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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #80
🕑 Added 2025-06-22 14:41:57 +0000 UTCWatching the pirate ship split like a soggy breadstick and begin its slow, groaning descent into the harbor’s depths, Gale scratched his head, frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“…Yeah. That wasn’t it.”
Sure, the mast had been impressive. Watching it fly into the sky and crash down like the judgment of some extremely petty sea god had its satisfying moments—but it wasn’t what he was aiming for.
Not really.
If he’d kept calm, focused, and stayed in contact with the ship a few seconds longer, he could’ve sunk it properly—no flashy splitting, no snapping wood, just an eerie, perfect silence as the entire thing dipped beneath the surface like a stone wrapped in lead.
Instead, he got... a floating lumberyard.
“Too much emotion,” Gale muttered, flexing his fingers absently. “That mess with Cordavin threw me off…”
He stared at his palm, tightening it into a fist. There was something else. Something deeper. His body buzzed faintly—not pain, not even fatigue—but a pressure, like his blood was trying to whisper secrets he hadn’t learned the language for yet.
Kiwanu’s voice echoed in his head.
“You’re not done growing, kid. Your fruit’ll evolve with you. Not just the obvious stuff—you’ll feel it in your bones when it happens. The edge of possibility. That itch that says ‘there’s more,’ but won’t tell you what.”
He felt that now. That itch.
It wasn’t just about making things heavier or lighter. It wasn’t about throwing trees at ships. There was something more. Something fundamental. Like... gravity was waiting for a handshake.
Gale was so lost in thought that he didn’t register the footsteps behind him until a firm hand landed on his shoulder.
He turned, half-expecting Poqin with some dumb joke. Instead, it was Sir Remiel, helm tucked under his arm, face grim beneath the fading adrenaline.
“What of the prince?” Remiel asked, his voice tight. “Is he safe?”
Gale blinked. Right. Prince Underwear.
“Oh. Yeah. I left him in a patch of tall grass,” Gale said casually.
Remiel’s brow furrowed like he just bit into a lemon. “Tall grass?”
“It’s a long story,” Gale sighed. “Involves pirates, underwear, and a great deal of misplaced confidence. I’ll take you to him once we mop up the rest of the stragglers.”
Remiel gave him a look. The kind of look people give when they’re deciding whether or not to scream. After a long, exasperated inhale, he said:
“…He’s not dead, is he?”
“Nah,” Gale waved it off. “He’s too stupid to die. He’d probably ask death for a duel and challenge it to honorable single combat.”
“…And lose?” Remiel asked dryly.
“Absolutely.”
Remiel pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something about “Vashiri’s future being in the hands of a cartoon character.”
“Look,” Gale said, brushing past him, “the kid’s fine. Probably dreaming of glory right now. Covered in mud. Possibly other things. Anyway, we’ve got pirates to fold.”
He cracked his neck and stretched his fingers again, that low buzz still humming in his bones like something waiting to wake up, something new.
The rest of the battle was calling, but in the back of his mind, that itch lingered.
There’s more to this fruit. More to him. And something told Gale that if Admiral Blight didn’t kill him first, he was going to find out what that was.
Eventually. Maybe even soon.
For now?
Time to finish the job.
And maybe, maybe... find a hose for that patch of tall grass.
...
Far from the battered villages of Vashiri and the charred remains of the pirate vessels that once blockaded them, a ship unlike any other drifted silently through the sea like a predator gliding beneath the surface. Admiral Blight’s flagship.
It didn’t creak. It didn’t groan. It hummed—a deep, unnatural thrum like a heartbeat filtered through mist. Bigger, heavier, and far more menacing than the other ships in his fleet, it looked less like a vessel and more like a floating fortress.
Its hull was reinforced with steel, its cannons extended like jagged fangs, and even the sails were dark and ominous, stitched together with precision and reinforced with unknown fibers that glimmered with faint condensation.
But the most unsettling thing was the silence.
There were no drunkards, no brawls, no laughter or sea shanties like you’d expect from pirates. No chaos. The crew aboard were not common cutthroats—they were soldiers, former marines of the New World who had deserted alongside Blight, each one bearing scars and calm, dead eyes that suggested they'd seen horrors and walked away unimpressed.
The flagship was discipline wrapped in menace. A floating blade waiting to be unsheathed.
Below deck, past locked doors and thick metal reinforcements, lay a cavernous chamber filled with fog so dense it rolled like liquid. It moved unnaturally, clinging to every surface, coiling up walls, wrapping around lanterns like curious snakes.
Light barely penetrated it. Sound seemed smothered by it. It was like the room itself was underwater.
At the far end sat a throne carved from stone and bone—though from what kind of bone, no one really knew—and on it, shrouded in silhouette, sat the man himself.
Admiral Blight.
No one had seen his face clearly in years. Not since he took the Mist-Mist Fruit and turned fog from an inconvenience into a weapon of war. His body was faint, outlined in dim lantern glow, like a memory that refused to fade away.
The thick fog parted just enough to allow one of his men—an officer with a shaved head, squared jaw, and a nervous set to his eyes—to step forward and kneel before the throne.
“My Lord Admiral,” he said with a practiced calm. “We’ve… lost two of our ships.”
A low hum echoed through the fog. Blight didn’t move, didn’t twitch, didn’t speak for several long seconds. Then, at last:
“How?” His voice was quiet. Not hoarse or deep—just quiet. Like wind passing through the crack in a door. And yet it commanded.
The officer swallowed. “Reinforcements arrived from the Marines, sir. A single battleship. The island’s defenders were bolstered and turned the tide.”
There was another pause. Then: “How many?”
“Just one ship, sir.”
Another hum. It almost sounded amused.
“Then it wasn’t the ship,” Blight said, his voice curling like smoke. “There must be someone capable on board. Perhaps two. The others wouldn’t have managed that on their own.”
He didn’t sound angry. Just… mildly curious. As though someone told him the tea was a little warmer than expected.
The officer hesitated. “Sir… with the defenders emboldened, the Marines may try to strike at our other ships. Should we regroup? Fortify?”
Blight didn’t respond immediately. Then, slowly, he leaned forward.
“There is no need,” he said.
The fog in the room deepened, like it was drawing breath.
“They are following the plan. And we will continue as planned.”
The officer blinked. “But… what about the other ships, sir? Should we not—?”
“They are of no consequence.”
His tone didn’t change. It didn’t need to. Just those five words, delivered like a verdict.
“Their only purpose was to keep the archipelago scattered. To buy time. And now they have.”
The officer lowered his head further, hiding the way his knuckles clenched. He didn’t want to ask the next question, but it clawed its way out anyway.
“…Are they expendable, sir?”
There was a pause. A long one.
And then Blight said, softly, “Everything is.”
The fog surged then, coiling and lashing against the walls like a beast exhaling.
The officer stood, bowed once more, and exited without another word, boots leaving damp prints behind him.
In the silence that followed, Blight sat motionless, his face still hidden in shadow.
“Everything breaks,” he murmured to no one. “We’re just choosing the order.”
Then, the fog swallowed him whole once more.
...
Cordavin stirred with a groan, as though emerging from a swamp of bad memories and worse decisions. His eyes fluttered open to the sight of blue skies, rustling grass, and a familiar, furrowed brow.
Sir Remiel.
Cordavin shot up like a spring-loaded cat, eyes wild. “Sir Remiel!” he cried, lunging toward him like a man possessed. “You won’t believe the nightmare I just endured! I was captured by pirates—filthy pirates! They stripped me of my garments and locked me away in some horrid barn!”
Remiel instinctively stepped back, which was strange for a man who’d fought off cannon fire without blinking.
A soft breeze danced through the air.
Cordavin blinked. He paused. Something… felt off.
Specifically, the breeze.
And the very real sensation of cold air brushing against parts of him that should not be brushing anything in polite company.
Also, why did his underwear feel heavy?
Cordavin slowly, cautiously, looked down.
There it was. His royal, silk-stitched underwear. And there it was again. The very visible, very undeniable… evidence of his earlier misfortunes.
Two stains.
Two distinct colors.
Cordavin went pale. The color drained from his face so fast it looked like a magic trick. He spun around, horror dawning on him in real time.
And there he was.
Gale. Standing nearby with arms crossed, an ever-so-slight smirk tugging at his lips like he was trying not to laugh, but wasn’t doing a particularly convincing job of it.
“You… you knave!” Cordavin shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at him. “You wretch! You tricked me! You—you goaded me into charging alone! I demand satisfaction!”
Remiel, still trying to pretend this whole moment wasn’t happening, sighed and glanced sideways at Gale. “What in the name of the Saints is he talking about?”
Gale, ever casual, lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug. “I found him tied up in a barn. Knocked out the guards. Tried to get him out quietly. He didn’t want that.” He gestured to Cordavin with his thumb. “Said he had to reclaim his honor.”
Remiel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course he did.”
“So,” Gale continued, “I offered a compromise. He'd fight the pirates head-on while I backed him up from the shadows. Honestly? I overestimated him. Thought he had something going for him, what with the yelling and the righteous fire. Turns out he swings a sword like a man swatting at bees. Pirates knocked him out in ten seconds.”
Cordavin’s jaw dropped. “That’s not what happened!”
“Right,” Gale replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “You heroically charged into battle, armed with nothing but a helmet and your royal indignation.”
Cordavin opened his mouth to protest again, but Remiel cut in, sighing the sigh of a man who regretted all his life choices. “Cordavin. This entire mess is on you. You should’ve let yourself be rescued quietly.”
“But—!”
“No,” Remiel said firmly, pointing a gloved finger. “No buts. Except, unfortunately, the one currently on display.”
Cordavin instinctively covered himself with both hands, face glowing redder than a sunburned tomato.
Gale clapped his hands once and stretched, already turning to leave. “Look at it this way,” he said over his shoulder. “You got a good lesson out of it. Don’t overestimate your strength, and definitely don’t confuse ‘heritage’ with authority.”
Cordavin gurgled some kind of objection, but Gale was already waving him off. “C’mon, Poqin, Isuka. Let’s get ready to head back to the ship before I find out what else the prince’s underwear is capable of.”
Poqin let out a long whistle. “You think that stain’s a Devil Fruit power in disguise?”
Isuka sighed, walking past Cordavin with a single glance and a muttered, “I’ve seen braver goldfish.”
As the three left the scene, Cordavin remained in the grass, clutching what was left of his dignity, while Remiel pinched his temples and silently prayed the fog of war would also erase the last twenty minutes of his life.
