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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #84
🕑 Added 2025-06-29 01:24:40 +0000 UTCGale let out a slow breath, his rapier angled lazily toward the ground, its tip still slick with the tension of the last exchange. His stance was loose, casual even—but his eyes didn’t blink, and his shoulders didn’t twitch. He was dialed in now.
The assassin moved first, dashing low and fast across the garden’s dew-slick grass. Gale mirrored the motion with a short hop back and a flick of his wrist, parrying the follow-up strike with a sharp clang! that echoed like a chime in the night.
Steel met steel again—then the assassin abruptly disengaged and turned tail, bolting toward the trees that loomed at the edge of the palace grounds.
“Oh, come on,” Gale muttered, annoyed but intrigued. “A dramatic forest chase? Really?”
But he grinned all the same.
“Fine,” he said, already taking off after the figure, “I’ll bite.”
The moment Gale crossed the garden’s edge into the brush, the entire tone of the fight shifted. The moonlight barely filtered through the foliage, and the shadows were deeper, thicker, more alive. The assassin darted ahead, bounding from root to rock with the agility of someone who’d practiced this route a hundred times.
And then twang!—an arrow zipped through the trees, forcing Gale to duck just as it thudded into a tree behind him.
“A bow now?” Gale said. “Do you have a hobby you haven’t weaponized?”
He kept moving, more cautious now, weaving between trees. Another twang, and this time he saw the assassin snatch up a loaded crossbow from behind a bush mid-run, fire it without even pausing, then discard it like a spent banana peel.
A bolt scraped across Gale’s shoulder. It didn’t break skin—his density was high enough for that—but the sheer speed behind the next arrow surprised even him.
The third shot burrowed into his forearm.
“Ghhk—” Gale grunted and skidded to a stop behind a tree, looking at the thin black shaft embedded in his wrist. His eyes narrowed. “That… actually hurt.”
The pain wasn’t the problem. It was the burning.
He quickly gripped the arrow and yanked it free with a wet, meaty sound. The area around the puncture had already started to sting and throb unnaturally.
“Poison,” he muttered.
With a scowl, he pressed his fingers to the wound and began concentrating. Slowly, the blood in his forearm grew heavier, more viscous, pooling in a way that slowed circulation and halted the poison’s spread.
“Y’know, I always wanted to be good at first aid,” he muttered, “but this is ridiculous.”
He got moving again, this time more careful. The assassin was setting up ambush points with stashed weapons like a fantasy version of Home Alone, and Gale wasn’t keen on being the wet bandit in this scenario.
Up ahead, the assassin landed on a branch with barely a sound and spun, launching three more projectiles down at him.
Gale raised his dense coat again, deflecting two—but the third ricocheted off a tree and grazed his cheek.
“Okay,” he muttered, wiping the cut. “Starting to really not like you.”
The chase ended in a sudden burst of smoke.
The assassin landed ahead of him and lobbed a tiny black sphere to the ground. It hit with a fshhh! and erupted into thick white clouds that blanketed the clearing.
Gale halted and instinctively held his breath, squinting into the white.
Then came a slash across his side. Not deep, but sharp.
Another across his back.
He turned, swung—nothing.
A third to the thigh.
“Alright,” he growled, closing his eyes, “we’re doing this the annoying way.”
He focused.
Footfalls. Breathing. The almost imperceptible jingle of those hidden coins or weapons again. A soft exhale—just behind.
Gale ducked under the next attack and delivered a full-force elbow to the ribs, sending the assassin sprawling back with a grunt.
“No more smoke,” Gale muttered, walking forward. “No more sneak attacks. Just you, me, and the part where you go down dramatically.”
He didn’t rush. He let the sound guide him again—one, two, three steps forward—then swung low, catching the assassin’s blade just as they tried to intercept him. Gale twisted, overpowered the guard, and knocked the weapon clean from their hands with a sharp crack! of metal.
The assassin stumbled back and fell to one knee, then the other, landing in a perfect seiza posture. Hands resting on their thighs. Sword beside them in the grass. Silent.
Still.
Ready.
Gale stood across from them, panting slightly, blade still raised—then, slowly, lowered it.
“Huh…” he said. “Guess even assassins have flair for the dramatic.”
He leaned on his sword, not out of exhaustion, but because standing tall after a poisoned arrow and three slashes felt like effort. “You done?”
The garden had gone quiet now. No birds, no wind—just the faint crackle of the last smoke bomb’s dying embers and the slow, uneven breathing of two men who had thoroughly beaten the living hell out of each other.
The assassin, still kneeling in the seiza position, slowly reached up and removed his mask.
Underneath was a tired, sharp-boned face with deep-set eyes, a thin scar running across his left cheek, and the sort of jawline that looked like it had made a long career out of being clenched. He couldn’t have been older than thirty, but his eyes looked like they’d been dragged through a decade of bad decisions and even worse regrets.
“I’ve long since lost the privilege to live with honor,” he said firmly, voice low and hoarse. “But at the very least… allow me to die with it.”
Gale blinked.
Then scratched the back of his head.
“…Kinda late to start the honor talk now, don’t you think?” he said, tilting his head. “You literally blew me up. Twice. With poisoned arrows. And what I can only describe as weaponized glue.”
The assassin didn’t flinch. “You’re free to live as you please. I, however… am bound by a code. One I broke a long time ago.”
“Uh-huh.” Gale squinted at him. “So just to be clear—your sacred code allows for grenades and tripwire kunai, but not surviving a fight where you got your ass kicked?”
The assassin actually scoffed. “No. I already told you that I broke it long ag—no. It doesn't matter. Go ahead and mock me all you want. I’ve suffered enough humiliation. Just end it already.”
“You’re really chatty all of a sudden,” Gale muttered. “Kinda liked you better when you were stabbing me in silence.”
That got a visible eye twitch.
“Stop stalling,” the assassin snapped. “Do it.”
Gale crossed his arms. “No.”
The assassin blinked. “…No?”
“Nope.”
“…Why?”
Gale shrugged one shoulder. “Eh. Don’t feel like it.”
The assassin looked genuinely offended, like Gale had just told him he’d been using his sword backward the whole fight.
“You don’t feel like it,” he repeated flatly.
Gale plopped down onto a nearby rock, groaning like an old man whose sciatica was acting up. “Look, I get it. You think you’ve got some tragic past that justifies dramatic seppuku-by-proxy or whatever. But I’ve had a night. I got poison in my arm, my coat’s full of holes, and the only thing more worn out than my muscles is my patience to deal with melodrama.”
He took a swig from the emergency rum flask in his pocket. It was mostly decorative. He used it for moments like this.
The assassin gritted his teeth, his glare sharp enough to shave with.
“You think this is a joke?”
“No,” Gale said, wiping his mouth and leaning forward. “I think you’ve been running on fumes and guilt for so long, you convinced yourself dying is easier than living with your screwups.”
The assassin looked away.
“So yeah,” Gale said, standing back up, “I’m not gonna kill you. Not because I think you’re redeemable or whatever inspirational crap you want me to say. But because I don’t like killing people unless I absolutely have to.”
He sheathed his rapier with a clean shing, letting the words hang in the silence like smoke.
...
The assassin’s narrowed gaze followed Gale’s back like a hawk watching a squirrel make questionable life choices. “If you think imprisonment will stop me,” he said coldly, “then you’re sorely mistaken. I’ll escape by morning and come after you again.”
Gale didn’t even stop walking. He just turned his head slightly, gave the assassin a side-eye so dry it could've dehydrated a cactus, and said, “Who said anything about putting you in a prison cell?”
That made the assassin blink. He straightened slightly, brows furrowing.
“…You’re not?”
“Nope.”
“…You’re not,” the assassin repeated, as if trying to convince his own ears to catch up with this development.
Gale casually stepped over a broken tree branch and shrugged. “Look, I’ve read way too many stories to fall for that kind of bait. Guy gets captured, locked up, breaks out at the perfect moment, kills someone important, maybe starts a fire, sometimes even walks off with the crown jewels. Nah. Not falling for that.”
The assassin opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Still no words came out. Just the slowly dawning realization that Gale might be the most unpredictable target he’d ever had to eliminate.
He squinted. “Then what are you going to do with me?”
Gale stopped and turned around fully this time, arms crossed, expression half-bored, half-amused. “Honestly? Haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll tie you up and throw you in a pantry until this whole mess sorts itself or I'll just string you up a tree and have that stupid prince torture you by just being in your vicinity.”
“Are… are you stupid or insanely paranoid?”
Gale pointed at him. “See, now that’s the right question.”
The assassin stared in pure disbelief. “But I already proved I could sneak into the palace. I could’ve killed a dozen people before ever reaching you. I could've blown up the wine cellar. I could've—”
“Exactly,” Gale cut in, raising a finger. “You could have. But you didn’t. Because you were here for me. So the way I see it, I’ve either got you out of the way, or I’ve got bait.”
“…Bait?”
Gale gave a nonchalant nod. “Yup. Someone went through the trouble of hiring a ninja-wannabe with a flair for dramatics and a poison collection big enough to make a pharmacist nervous. That means you’re working for someone. And if I keep you close, odds are they’ll come looking for you.”
He smirked. “Then I get answers.”
The assassin's jaw twitched. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re bad at dying,” Gale said, giving him a wink. “So I guess we’re even.”
The assassin slumped slightly, like the sheer nonsense of the situation had taken more out of him than the fight itself. He muttered something under his breath—possibly a curse, possibly a prayer—and just glared at Gale, simmering in unspoken resentment.
Gale turned and started walking again, already thinking about where the hell he was going to stash this guy for the night. Maybe Poqin had a big enough barrel.
“Come on,” he called over his shoulder. “Try to escape and I’ll call over Cordavin. I’m serious. He’ll think you’re his new sparring partner-slash-evil uncle, and you’ll be stuck roleplaying with him for days.”
The assassin made a small choking sound, as if horrified by the very idea.
Gale grinned. Finally, a deterrent that worked.
...
The moon had long since shifted in the sky by the time the assassin realized he’d made a critical tactical error—not in underestimating Gale’s swordsmanship, or even his devil fruit, but in letting himself get captured alive.
Now he sat, ankles loosely bound, wrists tied but not cruelly—more like a guest on house arrest than a prisoner. Gale had patched up his arm with bandages that now looked a little too clean, meaning the poison hadn’t been much of a problem. But none of that was the issue.
No. The issue was Gale. Would. Not. Shut. Up.
“—and so that’s when I realized the guy wasn’t a marine inspector at all,” Gale said, swirling a cup of tea he never drank. “He was just a goat farmer who got really good at lying! Still got promoted though. Made me wonder if I should start carrying a goat. You know, just in case someone questions my credentials.”
The assassin’s eye twitched. His face was blank, still, lifeless—like a man who had long since left his body and was spiritually watching his own patience unravel from above.
“And then there was the time I tried to impress a giantess by juggling cannonballs. Not my brightest moment. My shoulder still makes this weird squeak when I—hey, want to hear it?”
“Enough!” the assassin finally snapped, voice cracking like thunder after a week of drought.
Gale blinked innocently. “Aw, c’mon. I was just getting to the good part—there were parrots involved.”
“I’ll talk,” the assassin growled, sounding like he meant to spit nails but couldn’t muster the energy. “I’ll tell you whatever you want. Just—please, for the love of the sea, stop talking nonsense.”
Gale leaned back with a dramatic sigh, like he was personally offended. “Tch. You people have no appreciation for the ancient art of small talk torture. Shame. I was this close to brandishing my flamingo impersonation.”
The assassin stared at him like he was genuinely unsure whether Gale was bluffing or actually preparing to mimic exotic birds.
“So,” Gale said, sitting up straighter and folding his hands behind his head, “who sent you? I doubt you work for Blight. You’re too... sneaky. His guys are more of the stab-scream-burn variety.”
The assassin hesitated only a moment before exhaling slowly. “I didn’t come with Blight. Not officially. My employer is... underworld. Weapon smuggler. Slave trader. Someone who profits when chaos spreads.”
Gale’s expression flattened, eyes sharpening just a bit. “So, Blight’s storm is just good business for your guy.”
“Exactly,” the assassin muttered, tone bitter. “If a World Government country falls, more rulers panic. They stock up—on guns, slaves, guards, mercenaries. Fear is good for the market.”
“And you thought I was bad for business,” Gale said dryly.
“You are,” the assassin snapped. “I’ve been watching. You’re not normal. The way the others follow you, how easily you cripple ships—you’re too much of a threat to let walk around unchallenged. Blight didn't share my views so I acted alone.”
Gale tilted his head. “So what, you just freelance murdered me without even asking Blight?”
“I did not freelance. I… independently escalated,” the assassin muttered.
Gale snorted. “Ah. A proactive employee. You’re gonna be the reason HR gets invented in the criminal underworld.”
There was a long pause. Gale leaned forward a little, eyes narrowing. “What does Blight really want?”
The assassin looked away. “I don’t know.”
“Really?”
“I don’t,” he repeated firmly. “He’s not like the others. He doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t boast. He just moves, and people get scared. Even the men working under him—most don’t know why he defected. But it’s clear he’s here to destroy the Vashiri Principality. Not conquer it. Destroy it.”
That took the humor out of Gale’s eyes. He leaned back again, the faint clink of his sword’s hilt brushing against the wall.
“Hm,” Gale muttered. “Good to know, now about your real boss...”
The assassin looked up. “I won’t tell you who hired me.”
“Didn’t expect you to. In fact, I already have a guess...” Gale said with a shrug. “If I really wanted to know, I’d just send that halfwit prince to talk to you for an hour. Even you have limits.”
The assassin paled. “…You wouldn’t.”
Gale’s grin returned. “I absolutely would.”
He stood up, stretching his arms overhead. “Well, thanks for the intel. I’ll leave you to meditate or whatever you assassin-types do when you’re not poisoning people.”
“And what are you going to do with me now?” the assassin asked, cautious.
Gale stopped in the doorway, looking back with a casual wave. “Haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’ll assign you to Cordavin as a personal bodyguard. Give you the full VIP jackass experience.”
“…Please just kill me.”
Gale laughed. “Nope. You’re too useful alive.”
With that, he disappeared into the corridor, whistling to himself.
The assassin sighed, slumped back against the wall, and closed his eyes.
Worst. Mission. Ever.
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Arabiannights
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