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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #85
🕑 Added 2025-06-30 03:32:48 +0000 UTCThe air was cold. Damp. Tense.
Gale stood atop the capital’s outer wall, one hand resting lazily on the hilt of his sheathed sword, the other stuffed into the pocket of his coat, thumb absently rubbing the lip of a small hip flask he hadn’t opened yet.
Around him stood marines and defenders, their eyes fixed on the horizon—or what little of it they could see.
Because the fog had come.
It rolled in slow and steady, curling like tendrils of smoke across the flat plains beyond the city, swallowing trees, rocks, and the occasional unlucky bird that wandered too low. Visibility was already dropping, and the outermost sentries had gone quiet minutes ago.
“This isn’t natural,” Isuka muttered beside him, arms folded. Her expression was grim, her shoulders stiff with tension.
“Nope,” Gale replied simply, his voice almost bored. “But we knew it was coming.”
After all, the assassin—before disappearing into the wind like a dramatic stage performer—had finally spilled a few more details during their last small talk torture session.
Gale had been halfway through an elaborate tale involving a seagull, a nun, and a haunted typewriter when the guy finally cracked again and started sharing more useful intel.
“Blight intends to attack head-on,” he’d said. “In a few days. He has fifty handpicked subordinates. All former marines. All loyal. All experienced.”
And the crew on his flagship? Not pirates. Ex-marines who spent years fighting pirates in the New World. Trained. Disciplined. Dangerous.
Not exactly what you wanted to hear before bed.
Unfortunately, that was about as generous as the assassin got. The guy had flat-out refused to reveal the identity of his employer—some underworld figure with a vested interest in destabilizing the world. And he never shared his own name either, no matter how much Gale poked, prodded, teased, and even tried to get him drunk.
A shame, really.
Something about the guy screamed “tragic backstory.” Maybe there was a dead lover. A disgraced dojo. A haunted childhood in a traveling circus. Gale didn’t know—but he wanted to.
Curiosity was a hell of a thing.
As for the employer, Gale didn’t give it much thought. If he really wanted to know, he could hazard a guess. Probably that one warlord who dressed like a flamingo and talked like a rich valley girl. Doflamingo practically sponsored world destabilization.
But honestly? Gale couldn’t be bothered. That guy was a headache for future Gale.
And yeah, the assassin himself had up and vanished a day after their last chat. Just slipped past the guards, injuries and all. Gale probably should’ve been more concerned, but… eh.
The man already blew his element of surprise, and Gale had basically read his entire move list like it was a game manual. If he came back for round two, it’d be even easier to deal with him.
"Unless he brings a friend," Gale muttered under his breath.
“What was that?” Isuka asked.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud. Dangerous habit.”
Down below, the defenders along the wall were preparing—tightening straps, readying rifles, adjusting artillery. The knights were making a show of their resolve, wearing lighter armor now but still posing dramatically like they were about to be painted.
Poqin, perched casually on a stack of cannonballs, gave Gale a thumbs-up. “Ready to die gloriously, boss?”
Gale raised an eyebrow. “I’m allergic to both dying and glory. I’m more of a ‘mildly inconvenienced and walk away victorious’ kinda guy.”
Poqin grinned. “Well, I hope your allergies aren’t acting up, because I’m pretty sure I just saw figures moving in the fog...”
Gale squinted toward the white blur creeping in past the fields. Sure enough, shadowy shapes began to form. Tall figures. Dozens of them. And still more behind.
The wall fell into a hush.
Every man, every woman along the parapets held their breath.
Because it was no longer just mist.
It was an army.
And somewhere in that curtain of fog, behind the silhouettes and still-shrouded shapes, Gale could feel it—that wrongness in the air. Heavy. Suffocating. Familiar.
Blight had arrived.
And the real battle was about to begin.
Gale rubbed the back of his head with a sigh, eyes scanning the people manning the wall beside him.
Yup. Just as he thought—everyone looked hella nervous.
One of the city guards on his left was gripping his spear so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. A knight on his right was adjusting his gauntlets for the fourth time in the last thirty seconds.
Even Isuka—stoic, unshakable, coffee-black-eyed Isuka—was furrowing her brows and bouncing one leg like a wound-up spring. That leg never bounced unless she was either about to slap someone or anticipating something very bad.
“Well, this is cozy,” Gale muttered.
Poqin, of course, was the only one smiling. He was sitting crisscrossed on top of a barrel near the wall’s edge, eating what looked like a glazed rice ball and humming some off-tune temple melody.
Gale glanced over.
“You know we might all die in the next few minutes, right?”
Poqin nodded. “Yup. Tastes better that way.”
Gale stared. “You’re actually insane.”
“Would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?”
Truth be told, Gale envied him a little. Not the insanity part—but that weird, unflappable zen. Everyone else looked like they were about to piss themselves.
Cordavin, for instance, was conspicuously absent. When Gale asked a city guard earlier, he was told the “prince” had declared the battlements too “strategically vulnerable” and relocated to the palace to "observe from a tactical perspective." Which was a long-winded way of saying “hiding under a table.”
Honestly? For once, the halfwit had the right idea.
And the rest of the defenders? The 24 Marines he’d dragged from HQ were lined up as orderly as they could manage, but they were green as hell. Most of them had never seen action outside drills and a brief boot camp-style skirmish.
The city guard was just that—city guard. Brave, maybe. But trained to handle pickpockets and the occasional rowdy drunkard, not the horror-show that was creeping toward them now.
And the volunteers?
Citizens with mismatched armor, confused expressions, and weapons they were holding like they’d only just realized swords had a sharp end.
It was… grim.
Gale ran a hand down his face. If the rumors were true—if Blight’s Devil Fruit really did what they said—then none of them were going to last more than a minute once the fog reached the wall.
The moment that eerie, supernatural mist engulfed them, it’d be like fighting ghosts. Ghosts with swords. And guns. And probably really bad breath.
None of those on the walls struck Gale as a bad person. Well, there was that one guard who smelled like wet gym socks and insisted on invading everyone's personal space, but even he didn't deserve to die due to some freaky fog tendrils or hands, or whatever bullshit Blight's devil fruit manifested.
And then came that thought.
The one he didn’t want to think.
The thing he knew had to be done.
Someone needed to go in.
Before the fog reached the walls. Before everyone here got turned into bloodstains on bricks.
Not just to stall Blight’s army.
But to find Blight himself—and end it.
Quick. Clean. Quiet.
Not because it was dangerous. Gale had made peace with that part of his life a long time ago. It was the fact that he would probably have to be the one to do it. Maybe with Poqin since he's the only one crazy enough to accompany him, but still...
It meant walking into his domain.
Into the fog.
Where Blight was waiting.
“…Ugh,” Gale muttered. “Why can’t these villains just monologue and blow themselves up like they used to?”
“What was that?” Isuka asked sharply, her voice taut.
“Nothing,” Gale replied. “Just doing math.”
“Math?”
“Yeah. Trying to calculate how much I hate this plan I’m about to come up with.”
Isuka gave him a flat stare. “Is it a stupid plan?”
“Definitely.”
She rolled her eyes. “So, business as usual.”
He turned away from the wall, facing the line of nervous defenders, the glint of fog growing brighter against the torches, the silhouettes forming in the murk. His gut twisted again.
Yup. There it was. The moment of decision.
“I’m going in,” he said aloud.
Poqin perked up, licking rice off his fingers. “Oho. Edgy protagonist moment?”
“Shut up and go get your staff. You’re coming with me.”
Poqin grinned. “I don't have a staff.”
Isuka frowned. “You’re not going alone, Gale. This is suicide.”
Gale gave her a sideways grin. “I’ll be fine. Worst case scenario, I die dramatically and leave behind a cryptic journal filled with bad poetry...”
“I said you’re not going alone.”
“I heard. That’s why Poqin’s coming.”
Isuka opened her mouth again, but then paused, as if realizing this argument wasn’t going anywhere. She let out a quiet sigh.
“Try not to get lost in there.”
Gale’s smirk faded as he turned back toward the creeping fog. The wind was shifting. He could feel the dampness crawling up his spine like fingers.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s the real trick, isn’t it?”
He didn’t look back as he walked down the steps of the wall.
The fog was waiting.
And somewhere in it—
So was Blight.
...
“Y’know,” Gale muttered as he and Poqin stepped off the last stone stair and into the creeping fog, “you’re probably the worst monk I’ve ever met.”
Poqin gave him a sideways glance, hands tucked behind his head like they were out for a stroll through the park. “Takes one to know one.”
“I’m not a monk.”
“Exactly.”
Gale groaned. “You don’t even have a staff. What kind of monk walks into a battlefield without a staff?”
Poqin grinned, eyes half-lidded with that usual lazy serenity. “The kind who likes to improvise. Besides, staffs are overrated. Try a wine bottle. You ever get smacked by one of those? Hurts worse than heartbreak.”
“I’m genuinely amazed you survived training with that old monk...”
“I didn't. I spiritually ascended through the trauma.”
They walked in silence after that, the air around them growing heavier with each step. The fog swallowed the world in thick white tendrils, muffling every sound except their own footsteps. Gale slowed, half-turning toward Poqin.
“So what do you think this fog smells like? I’m getting overcooked seaweed, maybe wet dog?”
No answer.
Gale frowned and turned around fully.
Poqin was gone.
Just—gone.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
There wasn’t even a sound. One second the walking disaster of a monk was beside him, and the next—nothing. No footprints. No sign of struggle. Not even the echo of a sarcastic reply.
Gale stared into the swirling mist, brows knitting.
“Great,” he muttered. “Vanished like my peace of mind.”
He barely had time to consider whether to call out when something lunged at him from the right. A blade shimmered through the fog like a ghost. Gale twisted and brought his rapier up in time to clash with the strike.
The force behind it sent a small shock through his arm.
His eyes narrowed.
That... was no average strike.
It wasn’t enough to rattle him, not even close—but still. That kind of strength wasn’t grunt-tier. Either this was one of Blight’s fifty ex-marines, and they were even more dangerous than he anticipated... or someone on serious pre-workout.
Probably the former.
Before he could counter, another figure appeared from the mist—bam!—intercepting his retaliatory blow with a heavy blade. Then, just like that, both attackers vanished again.
“Okay,” Gale hissed under his breath. “That’s definitely cheating.”
He turned slowly in place, sword up, posture light but grounded. The fog clung to him, thick and cloying, distorting even his own silhouette.
Then, it happened.
A strange sensation—like something was trying to lift him. His whole body tingled, then strained, as if invisible hooks were latching on and pulling upward.
Gale’s instincts screamed.
He reacted fast, increasing the density of his entire body—bones, muscles, clothes—until he felt like a one-man iron sculpture. The force trying to lift him struggled for a few seconds before giving up with an eerie pop, like tension snapping in the air.
“Yeah, nice try,” Gale muttered, dusting off his shoulder like the fog had personally offended him.
Except it wasn’t done.
Without warning, two sharp tugs wrapped around his arms, one near the wrist and another at the elbow—tight, like invisible hands or tendrils gripping him with the intent to break bone.
Gale scowled. “Nope.”
With a sharp wave of his arm, he pushed out his Devil Fruit’s power, shifting the density in a quick pulse. The pressure vanished instantly, like the fog itself had recoiled. He could feel it disperse, like he’d just swatted a ghost off his sleeve.
For a second, there was silence.
Then came the sound of movement.
Lots of movement.
One, two... six... ten... twelve shapes began to form around him, vague outlines stepping through the mist. Some had blades. Others carried axes or guns. None of them said a word.
Gale could hear his heartbeat now, but not out of fear.
Excitement.
This… this was exactly the kind of situation where he thrived. No plan. No backup. Just pressure, uncertainty—and that little itch in the back of his brain again. The one that came when something new was about to click.
That strange feeling with his Devil Fruit—the one he still hadn’t figured out—was back, humming behind his ribs.
And now?
Now he was surrounded. Fog thick like soup, enemies all around, and no sign of Poqin.
“This is gonna be a long day,” Gale muttered with a sigh.
Then a grin tugged at the edge of his lips.
“But hey... might be just what I needed.”
His stance shifted. Blade raised. Heart calm.
Let the fog try.
