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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #90
🕑 Added 2025-07-07 08:43:25 +0000 UTCGale’s first conscious thought was: Wow, heaven has really nice thread count.
He lay blinking at an ornate velvet canopy, mind still rebooting. Everything felt… off. For starters, his pillow was suspiciously fluffier than the standard Marine‑issue rock disguised as cotton. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender instead of wet dog and battlefield grime. And—surprise, surprise—he wasn’t dead.
A catalog of aches rolled in, but nothing screamed critical damage. More like the soreness you get after sparring with a mountain and winning on points. He groaned, sat up, and found himself in a room that belonged on a noble’s postcard: marble floor, gilded sconces, curtains heavy enough to bench‑press.
“Luxurious,” he muttered. “Must’ve wandered into the wrong afterlife.”
His rapier rested on an ivory stand beside the bed, cloak draped over it. He snatched them both on instinct—old habits die screaming—and slung the cape around his shoulders.
A burst of cheering drifted through the windows. Curious, Gale shuffled over and pushed aside a curtain the weight of a small elephant.
Below, the capital bustled with color and noise. Banners fluttered.
Musicians paraded the streets. People danced like tomorrow’s rent was optional. Down at the docks, Blight’s hulking flagship sat tethered like a tourist attraction, its fog aura long gone and replaced with Vashiri pennants.
Gale exhaled. “It’s over. And they kept the souvenir. Nice.”
He stretched—gingerly—feeling vertebrae crackle like popcorn. A blissful second of relief—
SLAM.
The door flew open. Poqin strode in balancing a tray piled high with bread, fruit, and what looked suspiciously like four servings of roast boar. He stopped dead.
“Well, there goes my breakfast scam,” the monk sighed. “I was five steps away from convincing the cooks you’d tragically wasted away. Tragic, really.”
Gale rolled his eyes, marched over, and yanked the tray out of Poqin’s hands before settling on the edge of the absurdly plush mattress.
“Too bad, monk. Finders eaters.”
He bit into a chunk of boar so tender it practically apologized for existing. Stars above, he’d missed real food.
“Mmf—how long was I out?”
“Two days,” Poqin said, flopping into an overstuffed armchair like he owned it. “You snored like a Sea King with sinus issues the entire time. On the plus side, I’m ninety percent sure that rattled the plaster loose, so renovations are in order.”
Gale shrugged, devouring a roll. “And after my graceful blackout?”
“Nothing dramatic, really. We rounded up Blight’s crew—most surrendered once their spooky fog trick vanished. Tossed ’em in the dungeon. The knights are preening about it like roosters on parade.”
He gestured toward the window. “City’s throwing a festival in honor of ‘the heroes who saved Vashiri.’ That’d be us, apparently. Oh, and we dragged Captain Smokestack’s ship in for souvenirs and repairs. Kids are using the main deck as a playground.”
Gale snorted. “I hope they removed the cannons first.”
Poqin grinned. “Mostly. I saw one toddler using a barrel as a slide. Very educational.”
Gale shook his head, halfway amused, halfway horrified. Then another thought pricked him.
“Blight himself?
...
Poqin’s grin faded to something more thoughtful.
“There’s literally nothing left of the guy,” he said, swirling the last of his wine. “Just a smoking crater with rubble piled like a giant’s ashtray. Your punch either vaporised him, buried him so deep no one’ll find him for a century, or he Houdini’d out of there.”
Gale snorted. “Either way, not our problem.”
The monk raised a brow. “Big talk. What makes you so sure?”
Gale waved a hand dismissively. “If he’s dead, he’s dead. If he dug his way out, he’s still half a corpse. You didn't see him—looked like a haunted scarecrow before I popped him. Even if he survived, he’ll croak before tax season.”
Poqin shrugged. “Fair enough.” Then, as if remembering a punch‑line, he brightened. “Oh! Almost forgot.” He fished around in his robes and produced a battered leather journal, edges singed.
Gale eyed it warily. “That better not be another bottle.”
“Nope. Blight’s journal. Marines pulled it off his ship while the knights were posing for statues. Apparently it’s his whole tragic backstory: betrayals, lost loves, dramatic weather metaphors—y’know, villain starter pack.”
Gale raised a palm. “Hard pass. Let me keep my victory buzz for ten minutes before you ruin it with ‘My Parents Never Hugged Me: The Fog Edition.’”
Poqin burst out laughing. “Suit yourself. I’ll hang on to it. Curiosity’s a persistent little devil—bet you cave within a week.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Gale leaned back, patting his stomach with a satisfied sigh. “Ugh, I’m so full I might actually sleep again.”
“Well, don’t nap too hard. The prince‑regent’s been yammering about some grand reward ceremony. Medals, speeches, possibly interpretive dance—guy’s excited.”
Gale groaned. “Great. Nothing says ‘hero’ like standing still while politicians applaud themselves.”
Poqin stood, tucking the journal away. “I’ll let you digest that boar and existential dread. I’m off to liberate another bottle before the knights realise the royal cellar’s missing.”
“Bring me something strong for the ceremony.”
“Will do.” Poqin saluted with two fingers and sauntered out, humming.
Gale lay back on the absurdly soft pillows, staring at the silk canopy as fireworks cracked faintly outside. For the first time in days, there was no fog, no clones, no exploding cannonballs—just muffled celebration and the promise of a real mattress.
'Maybe,' he mused, 'I’ll actually enjoy this hero nonsense.'
He closed his eyes.
Five seconds later he muttered, “Nah,” rolled over, and started planning his escape route from tomorrow’s ceremony anyway.
...
Standing stiffly in the grand marble-and-gold overcompensation that was the Vashiri royal throne room, Harlow Gale tugged—again—at the suffocatingly tight collar of the dress uniform some overly eager tailor had stuffed him into.
Between the cravat choking the life out of him and the ceremonial sash doing its best impression of a boa constrictor, he looked less like a war hero and more like an indignant butler in a low-budget play.
Behind him stood Poqin—completely unbothered, in robes at least two buttons too open, chewing on something that suspiciously resembled candied boar—and Isuka, who looked perfectly put together, posture straight, chin up, and arms crossed behind her back in full Marine decorum mode.
The twenty-four marines who had accompanied them stood in two rows, still, proud… and, judging by their eyes, at least three of them were asleep with their eyes open.
Gale, meanwhile, had the exact facial expression of a man forced to attend his own surprise wedding.
His plan to escape the ceremony had almost worked. Almost. He’d gotten as far as the window before Isuka rounded the corner like a guardian devil and intercepted him.
“Oh, going somewhere, Ensign Gale?” she’d asked with the voice of someone who would report you to HQ and your grandmother.
Cue thirty minutes of being lectured on honor, discipline, public image, and something about how “one must sometimes endure discomfort to uphold the banner of justice,” which was rich coming from someone who didn’t have to wear this death shirt.
And now here he was, enduring discomfort, public image, and the intense scrutiny of every powdered noble in the principality.
Veyren Albescu, the Prince Regent of Vashiri, stood before the throne with all the grace and self-importance of someone who’d been waiting his whole life to host a ceremony with this much pageantry.
Tall, thin, draped in silks and crusted in gold embroidery, he looked like a fashion-forward string bean with a powdered wig.
“Today,” he declared, arms raised theatrically, “we gather to honor those brave souls who stood between our beloved principality and ruin! Who stared into the abyss—no, the fog—and dared to strike it down!”
He was already two minutes into his speech and Gale had mentally checked out after “today.”
Poqin leaned closer and whispered, “Ten bucks says he cries before we get to the actual awards.”
Gale whispered back, “He cries, I bite my cravat in half.”
Veyren continued, unaware of the bets being placed behind him.
“And thus,” he said, finally nearing the point, “as is tradition, all possessions, treasures, ships, and other spoils recovered from the pirates are hereby transferred to the valiant forces of the Marines! May these riches serve justice better than they ever served villainy!”
That part earned a murmur of approval from the room—and a quiet fist pump from one of the younger marines.
“And now,” the Prince Regent intoned, “for individual honors!”
Here we go, Gale thought.
“First—Harlow Gale,” Veyren said, with a performative pause. “The young swordsman who struck down the evil that threatened our lands. In recognition of your unmatched courage, your unwavering resolve, and your ability to quite literally punch a force of evil into a crater…”
A ripple of chuckles moved through the crowd. Gale allowed himself the ghost of a smirk.
“…we bestow upon you the title of Honorary Viscount.”
Gale blinked.
“…wait, I’m a what now?”
“That’s right,” Veyren continued, utterly unfazed. “From this day forth, you shall be known as The Fog-Parting Viscount.”
Gale raised an eyebrow, tilting his head.
'Fog-Parting Viscount?' he mused. 'Fog-Parting… Gale. Huh.'
He scratched his chin and allowed himself a tiny, vain grin.
“That actually sounds kinda cool.”
Poqin leaned in again. “Should I start calling you ‘Your Fogness’ now?”
“You start that and I’m dumping you off the side of Blight’s ship.”
Veyren was already moving on to the next name on the list, but Gale’s mind lingered on the title. It was probably just ceremonial fluff, nothing that would hold up in another kingdom… but still.
“Fog-Parting Gale,” he murmured under his breath, testing the words like a fine wine. “Yeah… that’s definitely going on the wanted poster someday.”
He straightened his back just a little, tugging on the too-tight sash one last time. If he had to suffer through this nonsense, he might as well enjoy the cool nickname.
...
The ceremony dragged on with all the pomp and overly flowery declarations Gale had come to expect from a kingdom that had chandeliers bigger than some Marine warships.
Each of the marines from HQ received honorary knight titles—Sir This and Dame That—with matching medals and neat little pouches of glittering Vashiri currency. A couple of them tried to keep their poker faces, but the minute they bowed and turned away, you could practically hear the internal squealing.
When it came time to honor Poqin and Isuka, the crowd stirred with louder applause—though Gale was pretty sure it had more to do with Poqin’s wild-man monk vibes and Isuka’s intimidating drill-sergeant aura than anything else.
Veyren raised his voice. “To Ensign Isuka, for exemplary service and leadership during this crisis, we bestow the title of Baroness! From this day forth, you shall also bear the title ‘The Iron Tempest.’”
Isuka gave a short, respectful nod, clearly trying to keep the corner of her mouth from twitching upward.
Then Veyren turned to Poqin with a flourish. “And to the warrior-monk Poqin—who defied expectations, gravity, and sobriety in equal measure—we bestow the title Baron! From this day forth, you shall also be known as… The Thunder-Fisted Warden!”
Poqin blinked once, looked at Gale, then at Isuka, then raised a hand.
“Yeah… I’d like to formally petition a nickname change.”
A beat of silence.
“‘Boozemongering Baron’ has a nicer ring to it. And more accuracy.”
Isuka’s elbow drove straight into his ribs with practiced, bone-crunching precision.
Poqin wheezed. “Okay—fine—Thunder-Fisted Warden it is—!”
Gale snorted, earning a sharp look from Isuka and a thumbs-up from Poqin as he keeled over just a little.
Finally, the regal noise and clapping began to fade. Veyren stepped forward, his expression warming slightly as he addressed the group.
“And now,” he said, “as is tradition for those recognized as defenders of the realm—should any of our heroes have a wish… speak it now, and it shall be considered.”
The room quieted, all eyes sliding toward Gale.
He scratched the back of his head awkwardly, tugging at his already-loosened collar again. “Uh… I do have one thing I’d like to ask, actually.” His tone was casual, but serious enough to draw the Prince Regent’s brows upward.
“…Though I’d prefer to do it in private.”
The nobles began whispering. Veyren blinked once, clearly not expecting that, but he nodded slowly before turning to the guards and the crowd.
“You heard him. Clear the throne room.”
The nobles stood up without protest—some of them curious, some annoyed—but they obeyed. The guards followed, and in a matter of moments, the grand hall was empty save for the lavish rugs and the mountain of ceremonial awkwardness hanging in the air.
Gale turned to Poqin, Isuka, and the other marines. “That includes you lot.”
Isuka opened her mouth—almost definitely to object—but Poqin held up a hand first, still rubbing his ribs. “Don’t worry, we’ll go polish our titles or something.”
“Speak for yourself,” one of the marines muttered, “I’m going straight to the kitchens.”
With grumbled compliance, they filtered out, and the throne room doors groaned shut behind them.
Prince Veyren raised an eyebrow and approached the steps of the throne, arms clasped behind his back. “Well then, Sir Gale… what is it you wish?”
Gale exhaled slowly, dropping the performative tone now that it was just the two of them.
“If I heard right,” he said, “no one’s reported the mission’s success to Marine HQ yet, right?”
Veyren tilted his head. “That is correct. We’ve been in the process of scouring the city and outer settlements for any remaining members of Blight’s crew. We did not wish to report incomplete information.”
The gilded throne room—now mercifully quiet—echoed with Gale’s next words.
“Actually... I’d like you to delay the report. Indefinitely, if possible.” He cleared his throat. “Preferably until Marine HQ reaches out first to, uh, check if we need additional reinforcements.”
Prince Regent Veyren’s brow wrinkled so hard it could have pressed a royal seal. “That is an... uncomplicated request,” he admitted, “but I must know the reason before I approve it.”
Gale blew out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, Your Highness, my people and I are wiped. Fighting nonstop fog monsters and former Vice Admirals isn’t exactly spa therapy.”
His mouth tugged downward in a tired half‑smile.
“And there’s a rather troublesome... ‘trend’ going on at HQ right now—one I’d prefer to avoid.” He waved a dismissive hand. “If Headquarters takes the initiative and calls us first, that trend will have blown over by then.”
Veyren stared at him, gears visibly turning behind regal eyes. Then, as comprehension dawned, he threw back his head and laughed. A deep, echoing laugh that bounced off the marble pillars and probably baffled the guards outside.
“By the Crown, sir, you are an odd young man,” Veyren said, wiping a tear of amusement. “Fearlessly audacious, too. I rather like that.”
He straightened, adopting his best statesman posture, and gave Gale a short, respectful bow. “Very well. The missives will be... leisurely. We shall allow the great Marine machine to inquire at its own pace.”
Gale’s shoulders sagged in visible relief. “You have no idea how much trouble and drama you’ve just spared me.”
“Consider it part of your reward, Viscount Fog‑Parting Gale,” Veyren said, grin still firmly in place. “Besides, I suspect our rebuilding efforts will keep you and your crew suitably occupied for a time.”
“Rebuilding, feasting, a little tourism—sounds lovely,” Gale said, already picturing a week of sleeping until noon and teaching marines how to fish properly. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
Veyren gestured toward the grand doors with a playful flick. “Go. Enjoy the festivities. Revel in your idleness while you have it. I will handle the... delayed correspondence.”
Gale offered a crisp salute—half sincere, half cheeky—then turned on his heel, cloak swishing as he strode for the exit.
Internally, he allowed himself a smug grin. 'No revolutionary‑chasing forced marches for me. At least not this month.'
Outside the doors, Poqin was already leaning against a pillar, polishing his new baronial pin with the corner of his robe.
“So?” the monk asked, raising an eyebrow.
Gale flashed a satisfied smile. “Congratulations, Baron Thunder‑Fisted. Vacation’s officially extended.”
Poqin’s grin stretched from ear to ear. “And here I thought you were just in there asking for a raise.”
“Give it time,” Gale said, chuckling as they started down the hallway. “I’ve still got that fog ship to hock for parts.”
Behind them, the throne room doors closed with a regal thunk, leaving Prince Regent Veyren chuckling alone in the vast, empty hall at the audacity of one very tired, very innovative Marine.
