whispered stories of his invincibility into every corner I could find. I’m selling a dream—and Rigel is the centerpiece.”
There was no pride in his voice, just cold calculation.
“The Celestial Dragons don’t just want power; they have more than they know what to do with. They want prestige, something to one-up their fellows, and Rigel is just that... If he loses now, however, if the illusion shatters, his value drops. But if he stays undefeated...”
He didn’t need to finish.
Gale stared at him, disgusted starting to curdle in his gut. “Does Rigel know about your plan?”
Magnon laughed. It wasn’t cruel—it was just honest.
“Of course he does. He agreed to all of this.”
The table suddenly felt a lot colder between them.
“Years ago,” Magnon continued, “Rigel led a rebellion. Tried to overthrow Centaurea’s king. He failed. But instead of letting his men burn for it, he surrendered, took the full punishment on himself. He was given two choices: die alongside his men... or serve the kingdom another way.”
“And this,” Gale muttered, “is that other way.”
Magnon nodded. “He’s a loyal man. One of those rare fools who thinks sacrifice makes him noble. So yes—he knows. And he’s playing his part willingly. For now.”
Gale didn’t say anything for a long moment.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with this kind of darkness. He had no illusion about the crazy world he found himself in. But hearing it laid out so casually—people turned into products, dignity traded for profit—still made something in his chest twist.
And Rigel... Rigel knew. He wasn’t just some mindless brute or arena puppet. He was a man who’d once stood for something. A man carrying his punishment like a badge.
Gale looked back at Magnon.
“So. Let me get this straight,” he said, voice low. “You want me to lose. Spectacularly. So you can sell Rigel like a sword polished up for a king’s mantel.”
“That’s the gist of it.”
“And you think that’s something I’d just do?”
Magnon only smiled again.
“That’s what we’re here to find out.”
Gale’s face darkened, the flicker of amusement he’d kept lit through the conversation finally snuffed out. What a pain in the ass this whole mess was. He’d come here for a good fight, a fat paycheck, and maybe—maybe—a chance to show off a little without needing to explain himself to the world. Instead, he was now neck-deep in the kind of shady politics that made his teeth itch.
Still, he kept his voice even. “I’ll think about it.”
Magnon’s grin returned like mold in a damp cellar. “Positively, I hope?”
Gale’s eyes didn’t flinch. “Wait until tomorrow. You’ll see for yourself.”
The merchant gave a chuckle, like Gale had just told him a joke he didn’t quite get but wanted to seem smart enough to laugh at anyway. He wagged a ring-laden finger as if offering sage advice.
“You’ve got nothing to lose, my friend. You’re not here for glory. Hiding your name, that pretty face of yours... Clearly, anonymity is your real treasure. And the money?” He patted his belly, as if he were where all the money ended up. “I can give you plenty of that.”
“Like I said,” Gale replied, more dry than desert sand, “I’ll think about it.”
Magnon nodded, satisfied. “That’s all I ask—just a little cooperation, from one smart gentleman to another.”
With a dramatic flourish, he turned and waddled out the room, flanked by his silent, square-jawed bodyguards who looked like they had a combined vocabulary of twelve words, eight of which were “yes, sir.”
As the door shut behind them, quiet finally returned. It lasted all of three seconds before the inn’s sheepish employee—skinny, twitchy, and clearly regretting every career choice he’d ever made—poked his head around the corner.
“Uh… everything okay, sir?”
Gale turned his glare on the man, who shrank back like he’d just seen his own funeral invitation.
Everything was not okay. Gale should’ve just jumped out the damn window the moment he realized what kind of snake had slithered into his day. Would’ve saved himself the conversation and the smell of whatever Magnon bathed in—probably whale grease and hubris.
He sighed. “Get me something to drink. Something strong.”
The employee scampered off without another word.
Gale leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, eyes fixed on the empty table like it might give him better options if he stared hard enough.
He’d wanted to make some quick money. Maybe have some fun while he was at it. Not wade through a moral swamp, where the choices were “sell out,” “get crushed,” or “kick the system in the teeth and hope it doesn’t bite back harder.”
The door creaked open again, and the employee slid in like a nervous cat, placing a dusty bottle of rum and a single glass on the table before fleeing once more.
Gale poured himself a drink, took a sip, and grimaced. It tasted like it had been brewed in a boot. But it’d do.
He let the burn settle before muttering to himself, “I need to talk to Rigel. See for myself what kind of man signs his soul away and smiles doing it.”
He stared at the bottle for a moment, then sighed again.
Even if it meant breaking into the colosseum’s lower levels, sneaking past whatever guards were posted, and risking jail time before the match... he had to know.
Because once the fight started—once fists flew and blood spilled—there wouldn’t be any time left to wonder what was right.
...
The lowest level beneath the Colosseum was not the kind of place designed for guests. It was the kind of place designed for secrets—the kind that didn’t walk back up the stairs.
Gale moved through the dim stone corridors like a shadow in motion, clad in his usual Jagged Peak mercenary disguise—crimson and black gear, heavy boots padded for silence, and his dragon-shaped mask that caught just enough light to give off an ominous glint. Bayle from Jagged Peak, the dangerous nobody. The man with no past and a serious grudge against staircases.
He’d slipped in under the radar—literally. By lowering his own density, he could move fast and light, his footsteps so faint even a mouse would’ve called him a ghost. Whenever a guard got too curious or suspicious, Gale would casually toss a pebble in another direction, light as a feather and fast as a bullet thanks to his Devil Fruit trick.
In the dark, the guards couldn’t see a thing; they just heard something zip past their ear and freaked out like someone had tossed a spirit their way. Not exactly subtle, but it got the job done.
After all, what were ghosts if not well-timed distractions?
He descended further, where the halls grew colder and quieter. This part of the prison wasn’t guarded—just one cell at the very bottom, tucked away like the world’s most depressing treasure chest. And in it, the prizefighter of Centaurea: Rigel.
The cell was a wide, reinforced cavern of sorts, with thick bars like a miniature fortress and one small bench bolted into the floor. There were chains, too—not because Rigel needed them, but because someone thought he might. Even in this dungeon-like hole, there was no mistaking the aura of the man within.
As Gale approached, Rigel raised his head. He had been sitting cross-legged, eyes half-lidded in meditation, but they snapped open the second Gale’s presence broke the stillness.
“Who's there?”
His voice was calm. Not wary. Just... sharp. Like a sword that stayed in its sheath out of politeness.
Gale stepped from the shadows, his masked face catching the low torchlight. “Not bad. Your senses still seem sharp, considering how long you’ve been cooped up in here.”
Rigel didn’t rise. Didn’t blink. He simply tilted his head. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Name’s Bayle,” Gale said, leaning casually against a pillar just outside the bars. “Tomorrow, I’m your opponent.”
Rigel gave a faint nod. “I see.”
Gale continued, his tone dipping somewhere between casual and serious. “As for what I want... I’m here because someone asked me to throw the fight.”
That made Rigel’s brow lift, just a fraction. “And what does that have to do with me?”
Gale shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. I’m here to decide.”
He paused, studying the man in the cell. Rigel looked like a warrior even in stillness—broad-shouldered, scarred, with the quiet tension of someone who could punch through the wall if he really wanted to but just hadn’t gotten around to it.
“I want to see what kind of man you are.”
Rigel let the silence stretch between them. Then, finally, a faint, dry smile curved on his lips.
“Well,” he said, “you could’ve just asked.”
Gale exhaled through his nose, the sound short and dry behind the dragon mask. Enough dancing around.
“Alright, I’ll get straight to the point,” he said, stepping closer to the bars, arms crossed. “What did you rebel against Centaurea for?”
Rigel’s gaze didn’t flinch. He sat up straighter and answered with a flat tone, “I got greedy for the throne.”
Gale’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. Right. And I’m the damn Queen of Alabasta.
He took a slow step forward, voice low and tight. “A man who drags others into a war for his own ambition doesn’t have a shred of decency. And a man without decency sure as hell doesn’t volunteer to take the punishment for his men.”
Silence. Then a faint twitch in Rigel’s brows.
“Hmph,” Rigel muttered, eyes widening just a fraction. “So… whoever asked you to throw the fight was feeling talkative.”
Gale grimaced. “You’ve got no idea. I could barely get the fat slimeball to shut up. It was like getting monologued at by a sweaty pile of gold bars.”
“Magnon, huh?” Rigel said, voice low, lips curling into something bitter. He shook his head slowly, as if it were all some bad joke playing out the way he’d always expected.
Then his expression hardened. “Look, lad. You think you’re standing on some moral fork in the road, like this is a big decision.” He gave a sharp grin. “But it’s really not.”
He rose to his feet, calm but undeniably solid, like a wall that had decided it was done being leaned on. “You can’t beat me. You go ahead and try your best tomorrow, and when you’re laid out on the ground, take whatever coin Magnon offered you and move on with your life. Simple.”
Gale’s eyebrow began to twitch under the mask. 'This guy…'
“Pretty bold for someone who’s about to be sold like cattle to a celestial pig,” Gale shot back, voice tight. “You know how they break men in Mary Geoise? They don’t just torture you. They grind you down, day by day, until there’s nothing left but muscle, obedience, and drool.”
That got a reaction.
Rigel’s jaw tensed, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I don’t care what’s waiting for me,” he snapped. “And I don’t need your pity.”
Gale’s irritation rose in tandem with Rigel’s stubborn silence, bubbling up like a pot of rice left on the fire too long. And just like that pot, something was bound to explode.
He took a step back toward the bars, voice tight, jabbing with words instead of fists. “What about your men?” he snapped. “Don’t they care about your fate? Don’t they deserve a little pity if their captain’s content to rot down here like a broken mop?”
Rigel’s eyes flared. The calm, stoic mask finally cracked.
“Enough,” he barked. “Get out of here.”
There was real venom in his voice now—more than Gale expected. It wasn’t just anger, it was defensive. Like a wounded animal telling you to back off before it bit you.
“Whatever it is you’re trying to do, it’s unnecessary,” Rigel continued, each word sharp and deliberate. “Stop meddling in other people’s business.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
But if Gale had a tragic flaw (aside from his chronic need to punch people richer than him), it was that he didn’t do well with being dismissed. Especially by self-righteous martyrs in basement jail cells.
“Oh yeah?” Gale muttered, eyes narrowing behind the dragon mask. “You know what? Fine. I’ve made my decision.”
He leaned in slightly, just enough for the dim light to catch the edge of his carved mask.
“Tomorrow, I’m going to crush you so hard, so miserably, that not even a roadside beggar would want to buy you, let alone a Celestial Dragon. They’ll take one look at you and say, ‘Eh, he’s got too much internal bleeding and barely any teeth.’”
Rigel sneered, meeting his gaze squarely. “Try it.”
For a split second, the air between them felt like it could ignite. Pride clashing with pride. Stubbornness slamming into equally stubborn, density-manipulating sarcasm.
Gale didn’t say another word. He just turned and melted back into the darkness, each step echoing faintly down the empty corridor. He kept his density light, barely touching the floor, his cape fluttering with more drama than he cared to admit.
'Well,' he thought, 'that went great. Truly, a masterclass in motivational speeches. I'm sure I touched his heart—right before setting it on fire.'
Still, beneath the sarcasm and rising pulse, there was something else. A weight. Not the kind he could control with his Devil Fruit.
Rigel wasn’t just stubborn—he was scared. Hiding it under all that bravado and resolve like a guy stuffing his laundry under the bed before company arrives.
Gale sighed through his nose, quietly as he moved. This wasn’t going to be just a fight.
It was going to be a message.
