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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #79
🕑 Added 2025-06-20 13:06:49 +0000 UTCGale raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, pebbles rattling softly in his palm as he perched lazily on the edge of a rooftop. Below, the pirates had formed a rough, angry circle around the flailing, half-naked mess that was Prince Cordavin.
Swords were drawn, insults were flying, and Cordavin—gods bless his blissfully unaware soul—was still swinging like he was trying to chase a fly out of a kitchen with a mop.
Gale squinted, unimpressed. 'I figured I’d have to help him take down a few more pirates before they got all murderous and stabby... but no… Dave. Freakin’. Dave.'
One of the pirates was full-on sobbing. “Kind Dave didn’t deserve this!”
Another shouted, “He gave me his last bottle of rum when my girlfriend broke up with me!”
A third wailed, “He helped me write a letter to my mom once!!”
“Rest in peace, Kind Dave,” Gale muttered, genuinely a little moved despite himself. “You were clearly the emotional glue of this crew.”
Cordavin, meanwhile, let out a noble “Haaaah!” as he charged with all the grace of a drunk goat on ice. His sword whooshed through empty air, completely missing his target by a good country mile.
The pirate didn’t even flinch—he just stepped to the side and socked Cordavin right in the gut. The prince let out a very princely “Oof!” and folded like a wet napkin.
“For Kind Dave!!” a pirate howled, launching the first kick. A dozen boots soon followed, and Cordavin vanished beneath a sea of vengeful leather soles.
Gale sat there, tossing a pebble into the air, catching it. Again. Again. The sun was just starting to rise, brushing the rooftops with gold. The air was crisp. The birds were chirping. The idiot was getting the stuffing kicked out of him.
'This is it,' Gale mused. 'Just let the pirates tenderize him a bit longer. No hostage. No liability. No “I’m the prince, do what I say.”'
He let the thought sit there for a long, quiet moment.
Then sighed. “Yeah, this is not my style.”
He began flicking pebbles.
PFFT.
One pirate dropped.
PFFT.
Another grabbed his neck and collapsed.
CRACK.
A third let out a confused “Huh?” before falling forward like a sack of radishes.
It was like watching a reverse game of whack-a-mole—pirates going down with zero warning, one by one. Confusion rippled through them before panic replaced it.
“W-we’re under attack!” someone shrieked.
“From what?! The gods?!”
“IT’S THE ARSELING'S STAND!” another screamed, fully convinced they were in a different world entirely.
...
A minute and several satisfying thuds, yells, and why-does-my-neck-hurt later, the street was quiet again. The pirates—at least the ones who’d tried to turn Prince Cordavin into a nobleman pancake—were all sprawled across the cobblestones like very ugly, very unconscious rugs.
Gale landed softly beside them, flicking a pebble one last time into the air and catching it mid-thought. He looked down at the human wreckage before turning his eyes to the epicenter of the chaos.
There lay Cordavin.
Unmoving. Face swollen. One eye puffy shut. A beautiful mosaic of purple, red, and something Gale could only describe as “dead fish blue.”
Gale clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “It’s your lucky day, Your Highness,” he muttered with an amused smirk. “Hopefully next time you’ll think twice before LARPing your way into a pirate raid.”
He stooped to pick up the unconscious prince—until—
WHAM.
It hit him.
Like a wall. Like a wet, steaming wall of sorrow and suffering.
Gale recoiled, nose wrinkling. “...What in the seven hells is that smell?”
He staggered back, half-expecting to see a dead goat stuffed into the prince’s helmet. But no—his eyes slowly, painfully, followed the stench to its source.
And there it was.
The prince’s royal underpants.
Stained in not one… but two distinct colors. An impressive feat, if Gale were being honest. Except instead of applause, it made him want to commit a war crime against his own sense of smell.
And to make things worse, it wasn’t just a smell—it was practically visual. Green stink lines wafted off the fabric like cursed spirit tendrils. Gale swore he saw one form the shape of a skull before dissipating into the air.
“...Right,” Gale said, grimacing. “New plan: let the pirates have him.”
He stood there for a solid five seconds, seriously, seriously considering just walking away and letting fate sort this mess out. But then he sighed. Deep. Heavy. Soul-weary.
“This is karma,” he muttered, eyes narrowing at the heavens like he could see the cosmic scriptwriter behind this whole farce. “This is payback for trying to get this clueless idiot killed...”
With the careful touch of someone handling radioactive waste, he bent down, pinched the prince’s arm with just his thumb and index finger—like he was holding a particularly gross sock—and began to drag the unconscious (and very much disgraced) heir across the dirt.
The stink followed him like a cursed aura.
Gale spotted a patch of tall grass near a crumbling wall and made a beeline for it. With one final heave, he deposited the prince into the thicket and gave himself a solid three steps back.
“There. No one’s gonna find him there,” Gale muttered, wiping his hands on the grass with theatrical disgust. “Hell, whatever finds him might just run away out of respect for the stench. Or fear. Probably both.”
He stood over the hidden royal burrito for a moment, hands on hips.
Then he exhaled and turned toward the rooftops again.
“Alright… so. Do I play ghost assassin and clear out some more pirates while the morons are still groggy from their hangovers? Or do I meet up with Poqin and Isuka and start the whole fireworks show properly?”
Gunfire cracked through the town like a whip, sharp and sudden, followed by the telltale cacophony of chaos: yelling, clanging steel, and at least one man shouting “MY LEG!” with an emotional intensity that suggested it wasn’t even his leg.
Gale blinked, turning his head just in time to catch the sight of a familiar whirlwind barreling down the main street.
There was Poqin, sprinting like a man who’d just stolen three sacred relics and a roasted chicken. Beside him, Isuka was trying to keep the marines in a near formation while Remiel was doing his best to be as conspicuous as ever to draw attention away from the privates.
“Guess that answers that,” Gale muttered, standing atop a slanted rooftop. “Back to folding people.”
He scanned for his first target—some unsuspecting pirate to use as a warm-up punch dummy.
Instead, his eyes landed on something far juicier.
Docked at the edge of the port like it belonged there, rocking lazily in the surf, was the pirates’ ship. Big, nasty, bristling with cannons and painted in the worst shades of “we want you to know we’re evil.”
And it was right there.
Gale’s grin curled at the edges. “...Perfect.”
For the past few weeks, he’d felt it. A strange buzzing just under his skin. Restlessness, not the physical kind, but like his body was nudging him, whispering, "Hey. You can do more than you think."
He’d chalked it up to stress. Sleep deprivation. Poqin swapping his tea for leftover sake. But deep down, Gale suspected it was tied to his Devil Fruit.
And now? Now was the perfect time to test that theory.
Keeping low, he hopped from rooftop to rooftop until he reached the water’s edge. The ship wasn’t far. He could make that jump easily… well, if by "easily," one meant do something slightly reckless and hope physics cooperates.
With a steadying breath, Gale lowered the density of his body until he felt as light as mist—lighter, even—and leapt. His foot skimmed the water like it was stone, kicking up a small splash, and then—
Thud. He landed on the rear deck of the pirate ship.
Nailed it.
He crouched low behind a crate, peering through the gaps at the pirates on board. A handful of them were working with feverish speed, ramming cannonballs down barrels, checking powder levels, and priming fuses.
“I’ll miss this place,” one of the pirates muttered, wiping his brow. “Beds were decent. Tavern served real booze. Shame we gotta blast it.”
“Feh. We weren’t here to settle, you idiot,” another said, laughing as he hoisted a cannonball onto his shoulder. “The job was always to clear the path to the capital. We topple this town, wipe out those Marines, then sail east.”
“Still, would’ve been nice to loot it after breakfast...”
Gale’s grin only widened behind the crate.
So that was the plan. They weren’t trying to hold territory—they were just steamrolling everything in their way.
Gale’s eyes flicked to the cannons. Then to the deck. Then to the pirates.
And finally, to his hands.
“Alright,” he whispered, flexing his fingers. “Let’s see what you can really do.”
He’d manipulated density in objects before—swords, bullets, his own limbs. But what if he applied it to something bigger? Something structural?
A mast. The deck beneath it. Even—maybe—the entire ship.
The idea sent a shiver of both excitement and mortal danger down his spine.
Was this a dumb time to experiment?
Absolutely.
But he was a Marine now. And if there was ever a time for dumb heroics, it was right before pirates bombed a town full of civilians and yelled “FOR DAVE!”
He crept a little closer.
"Okay, let's try not to sink with the ship this time," he muttered under his breath. “Poqin would never let me live it down.”
...
“Oi, is it just me, or is the ship moving?”
The pirate squinted down the barrel of the cannon again, only to watch the sights dip just a hair lower than they had two seconds ago. He adjusted the crank. Aimed again. Same thing.
“Feels like it’s listing,” he muttered, scratching his head with the same hand that had been loading cannonballs a moment ago. “Like, tilting or something…”
A loud thwack rang out as another pirate smacked him upside the head.
“That’s your aim, dumbass. Not the ship. Skill issue.”
“Ow! I’m tellin’ you, something’s off—!”
Groooaaaaaaan.
They both froze. That wasn’t someone’s stomach. That was wood. Thick, sunbaked, sea-worn planks groaning under some kind of pressure. Like a whale exhaling through a mouthful of splinters.
Another pirate poked his head up from below deck. “Anyone else hear—oh.”
Every pirate on the deck followed his line of sight and turned to look toward the center of the ship.
And there he was.
A skinny guy, barely more than a silhouette against the rising sun, just standing there.
His eyes were closed. His palm was resting on the ship’s main mast like he was whispering secrets to it. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t even doing anything flashy, and yet—
“Is that guy… praying to the mast?” one pirate asked.
“Wait,” said another, narrowing his eyes. “This guy's doing something to the ship! He must be with the Marines!”
“Oh hell no.”
Without a second thought, one of them raised his pistol and fired.
Ping!
The bullet struck the boy’s shoulder—and bounced off with a sound not unlike someone trying to shoot a frying pan. A metallic, solid clang. The pirates blinked.
“…Did he just tank that?”
Gale’s frown twitched. The air around him had changed. His hand still rested on the mast, and the ship groaned again—louder this time.
Beneath him, the planks started to crack like rice paper under a boot.
“I don’t know what this bastard’s doing,” one pirate hissed, backing up a step, “but it’s definitely not good. Someone stop him!”
With a rallying cry of bad decisions, the pirates charged.
Bullets flew. Blades sliced. Muskets cracked and swords clanged—and Gale… just stood there.
Their attacks hit his skin and bounced off. Blades bit into his arms and snapped. Someone stabbed at him and the sword bent. It was like trying to attack a bronze statue in a t-shirt.
But while the attacks didn’t hurt Gale, each one seemed to wear on his expression. His frown deepened. His brow twitched. His eye developed a subtle but very concerning vein.
One pirate jabbed him square in the ribs.
Gale sighed.
And then he snapped, unable to maintain his focus.
Without a word, Gale’s hand gripped the mast. He drew his sword and in a single fluid motion sliced the mast in half, clean through like it was nothing more than a breadstick.
Before it could collapse onto the deck, he plunged his fingers into the wood, lowering its density until it felt lighter than air—almost like a giant, slightly unstable balloon.
He lifted it over his head.
The pirates’ eyes went wide. “Wait, WAIT, HOLD ON—!”
Whoosh!
Gale hurled the mast skyward, sending it soaring high into the morning air like a javelin thrown by an ancient sea god with something to prove. It went up. Way, way up. Far higher than it had any right to.
Gale exhaled and gave it just enough time to become a dot against the clouds before casually adjusting his imaginary wristwatch with the kind of nonchalance reserved for tax auditors and particularly smug housecats.
Then he raised his hand and at exactly the same time the effect ended.
The mast’s density returned to normal mid-flight.
Gravity noticed.
The mast began to descend—fast. Like a goddamn meteor.
“Good luck with that,” Gale muttered.
And then, without another word, he took two steps back, leapt off the ship, and skipped across the water like a skipping stone. One bounce. Two. A hop.
And then he landed back at the docks, slick as you like.
Behind him, on the deck, the pirates stared at the rapidly growing shadow descending toward them from above.
“Is that… is that the mast?” one whispered.
“Why is it coming back down?!”
“WHY IS IT COMING BACK DOWN SO FAST?!”
“WE WILL BE TOGETHER AGAIN, KIND DAVE!”
