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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #18
🕑 Added 2025-04-12 13:41:43 +0000 UTCThe arena was buzzing. Not just from the crowd, but from the oppressive heat baking off the stone like a massive brick oven. Gale stood at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, expression utterly vacant.
The sun glinted off the sweat-slick arena tiles, and the crowd roared as the commentator's voice boomed over the stone coliseum’s crude sound system.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Cetaurea and fans of organized chaos—our final match of the qualifiers!”
The announcer’s voice had the strained enthusiasm of someone who drank twelve cups of coffee but hated their job.
“On the left, the underdog sensation, the mysterious powerhouse from the uncharted mountain ranges of Jagged Peak—give it up for Bayle!”
A polite smattering of applause. A few cheers. One guy coughed.
Gale barely lifted a hand. He didn’t even bother faking a smile. Jagged Peak... Honestly, the more he said it, the less convincing it sounded. What was a peak anyway? A pointy hill? Did he sound like a guy who lived on pointy hills?
“And on the right!” the commentator continued with dramatically unnecessary flair, “The pride of Cetaurea! The last remaining native warrior! The man whose passion for Rigel borders on concerning! Let’s hear it for… Flimbert the Devoted!”
Flimbert.
Gale blinked.
Across the ring stood a man who looked like he stepped out of a wig store’s clearance bin and onto the wrong stage. His golden bowl-cut shimmered like an oily banana. His eyes, wide and unsettlingly sparkly, never blinked.
And his posture… gods, his posture. Arms out, chest puffed like he was about to burst into song. Every muscle in his face twitched with barely contained emotion.
Gale felt an actual chill.
“CURSE YOU BAAAAYLE!” Flimbert screamed with the same energy as someone yelling into a hurricane. “You dare stand in Rigel’s arena? You, a foreign nobody, an outsider with no appreciation for his greatness? You who DARES—DARES—to breathe the same air?!”
Gale tilted his head. Is he… crying? No, wait. Sweat. Probably. Hopefully.
“I am Rigel’s number one fan! His most loyal disciple! I’ve trained in his shadow, watched his every move, studied his training montages, and written fanfiction!”
Gale blinked. “Wait, what?”
“I’ve chronicled every victory, memorized every flex! I once ate a bug he spat out during training and said thank you!” Flimbert jabbed a trembling finger at Gale. “You’ll NEVER make it past me! I’ll beat the living snot out of you and offer it as tribute to Rigel-sama! You won’t even TOUCH him! I’ll protect his honor with my LIFE!”
The crowd had gone awkwardly quiet. Somewhere in the bleachers, a baby started crying. Possibly out of fear.
Gale, for his part, scratched the side of his nose with one finger. Then—very casually—he dug in a bit. Not deeply. Just enough to find a little treasure. His finger emerged victorious, a small, glistening booger perched on the tip like some gross, slimy gemstone.
He rolled it between thumb and index, concentrating just enough to increase its density. It went from squishy to rock-solid in seconds. A tiny green cannonball.
Flimbert was still ranting. “—and when Rigel sees me, he’ll finally acknowledge me as his disciple! No—his servant! HIS TRUE CHAMPION!”
Gale’s expression didn’t change. He just sighed.
“Man,” he muttered, “they really let anyone into these things.”
Then, without flair, warning, or the slightest hint of effort, he flicked the booger.
It sailed through the air—spinning, shimmering, dense as a lead marble.
THWACK.
It hit Flimbert square in the forehead with a crisp pop, just above the eyebrows.
His eyes crossed. His knees buckled. He made a noise that sounded like someone stepping on a duck while gargling jelly.
And then he collapsed like a sack of potatoes, arms splayed, twitching once before going completely still.
The arena went silent.
Then came the commentator, after an audible pause and a very confused shuffle of papers.
“Uh… winner by, uh… projectile booger knockout, Bayle of Jagged Peak!”
The crowd exploded into cheers and disbelief. Some were laughing. Others were stunned. A few were trying to understand how physics had just betrayed them.
Gale shook his hand like he was flicking off soap. “That’s gonna be gross later.”
...
Gale stood at the center of the ring, still casually brushing invisible booger dust off his fingers as Flimbert the Devoted was carried off on a stretcher, his legs twitching every few seconds like a fried bug.
Gale, meanwhile, raised a hand and pointed lazily toward the commentator’s box, his voice echoing through the arena with the enthusiasm of someone asking for the bathroom key at a gas station.
“So, uh… can I fight Rigel now or what?”
The commentator—an older man with sharp eyes, a half-loosened cravat, and a voice like gravel wrapped in velvet—leaned forward into the mic. “Eh? Oh! Uh…”
He shuffled some papers and tapped his headset, stalling like a pro. “Technically, the final match is scheduled for tomorrow. Standard procedure. Time for the finalists to rest and recover and—y’know—not keel over mid-fight.”
Gale scratched his head, unimpressed. “I feel fine. Fit as a fiddle, actually.”
He flexed an arm and rotated his shoulder with a small pop. “See? Not even a cramp. I still got, like… six punches left in me. Maybe eight if I skip leg day.”
The commentator narrowed his eyes. He leaned back slightly from the mic, motioning for a staff member with an urgent wave.
Behind the confident showman routine, his thoughts were spinning.
'This kid… yeah. No doubt about it.'
Despite the hilariously bad fake name. Despite the mask and the weird self-insert backstory about “Jagged Peak.” The commentator knew exactly who he was looking at.
The Revolutionary Army didn’t miss people like Gale. Not when he walked into a country as tightly controlled as Cetaurea and started folding martial artists like fresh laundry.
The commentator’s own stake in the fight wasn’t for money. Not like the greedy bigwigs in the coliseum offices who saw Rigel as a walking goldmine with abs.
No, his goals were far bigger.
The plan had always been to use this tournament as a pretext—get close to Rigel, somehow isolate him, and plant a seed. A whisper. A proposition.
But the man was never alone. Never unguarded. Always surrounded by handlers, trainers, wardens, and corrupt officials who made sure he never strayed off-script.
The only opening—the only real chance—would be if Rigel ended up in the medical ward. That’s where the commentator’s people waited. He had pulled every string, bent every rule to set this whole circus in motion. Just one injury. One hit strong enough to rattle Rigel’s cage. And then, maybe… maybe they could reach him.
He looked back down at Gale—no, Bayle—stretching like he was about to go for a jog instead of a high-profile battle.
He’s strong enough to do it, the commentator thought. And if he’s willing to fight early…
He grimaced. The only obstacle now wasn’t readiness—it was greed. The coliseum bosses wouldn’t like losing a whole day of betting, ticket sales, and overpriced meat-on-a-stick revenue.
But maybe…
“Hey!” he barked suddenly, snapping at a nearby staffer who flinched like he'd been hit. “Get down to Rigel’s wing and ask if he’s okay moving the fight to today. Tell him his challenger’s already warmed up and itching for a rematch.”
The staffer blinked. “Uh, rematch?”
“He flicked a guy unconscious with a booger. Don’t question it. Just move.”
As the man scrambled out of the commentator’s box, Gale gave a thumbs-up from the ring.
“You let me know,” he called, “but fair warning—I’ll get bored if I sit around too long. Last time that happened I made a soup out of sand and regret.”
The commentator chuckled, then leaned into the mic with his usual flair.
“Folks! Seems there’s a possibility we might move the grand finale up to today! We’ll update you shortly. In the meantime, please enjoy an extended intermission featuring our dancing ostriches!”
As costumed performers wheeled out an unsettlingly large bird wearing a tutu, Gale sat down cross-legged in the corner of the ring, pulling out a stick of something that looked vaguely edible and chewing it thoughtfully.
'Final fight’s almost here,' he thought. 'Ten million beri, a freakishly jacked golden boy, and probably some dramatic screaming.'
He grinned.
'Sounds like fun.'
Unfortunately for Gale, there would be no fun today.
The man dispatched to check in with Rigel had barely been gone five minutes before he came jogging back, whispering something into the commentator’s ear with the urgency of someone trying to explain that the bathroom was not out of order but simply had a tiger inside.
The commentator's face twisted with a wince halfway between guilt and constipation.
He tapped his mic with a sigh that seemed to deflate the whole stadium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you… that there will be no more fights today.”
A wave of disappointment rippled through the audience like a fart in a church. Gale stood up from his seat in the ring, eyebrows drawn together in mild offense.
“Why not?” he asked, deadpan, like someone being told their pizza delivery was delayed due to weather events on a clear, sunny day.
The commentator tugged at his collar, looking everywhere but at Gale. The organizers of the event, as expected, were eager for another day of profits, and so they quickly turned down the idea.
But he couldn't say that...
“Well… uh…” He cleared his throat with a level of effort usually reserved for summoning dragons. “Rigel… uh… he’s currently suffering from, ah… indigestion.”
There was a long silence.
Gale stared at him blankly, the gears in his brain grinding to a halt. Indigestion? The man who could probably chew cannonballs for breakfast was down with a tummy ache?
“Really?” Gale said flatly. “That’s the excuse?”
The commentator nodded with a smile so strained it looked like his face might crack. “Yes! Quite tragic, really. Too many protein shakes. Happens to the best of us.”
Gale looked at him for one more beat, then turned to the crowd, took a deep breath…
“BOOOOOOOO!”
The boo echoed across the stadium like a shot, bouncing off walls and banners. A few confused onlookers blinked, then shrugged and joined in.
“BOOOOOO!”
“Lame!”
“Indigestion my ass!”
Even the ostrich dancer from earlier raised one wing and gave a half-hearted thumbs-down.
...
The room was small, but quiet. That alone made it luxury. Gale lay sprawled across the stiff bed, arms folded behind his head, staring at the wooden ceiling like it owed him money. He was still fully dressed—mask, gloves, boots, and the pitch-black outfit he’d “borrowed” from a guy who definitely wasn’t going to miss it.
Bayle from Jagged Peak.
It was meant to be forgettable. Disposable. Something bland that wouldn’t raise questions. Just another stranger in a land of strangers. But after today’s mess in the arena, the name was starting to smell like attention. And Gale hated attention the way cats hated water. Or worse—like sailors hated sea kings.
With a sigh, he shifted on the mattress, which felt like it was stuffed with old coconuts and shattered promises. He pulled the thin blanket over himself, trying to relax. One hand rested on his chest. The other slipped beneath the pillow, fingers brushing the familiar handle of the collapsible rapier he’d hidden there, just in case.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered to himself. “Win the fight. Get the money. Get the hell out.”
His eyelids drooped, consciousness beginning to blur around the edges like an oil painting in the rain…
Knock knock.
His brow twitched.
He waited. Maybe if he ignored it long enough, it would go away. That was usually how he handled problems. That, or kicking them into a wall.
Knock knock.
“Go away,” he called, voice muffled by the pillow.
Knock knock.
Persistent little shit, aren’t you.
A voice followed. Polite. Professional. The kind of voice that probably smiled even while delivering tax documents.
“Sir Bayle, there’s an important guest here to see you.”
Gale didn’t answer. He just rolled over and wrapped himself tighter in the sheets like a passive-aggressive burrito.
Another pause. Then:
“Sir… the guest is very important. Important enough to, ah… shut down our inn if we displease him.”
Gale’s eye twitched.
Of course. Of course it's that kind of "important."
He could already feel the headache forming. This was the exact kind of situation he wanted to avoid. The kind that came with titles, bodyguards, veiled threats, and the overwhelming stench of political intrigue.
'Yay, plot.'
Still… as much as he wanted to tell them all to shove it, the inn’s staff didn’t deserve to be crushed under whatever mess this was. The folks here had been decent to him. Not nosey. Not chatty. Just quiet, hardworking people who didn’t ask why he wore a mask indoors like a weirdo.
With a grumble, Gale threw the blanket off like it had insulted his mother and swung his legs over the bed.
He adjusted his gloves, tucked a small knife into his boot (because you never meet “important guests” unarmed), and pulled the door open.
The employee, a nervous young man with the build of a broomstick, stood stiffly in the hallway, bowing at the waist.
“Lead the way,” Gale muttered, rubbing his eye under the mask. “But if this guy starts monologuing, I’m jumping out a window.”
...
The inn’s dining area was dead silent. Eerily so.
Gale stepped in, boots thudding against the floorboards, and immediately noticed something was off. This place was usually buzzing around this hour—rowdy laughter, tankards slamming, people losing at cards and pretending not to cry. Instead, it was emptier than a Marine's sense of humor.
His gaze swept the room and promptly landed on the only possible explanation.
Seated dead center at a lavishly decorated table—one that definitely didn’t belong to this inn—was a man dressed like a fever dream. His outfit was some kind of tragic fashion accident between a circus ringleader, a Las Vegas magician, and a peacock with body image issues.
Plumes jutted from his collar. Gold embroidery glittered under the lamplight. His makeup—was that makeup? War paint? Permanent shame?—was layered in bold, garish colors that screamed I own too many mirrors and not enough shame.
He looked like someone who used "I am the moment" as a personal mantra. And sitting behind him were four bodyguards, each built like an overstuffed meat locker.
Gale blinked once.
'Peacock... a particularly fat clown... mutant hybrid. Yep. That checks out.'
He could already tell this guy wasn’t from Centaurea. Sure, the nobles here had a flair for dramatic outfits, but their wardrobes leaned more gladiator runway than parade float gone rogue. Centaurean aristocracy was military-based, merit-driven. Even their nobles could snap you in half if you gave them the wrong look, and more importantly, none of them were half as fat as him.
But this guy?
This guy kicked everyone else out just so he could play dress-up in peace.
'Of course, he did,' Gale thought with a sigh. 'He probably demanded the staff scatter rose petals on the floor before he walked in, too.'
Without breaking stride, Gale made his way over, crossing the distance in a few long, deliberate steps. He came to a halt just out of arm’s reach.
“Is there something you need from me?” he asked, tone flat, one brow slightly raised behind the mask.
The man grinned like someone who’d just bought an expensive painting of themselves and expected praise for it.
“Please, take a seat.”
Gale glanced down at the chair, then back up at the man. Then at the bodyguards—who all stared back like statues that could punch you into orbit. None of them looked particularly dangerous by his standards, but he still wasn’t fond of being boxed in.
His instincts twitched.
His stomach followed, mostly out of protest at being dragged out of bed for this circus.
The man, sensing his hesitation, gave a flamboyant wave of his hand. “Gentlemen, give us some space, would you?”
The bodyguards didn’t ask questions. They moved like synchronized furniture, each one wordlessly peeling off and claiming a corner of the room like a bunch of brooding potted plants.
Gale sighed through his nose. Fine. If this guy was gonna play at civility, the least he could do was sit down and pretend to care.
He pulled out the chair and sat down with all the enthusiasm of a cat being asked to swim.
“Alright,” he said, voice dry. “Let’s hear what you have to say...”
