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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #97
🕑 Added 2025-07-16 11:08:56 +0000 UTCThe atmosphere in the ruined building shifted instantly—like someone had knocked over a beehive and left the door open. Dust particles hovered in the stale air like tiny spectators, caught between fleeing or grabbing popcorn.
The gang leader—Peterman, apparently—stared Gale down with a look that had successfully silenced screaming men before. Unfortunately for him, Gale wasn’t screaming. He was trying not to laugh.
Peterman’s thick brow furrowed deeper. “You outta your damn mind, punk? You think just 'cause you kick in a door and talk big, you’re gonna scare me? You’re not the first idiot to come walkin’ in here makin’ ridiculous claims.”
His voice had that raspy bark of a guy who ate nails for breakfast and washed them down with cheap whiskey. He jabbed a meaty finger toward Gale, practically vibrating with disbelief. “You expect me to believe some beanstalk of a man like you is actually a Marine Captain?”
Gale tilted his head, casually tugging at his cloak collar like it was a fashion statement. His grin didn’t so much widen as stretch, like it was testing how far it could go before turning sinister.
“Well,” Gale said, his tone relaxed, “it’s not like I expected you to just do as I say... I mean, where’s the fun in that?”
He tapped the hilt of his sword, fingers drumming casually as he stepped farther into the room. “I was fully prepared to beat at least a dozen people within an inch of their lives before you took me seriously.”
A couple of the henchmen looked visibly shaken at that. One even backed up slightly. Peterman noticed. His scowl deepened until it could’ve formed its own weather system.
“Alright, smartass,” he growled. “If you’re so eager to die, then this Peterman is happy to oblige.”
Gale blinked. His brain stuttered on the name like a carriage wheel catching on a rock.
“…Peterman?” he repeated slowly. “Now what kind of stupid name is... oh... oh!”
He glanced around, suddenly seeing it all with new eyes: the green hats, the feathers, the vest-only fashion choice, the kidnapping ring.
Then it clicked.
“Oh no,” Gale said, half-grinning, half-horrified. “Oh my god. So that’s what all this is. You guys… you’re like evil knockoff Peter Pans!”
He pointed vaguely around the room. “All the green, the archery, the dumb hats—”
Peterman’s eye twitched so hard it might’ve sprained something.
“You’re basically the Hound Pets of Neverland, huh? But instead of kidnapping children for ‘adventures,’ you just go for everyone! Equal opportunity abduction!”
There was a beat of silence.
“…What the hell are you talking about,” Peterman muttered darkly, fists curling.
Gale gave him a breezy wave, like someone flicking a mosquito off their sleeve. “Don’t worry about it. Cultural reference. Over your head.”
He rolled his shoulders and took a casual step forward, cloak fluttering behind him.
“Anyway,” Gale said, tone now bright and inviting, “I’ve had my snack, my warm-up, and I’m feeling limber—so how about you hurry up and make your move, Peterman.”
A vein visibly popped in Peterman’s temple. The ground creaked as he took a heavy step forward, towering over Gale like a mountain ready to fall.
The floor creaked under Peterman’s weight as he stepped forward, towering like a walking muscle factory wrapped in green polyester.
Without a word, he reached down and picked up a bow—no, Gale corrected internally, a siege weapon—that looked like it had been carved from the rib of a sea king.
The string alone could probably tow a galleon.
Then came the arrow. Or rather, javelin.
Gale’s eyebrows slowly rose as Peterman knocked it with a grunt, the massive shaft longer than Gale’s entire leg. Muscles bulged across the gang leader’s arms, cords of veins pulsing like snakes beneath his skin as he drew the bowstring back with an agonized creak, stretching it to its absolute limit.
The whole room dimmed slightly, tension pulling taut in the air as if the bowstring was dragging reality along with it.
There was a low hum—ominous, dangerous. One of the gang members near the corner quietly wet himself.
Peterman snarled through clenched teeth. “No man has ever survived my marksmanship.”
Gale gave him a tired look. “Yeah, you said that already.”
Then he lazily lifted one hand and twirled it in the universal ‘get on with it’ gesture.
That—understandably—didn’t help Peterman’s mood.
“DIE, BRAT!” he roared, releasing the string.
The arrow—no, ballista bolt—howled through the air like a banshee with jet propulsion. The speed was ridiculous. A sonic crack exploded as it zipped toward Gale like divine retribution. Dust kicked up. A henchman screamed.
Gale didn’t move.
He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t blink.
Instead, he casually raised one hand, the skin darkening with the dense shimmer of his devil fruit ability. Every fiber of his arm hardened to the max, polished obsidian under the sun.
With the nonchalance of a dad catching a baseball tossed by his overly dramatic five-year-old, Gale caught the arrow.
Thunk.
It stopped dead in his palm. The floor cracked under the force, but Gale didn’t budge.
He stared at the arrow for a moment.
“…Not bad,” he said, turning the oversized projectile in his hand like someone judging the quality of a fishing rod at a hardware store. “Kinda rustic. Definitely too compensatory. But not bad.”
Peterman stared at him. His face had gone from bloodthirsty to existential-crisis-ridden in two seconds flat.
Gale twirled the arrow in one hand, then flipped it into a reverse grip. “Let me show you how to properly use one of these.”
Then, with a grin, he gave the arrow a little boost—increased its density until it glimmered like a meteorite—and chucked it.
The air cracked like a thunderclap as the arrow howled through the room, grazing Peterman’s cheek as it passed.
Behind him, a wall exploded into dust and splinters.
Then a ruined house toppled in the distance.
Then another. And another.
And then it vanished into the horizon like a shooting star with a personal vendetta.
Peterman looked at Gale like a man who had just witnessed a god flick a mountain off a chessboard.
His lips parted, but no words came out. His legs seemed ready to give in. His eyes were glassy, and for a moment, it looked like his soul had booked a ferry and already left the body.
All that remained was a quivering hunk of meat in a silly green vest and a feathered hat that no longer looked quite as intimidating.
Then—miraculously—he managed to find his voice. “W-wait... didn’t you say you wanted to talk about something?”
He gave a weak, hopeful smile, like a kid caught cheating on a test trying to start a conversation about climate change to avoid detention.
Unfortunately for Peterman, the time for words was long gone.
And so was Gale. At least from that spot.
“Eh?” Peterman blinked.
Then Gale appeared right in front of him.
Not walking.
Not running.
Just there—face to face, like a poltergeist with great hair.
His right hand was raised, open-palmed and shimmering with a faint ripple of energy. Gale smiled innocently, which somehow only made things worse.
“Behold,” he said in a tone equal parts mockery and flair, “Midnight Slap 2.0. Now with a giant-slaying attribute!”
Crack.
The slap landed with a crisp, echoing slab, the kind that left rings in the air and echoed through the bones of every witness. Peterman’s entire body turned sideways, hovered midair like a glitched-out ragdoll model—then Gale pressed a hand against his forehead and pushed.
Peterman’s skull met the ground with a crunch, the floor cracking under him as a crater bloomed beneath his weight. Bits of the ceiling gave a sad plop as they dropped from the shockwave.
The once-mighty leader of the Hound Pets now lay face-down in his own crater, twitching like a broken music box. Tears of betrayal streaked down his dirt-smeared face. A string of snot added insult to injury.
All eyes in the room turned to him. And then to Gale.
Who stood tall, arms crossed, cloak fluttering in a breeze that wasn’t there. He scanned the gang, and his gaze settled on one unfortunate soul: a short, skinny guy near the back who looked like he was about to either cry or vomit—or both.
Gale pointed at him. “You. You’re in charge now.”
The man visibly flinched. “M-me?!”
“Yup,” Gale said cheerfully, strolling toward the exit with the ease of a guy leaving a family barbecue. “I’ll have work for you lot soon, so until then, how about no more kidnapping? Go scam some nobles, chase down bounties, get a job—hell, I don’t care. But no more fishing for mermaids.”
The terrified man nodded so quickly it looked like he was trying to shake his own head off.
“Good man.” Gale gave him a thumbs-up. “Promising future ahead of you.”
He reached the exit, Peterman’s limp body slung over his shoulder like a duffel bag full of failure. Then, just as he stepped outside, he paused dramatically and looked back.
“Oh, and just so we’re clear,” he added, voice suddenly ice cold, “if I come back and find out any of you skipped town or started grabbing people again... I’ll make sure every one of you gets a special room in Impel Down.”
He gave them a slow grin, all teeth and doom.
“Well, it's more of a special level really... full of okama. With lots of love to give. I hear their leader can even turn men into women... literally.”
Shivers ran down the spines of every single gang member. One of them even screamed internally, and it was so loud that everyone heard it.
Gale walked off, chuckling to himself.
Comments
Morg535
There's no greater hell than the genderbender gay orgy level
