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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #81
🕑 Added 2025-06-24 00:00:03 +0000 UTCGale stood in the captain’s quarters, arms folded and jaw tense as he stared down at the battered map of the Vashiri Archipelago spread across the table. The edges were curled, ink smudged in places from sea spray, blood, or maybe one of Poqin’s soup experiments. He wasn’t sure anymore.
His frown deepened.
“One week,” Gale muttered. “Seven days of pirate whack-a-mole.”
The map was littered with red ink marks—X’s, circles, a few scribbled insults next to ship icons Gale had angrily drawn in during the second night out.
Poqin even added a crude doodle of a pirate wearing a tutu, but Gale hadn’t erased it. Artistic liberty.
They’d sunk five ships already. Five. That should’ve been a cause for celebration. Medals. Back pats. A steak dinner with real utensils. But no. Instead, they’d been hopping from island to island like overworked exterminators, smacking down one infestation of pirates after another.
"This wasn't the plan,” Gale muttered to himself.
The plan—which Gale had been very proud of—was simple: sink a couple of ships, scare the rest into submission, and let fear do the heavy lifting while he played defense from the capital. Delay Blight’s advance just long enough for the higher-ups to stop pretending they cared about Revolutionary movements and send actual reinforcements.
Minimal effort, maximum results. That was supposed to be the whole point of this operation.
But apparently, someone forgot to give that memo to Blight’s pirates.
Gale reached over and jabbed a finger at the dot marked for the capital island, scowling.
"If I’m here, and I’ve taken out these five ships..." He traced a line along the archipelago with his finger. “Then those four other vessels and Blight's flagship could be anywhere.”
He leaned back, running a hand through his hair in frustration. There was a gnawing feeling in his gut—not hunger (for once), but something colder. Unease.
Because if those remaining four ships weren’t reacting to the loss of their comrades and acting with caution...
“If they were all deployed at once and spread across the archipelago...” Gale muttered aloud, brow furrowing. “Then they wouldn’t know. There’s no time for word to travel. No pirates turning tail and reporting back. They don’t know we’ve been sinking their buddies.”
Which meant...
“They’ll just keep attacking like nothing happened.”
He stared at the capital’s mark again.
“And if they’re not heading this way... they could already be at the capital. Or worse, in it.”
The thought made him bristle.
Blight wasn’t some random warlord with a grudge and a homemade jolly roger. He was a former Vice Admiral of the Navy. Smart. Experienced. And worst of all, he had that foggy, freaky Devil Fruit that nobody could quite pin down.
Gale had only heard of what it could do—mist that swirled like smoke and moved like a living thing, ships sinking without cannonfire, soldiers literally breaking like cheap figurines.
He didn’t want to face Blight directly. That had been rule number one: Avoid Admiral Blight at all costs.
Let someone with a higher pay grade handle that monster. His orders were simple: Delay him. Stall. Survive.
And now?
“Now I’m halfway through the archipelago with a third of the pirate fleet possibly laying siege to the capital like it’s a buffet table,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Brilliant.”
Gale sighed, letting his arms fall at his sides as he stared at the map. He tried—tried—to focus on the positives. There had to be some silver lining under the pile of flaming debris this mission was shaping up to be.
“Half the archipelago’s free of pirates,” he muttered to himself, like someone trying to convince themselves it’s fine that their boat’s leaking as long as one side’s still floating.
Half the pirate fleet was gone. Sunk, scattered, humiliated. And with each island they liberated, the ragtag Marine unit under his command kept growing.
He now had Remiel, dependable and knightly as ever. The 15 other knights they’d picked up from the islands—actual fighters, not tavern braggarts in cosplay armor like the Gilded Thorn clowns.
And of course, Poqin, Isuka, and the 24 Marine privates he started with.
...And Prince Cordavin.
And Cordavin’s sidekick—some guy named Ferris who looked like a squire but talked like a motivational speaker trapped in a medieval fever dream.
“Half liability, half entertainment,” Gale muttered, eyes drifting across the map again. “And one hundred percent head trauma waiting to happen.”
But he couldn’t lie to himself for long. His brain, naturally pessimistic and uncomfortably good at ruining good moods, chimed in.
The pirates were never the threat.
It’s Blight.
The pirates were dumb muscle. Loud, chaotic, poorly bathed muscle. Blight was the problem. A former Vice Admiral with an unknown Devil Fruit that could bend the battlefield itself. Gale hadn’t even seen him yet, and still, the man was haunting every move like a fog creeping under a locked door.
The knowledge that even with all this new support, none of them—including Remiel or the knights—stood a chance if Blight showed up in person… it itched at Gale’s nerves like an allergic reaction to responsibility.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the upper deck, where Cordavin’s laughter echoed faintly. Probably boasting again. Probably about the time he got kicked into unconsciousness and pooped himself.
Gale exhaled sharply. The urge to throw Cordavin off the ship and let him swim to the capital was real. Very real. Very strong. The water might teach him humility, or at least wash off the shame stains. Win-win.
But just as Gale’s shoulder tension finally began to ease a little, just as he allowed himself to breathe—
“Enemy on the horizon!” someone yelled from the deck above.
Several more shouts followed. Rapid, thudding footsteps rushed overhead like the ship had turned into a panicked drum. Gale’s eye twitched.
“Oh good,” he muttered, gaze darkening. “Here comes the scene switch.”
This was it. The dramatic tonal pivot. He could feel it coming. One moment the protagonist was brooding over a map, talking to himself like a madman. Next moment?
Boom. Action time.
He rubbed his forehead with the kind of weariness only overworked protagonists and substitute teachers knew. “This is why I don’t make plans anymore.”
Another loud yell. Then the sound of steel boots against the deck.
Gale sighed again—because why not—and turned toward the door.
“Alright,” he muttered, straightening his coat as he moved. “Let’s go see which fresh flavor of chaos this is.”
He opened the door and stepped out into the storm.
...
As Gale stepped onto the main deck, he was immediately greeted by the all-too-familiar sound of chaos in full swing.
Marines scrambled across the deck like startled crabs, slipping into position, manning the cannons, prepping rifles, and trying not to trip over each other—or over the scattered gear of knights hurriedly shedding their armor like molting turtles.
“Oi! Keep those barrels steady!” Isuka barked from the starboard side, her voice slicing through the din like a whip. “Load the starboard cannons—someone make sure Cordavin isn’t trying to duel the fish we caught for lunch!”
Gale arched a brow as he caught sight of several knights frantically unstrapping breastplates and kicking off greaves. The clatter of plate against wood echoed loud and proud as proud could be. Of course.
Because when you’re about to engage in a sea battle, naturally, the first thing you want to do is strip.
Apparently, heavy armor didn’t float. Who knew?
To be fair, the knights insisted the armor “inspired the people” or something like that. Gale didn’t argue. He didn’t care. He’d already resigned himself to the fact that half the people under his command required subtitles and safety scissors.
Just as he was trying to make sense of who was yelling what, and why someone was waving a frying pan like it was a flare gun, a familiar, laid-back voice rang out from above.
“Well well, look who finally woke up from his afternoon nap,” Poqin called out, one hand casually resting on the helm of the ship like a man driving a wagon of beer straight into a hurricane.
Gale looked up and saw him grinning down from the upper deck like the laziest angel of chaos.
“Nice of you to join us, Captain.”
“I was busy,” Gale called back, tone dry as desert sand. “Trying to figure out which divine mistake put me in charge of this mess.”
“You’re welcome,” Poqin replied, grin deepening.
“What’s going on?” Gale asked, already bracing himself for the answer.
“Good news,” Poqin said brightly. “And good news.”
Gale gave him a flat stare. “Start with the good news.”
“We’ve reached the capital.”
Gale crossed his arms, suspicion immediately returning. “And the good news?”
Poqin tossed a brass telescope his way. “Blight’s fleet is here too.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Gale caught the telescope, paused, then looked at Poqin like he’d just said the fish were singing sea shanties.
“How exactly is that good news?”
“Just look.”
Still frowning, Gale vaulted up to the upper deck in a single light-footed hop, flipped the telescope open, and turned it toward the horizon.
What he saw made him pause.
There, nestled along the coast like a crown rising from the sea, was the capital of Vashiri. A stunning marble sprawl of domes, towers, and ivory-white ramparts, all linked by shining canals that glinted like silver veins in the rising sun.
High walls encircled the central islet, where a palace sat like a jewel atop a hill, golden domes flashing in the daylight.
At the harbor, however, it wasn’t all pageantry and grandeur.
Four pirate ships lined the docks, belching smoke and fire as they opened cannon after cannon on the city’s defenses. Return fire lit the sky in bursts of orange, and the city’s defenders—archers, snipers, even a few cannons rigged to balconies—were giving back just as hard. But it was clearly a siege.
Gale shifted the scope, scanning the waters.
No fog.
No looming monstrosity of a flagship.
Just the four pirate ships.
He lowered the telescope, blinked, then looked again just to be sure. Still just four.
And finally, finally, his shoulders slumped in something vaguely resembling relief.
“Huh,” he muttered. “He’s not here.”
“Yup,” Poqin said, casually leaning on the wheel like he wasn’t steering a ship toward open cannonfire. “Looks like the boss man’s sitting this one out.”
“Finally, some good news.”
Poqin nodded. “See? Told you. Two for two.”
Gale allowed himself a rare, small smirk. “Yeah? Well, you’re still an idiot.”
“Yeah, but one who is suddenly very optimistic about our chances....”
Gale turned back toward the deck as Isuka began shouting again and the knights were now apparently oiling their swords dramatically for no discernible reason.
"Alright," Gale muttered, brushing a bit of sea mist off his shoulder, "let's break some ribs and break a siege..."
...
As Gale’s battleship crept closer to the besieged capital, the sea between them and the pirate fleet turned from calm to crowded.
The pirates had clearly noticed.
Two of the four enemy ships peeled away from the docks, turning on the water like lumbering beasts, creaking and groaning as they adjusted their sails and aimed their cannons.
They weren’t waiting to be flanked—they were coming to pick a fight.
On Gale’s ship, the tension was practically a physical thing, thick enough to cut with a butter knife. Marines scrambled into formation, their boots thudding on the wood deck, muskets clutched in hands that were a bit too tight and a bit too sweaty.
A few younger ones looked like they were already imagining their obituaries being written.
Gale watched them quietly. He could see it on their faces—this was the first real fight. Not an ambush. Not a skirmish with a half-drunk pirate crew too busy gambling or puking over the side to see it coming. This time, it was a proper head-on engagement, against two fully alert ships with full crews.
No ambush, no element of surprise.
Just war.
Isuka stood at the prow, arms crossed behind her back like a stern academy instructor, barking out orders in a voice meant to cut through cannon fire. “You are Marines of the World Government! You’ve trained for this! You’ve bled for this! Now it’s time to show these lowborn mongrels what that uniform means!”
A few marines perked up, but the effect wasn’t magic.
Honestly, Gale didn’t blame them. Morale was like soup: fine when it’s warm, but this batch had started to go cold the moment the pirate ships creaked toward them like sea wolves licking their chops.
Gale sighed through his nose.
If he didn’t do something, someone was going to soil their pants on his deck. Again.
Without a word, he turned on his heel, strode up to one of the marine privates—some poor kid with freckles and a pale face—and yanked the flintlock rifle right out of his trembling hands.
“Th-thank you, sir?” the marine stammered, not sure if that counted as a compliment or a mugging.
Gale stepped to the edge of the upper deck, ignoring the confused looks. He held the rifle up, peering down the sights at the incoming ship’s mast. The angle was rough, the wind was fussy, and the range was long—but more importantly, the gun wasn’t nearly powerful enough.
Which was fine.
He could fix that.
Gale narrowed his eyes. He focused—not on the rifle, but on what was inside it. The bullet began to thrum faintly in his hands, the metal within it subtly shimmering as its density surged. He poured that weight in slowly, like syrup filling a mold.
Then came the powder—the opposite treatment. He lowered its density, keeping it intact just long enough to ignite without turning the whole barrel into an instant antique.
The gun made a noise that rifles definitely weren’t meant to make. A dry pop followed by a short whine as the barrel warped and groaned under the pressure. And then—
CRACK!
The sound split the air like a cannon blast. The recoil kicked like a donkey in heat, and the shot screamed across the sea.
All eyes turned toward the pirate ship.
A half-second passed.
Then the mast on the lead ship snapped in two, groaning like it had just been betrayed by gravity itself. It crashed down across the deck, taking a dozen pirates and half the command post with it. Smoke billowed up from the wreckage.
Screams followed.
The ship jolted sideways in the water, tilting like a drunken man losing a bar fight.
Back on Gale’s ship, every marine on deck was staring.
Gale looked at the smoldering, twisted rifle in his hands. The thing looked like a pretzel with aspirations. With a faint grunt of disappointment, he tossed it overboard.
“I liked that gun,” he muttered. “Well... liked it more than the prince.”
Then, louder: “Oi! You lot still planning to piss yourselves?”
A few startled marines blinked.
“Because that’s the kind of pirate you’re scared of?” Gale jabbed a thumb at the sinking ship. “Really? That? You’re Marines! You’re supposed to be the ones who make criminals cry and beg for their mommies, not the other way around!”
One of the older marine chuckled, then barked a command. Slowly, the tension began to lift.
The cannon crews steadied themselves. Muskets were raised with more confidence. Even the knights—those few who hadn’t slipped trying to undress mid-charge—straightened up and readied their swords with renewed zeal.
Poqin, still handling the helm, let out a low whistle. “You know, that was almost inspirational.”
“Shut up and steer.”
