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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #16
🕑 Added 2025-04-10 13:18:40 +0000 UTCThe moment Gale stepped into the room, he felt like he’d wandered into the most chaotic costume party in the Grand Line.
It was massive—easily the size of a small arena—lined with towering stone pillars that reached all the way up to a high vaulted ceiling. Light filtered down through narrow slits, catching on the shimmer of steel and iron that glinted from rows upon rows of weapon stands scattered across the room like decorative murder furniture.
Swords, spears, axes, bows, polearms, and even a pair of nunchaku that looked more like dental floss for giants.
Okay, Gale mused, either I just walked into a gladiator’s dream… or a blacksmith’s final boss room.
But the weapons weren’t even the weirdest part.
The people were.
Everywhere he looked, someone stood out. There were martial artists in crisp white gis stretching dramatically in the corners. A group of rough-looking pirates with tattoos and beer bellies were laughing like they were on lunch break. A few stoic gladiator types stood like statues, arms crossed, clearly hoping someone would try to talk to them so they’d have an excuse to break a jaw.
A lanky guy in a top hat was juggling throwing knives while eating a banana.
And there, near the far pillar—yep. Gale’s eye narrowed behind his red dragon mask.
Mr. Angry Slab of Muscle was here. Still built like a brick wall. Still bald. Still had a face like someone had lost a bar fight with his face. He was the same guy who’d tried to pick a fight with Gale in the ticket line a few days ago over something as dumb as breathing too close, or maybe it was standing too close?
He didn't remember nor care.
Gale casually turned away before the guy could make eye contact. 'Nope. Not today. I’m not getting into a grudge match over line etiquette.'
He kept walking, hands in his pockets, admiring the weaponry, resisting the urge to dramatically point and say “This one shall be my Excalibur!” to every shiny sword he passed.
The chatter in the room was like a school cafeteria mixed with a war camp—excited, nervous, and way too loud. Gale didn’t bother trying to eavesdrop. Most of it was the same: who’s gonna fight who, how many people were expected to lose teeth, and why someone saw a man with a bear tattoo carrying a halberd the size of a door.
Then, at last, someone entered that looked like they had authority.
A man in a well-tailored suit (already an anomaly in a place where half the people weren’t even wearing shirts) stepped into the room.
He cleared his throat and, after realizing there was no real stage, climbed awkwardly onto a sturdy table like a banker cosplaying a motivational speaker.
“Please give me your attention,” he called out, voice surprisingly sharp and commanding.
The noise died down quickly as all eyes turned to him. Even the banana-juggling guy paused mid-bite.
“I’m with the organizing committee,” the man continued, adjusting his tie like it was slowly strangling him. “I’ll now be going over the official rules of the tournament so everyone—”
“Wait!”
The man flinched. Everyone turned toward the voice.
Gale sighed, already knowing. Of course it’s him.
Sure enough, the shout had come from none other than Mr. Bald and Belligerent. Same vein-popping forehead. Same biceps with their own zip code. And now, those beady eyes were staring straight at Gale.
“Before we start,” the guy growled, cracking his knuckles in that unnecessarily theatrical way that only jerks and cartoon villains do. “I got a personal issue that needs settling.”
Gale’s expression twisted behind the mask. It was the kind of face that screamed “Seriously? This guy again?”
He blinked. Slowly. Like a man mentally reviewing every bad decision that had brought him to this moment. 'Am I cursed? Did I accidentally insult some ancient deity of baldness and aggression? Is this karma for cutting in line at that one bakery that one time back home?'
He was in disguise now—masked, dressed in black, a completely different aura from his usual dashing-rogue/sea-bum look. The chances of Mr. Bald and Furious recognizing him should’ve been astronomically low.
Practically impossible. And yet, here the guy was, nostrils flaring, shoulders squared like a refrigerator with anger management issues, pointing a metaphorical “I’m gonna punch you” sign directly at Gale.
'Why? Just… why?'
Despite the growing attention, Gale didn’t budge. He gave the tiniest shrug and turned away, very deliberately pretending like the confrontation wasn’t aimed at him.
'Nope. Must be some other guy in a cool dragon mask and effortlessly mysterious vibes. I’m Bayle. Bayle from Jagged Peak. Population: one. I’ve never seen this man in my life. Sir, please take your unresolved daddy issues elsewhere.'
Sadly, the universe had other plans.
Heavy footsteps thudded closer, and before Gale could slip into the background like a socially awkward shadow, Mr. Brick-Wall-With-Legs marched right up to him and—unsurprisingly—towered over him like a judgmental monument.
Gale shifted slightly, trying to look past him, but the man stepped to the side, blocking his vision again. A wall of pecs and poor decisions.
'Seriously, did this guy train in the art of blocking sunlight?'
Then the guy spoke, voice deep and dripping with self-importance.
"Everyone here is a known fighter. They earned the right to be here."
Gale tilted his head slightly, like oh? do go on, Captain Exposition.
The man jabbed a thick finger toward him. “But you? You don’t belong. You’re hiding your face, and judging by that scrawny frame, I doubt you’ll even last a minute out there.”
There was a ripple in the crowd. A few murmurs. One guy actually sipped tea like this was getting good.
Then Mr. Muscle Mountain leaned in, eyes locked on Gale’s mask. “You should leave. Save yourself the embarrassment.”
Gale let out a slow, exhausted sigh—the kind of sigh that said I was really hoping to just play tourist gladiator for a bit, not star in your personal redemption arc.
Then, in a calm, flat tone, he replied, “Just because I can fit through a doorway designed for humans doesn’t mean I’m weaker than anyone here.”
There was a brief pause. Someone coughed. A pirate-looking woman smirked behind a tankard.
Gale lifted a hand and pointed casually across the room. “Besides, I’m not the only one hiding my face. There’s like, five people in masks over there. That guy's wearing a full hood, and I’m pretty sure that one over there looks like a stack of raccoons in a trench coat.”
The bald man's eyes narrowed, sharp as a hawk who just spotted a mouse wearing a hat it didn’t like.
“Like I said,” he growled, voice dropping an octave like he was trying to be menacing—or maybe he swallowed gravel as a child. “Everyone here deserved their spots. They might cover their faces, sure—but we all know who they are.”
Gale let out another sigh. Not the dramatic kind this time. The tired, “I woke up today to eat some snacks and maybe punch something, not argue with a rage-filled potato” kind.
He turned toward the man in the suit—the designated rule explainer, the supposed adult in the room—with the faintest glimmer of hope in his eyes.
The man, in return, looked positively… bored. Like this wasn’t even in his top ten weirdest moments this week. He was inspecting his nails. Actually inspecting his nails. Gale was half-convinced he was counting how many times he could pretend not to care before he legally had to intervene.
Gale’s eyebrow twitched. 'Okay. Fine. Since that’s how we’re playing it…'
With the grace of someone who has mastered the art of petty defiance, Gale stepped lightly to the side and walked past the angry bald man like he was a mildly inconvenient lamppost. No words, no theatrics—just the swagger of someone who had fully committed to the bit.
Naturally, Mr. Brick Rageington was not pleased.
A vein bulged on his forehead, looking ready to pop and start its own side quest. His hand shot out toward Gale’s shoulder—probably to yank him back or demonstrate his incredible grasp of medieval intimidation tactics.
But Gale didn’t flinch.
He simply increased his own density.
It was like trying to drag a statue. A really smug, sarcastic statue with the approximate weight of a boulder dipped in disappointment.
The big man grunted. His muscles strained. His expression morphed from furious to confused, then to mildly betrayed by the laws of physics. He might as well have been trying to pull a mountain out of the ground with a soup spoon.
Gale turned his head casually, feigning obliviousness to the angry tug-of-war happening behind him. He looked back at the suited man and said, perfectly politely:
“Please continue the explanation.”
The man in the suit paused… and grinned. Just slightly. The kind of grin that said I’m not allowed to pick favorites, but if I were…
He didn’t comment. Just adjusted his tie like a man who'd seen this exact movie before and knew where the popcorn break went.
“As I was saying,” he said, projecting his voice now that the testosterone had stopped fogging the room, “due to the number of participants surpassing expectations—by a hilarious amount, I might add—the tournament system will be slightly altered.”
There were a few curious murmurs from the crowd. Gale could feel the hand still clinging to his shoulder, trembling slightly in confusion. Must be hard when your entire identity is built on being stronger than everyone in the room and you suddenly discover you’ve been outdone by a guy who looks like he drinks herbal tea and writes poetry at night.
“We’ll begin with a battle royale,” the man continued. “One massive free-for-all. No teams, no rules—well, except the usual ‘don’t kill anyone who tabs out’ clause, which we hope won’t need repeating.”
Someone in the back groaned dramatically.
“Sixteen people will advance,” the man went on. “The last sixteen standing. From there, it’s a good old-fashioned single-elimination tournament to determine who will earn the honor of challenging our champion…”
He paused for dramatic effect. “Rigel.”
A collective shiver passed through the room. Even Baldzilla’s grip slackened at the name.
Right... Rigel.
Gale's eyes narrowed. The Collusion’s poster child. Centaurea’s own bogeyman. The “you better behave or Rigel will come for you” bedtime threat that somehow wasn’t just a metaphor.
He had come all this way to fight that guy. Or, well, not just for the honor. There was also the very motivating promise of ten million.
And for a glorious moment, Gale had completely forgotten about that—because someone decided to pick a fight with him like he’d walked into the room wearing a sign that said “kick me, I eat soup with a fork.”
Seriously, the way Mr. Beligerent was trying to eject him from the tournament, you’d think Gale had come here to duel the guy’s grandmother, or challenge his disabled parents to a three-on-one cage match.
'Relax, man. I’m not here to emotionally devastate your family tree.'
Gale’s eyes flicked to the rest of the room. A battle royale, huh? Free-for-all chaos, no rules except "try not to commit murder on camera." Should be fun. Emphasis on should. Depending on how many walking tanks, swordsmen, and inexplicably shirtless martial artists showed up, it could be more of a “how did I survive with all my limbs” sort of fun.
He started running potential strategies in his head: Stay mobile, don’t get surrounded, identify the strongest threats and steer clear. Maybe use terrain to your advantage, and for the love of God, don’t get grabbed by—
His brain screeched to a halt.
Because someone had just grabbed him.
And not in a socially acceptable way.
A hand—that hand—had wandered somewhere it should definitely not have gone. Whether it was by accident or through some horrifying attempt at power-wrestling, Gale didn’t care. His instincts took over like a fire alarm going off in his soul.
“HENTAI!” he blurted, reflexively.
He spun around, increasing the density of his hand until it felt like compressed granite wrapped in indignation and righteous fury, and slapped Mr. Beligerent right across the face.
The sound that followed was crisp, echoing, and somehow cleansing. Like someone had just smacked the sins out of the air.
There was a beat of silence. Then a very loud, very dramatic CRASH as Mr. Beligerent was flung across the room, tore through a poor, innocent pillar (may it rest in peace), and slammed into the far wall hard enough to leave a vaguely man-shaped dent.
Everyone froze.
A guy in the back dropped his cup.
Several heads turned toward Gale, their eyes wide like they’d just witnessed the birth of a new minor god.
Gale, still holding his slap hand mid-air like a magician who just pulled off his most dangerous trick, blinked once.
Then chuckled nervously and turned to the man in the suit.
“So uh… does that get me disqualified?”
The man glanced at the human crater in the wall, adjusted his cuffs, and replied with a shrug, “There are too many contestants as it is. One less won’t hurt.”
Then, with a small smirk, he added, “Besides, you’d probably have to deal with him in the arena anyway. At least now he’ll think twice before copping a feel mid-match.”
Gale gave a tight, awkward nod. 'Not how I planned to make a first impression, but okay.'
The man in the suit continued, like the slap hadn't just restructured a man’s entire week:
“Before you go, one final thing. Contestants are allowed to use their own weapons, or pick from the armory here. You’ll find a selection of blades, staves, blunt instruments, and a few miscellaneous items of questionable legality.”
He gestured to a wall that had just revealed itself with the slow hiss of hidden machinery. Rows of weapons gleamed in the low light—everything from basic swords to chains, spears, and even what looked suspiciously like a cricket bat with nails hammered into it.
“Take your pick, or bring your own,” the man said. “Once you step into that arena, anything goes.”
Gale exhaled slowly and gave one last glance toward the man-shaped hole in the wall. Hopefully he stays there.
With that, he turned toward the weapons wall, mind already racing through possibilities.
'One battle royale, sixteen survivors, ten million on the line… and only one guy got slapped into architecture today. That’s progress.'
