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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #77
🕑 Added 2025-06-17 09:37:35 +0000 UTCA dozen candles flickered on a warped wooden table, casting distorted shadows across the war map of the island. Gale stood over it, arms crossed, trying to pretend like he understood half of the local geography.
“So this ridge here,” he pointed vaguely at a lumpy green smudge, “blocks visibility from the south, which means we can approach from the east and—”
“—Use the village’s grain silos as cover,” Isuka finished, tracing a line with her gloved finger.
“They still have grain silos?” Poqin asked, crouched on a stool with a bottle of something suspiciously unlabeled. “I thought pirates usually torch that stuff first.”
“Not always,” Remiel muttered grimly, “These pirates aim to conquer Vashiri, so they will likely keep the food for themselves.”
Gale nodded slowly. “Alright, so we come in at dawn, flank—”
The door creaked open.
They all turned as a man strode in, clad in gold-trimmed armor that looked less battle-worn and more polished-for-the-parade. His cape was a rich burgundy, his chestplate gleamed like it had never seen dirt, and his expression was… concerned.
Though maybe it was just the mustache—thick enough to qualify as a helmet in its own right.
Remiel, upon seeing the man, looked like he’d just swallowed a spider. A very smug spider.
“What,” Remiel said tightly, “are you doing here?”
The knight gave a stiff little bow, one fist over his chest. “Captain Remiel. I come with news. The son of the Prince Regent has led the Gilded Thorn into the town.”
Remiel paled. “Please tell me you mean near the town.”
“No, sir. Into. They said they would reclaim it in the name of the crown.” He hesitated. “We’ve… lost contact with them.”
There was a pause. Then a faint bonk as Remiel leaned forward and gently tapped his forehead against his own helmet.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Gale glanced between them, then tilted his head. “Right. Okay. Gonna need a little context here. Who’s Captain Fancy over there, and why do you look like you just got diagnosed with terminal nobles?”
Remiel let out a long sigh that sounded like it’d been building for years. “This is Ser Aldric. Of the Order of the Gilded Thorn.”
Gale blinked. “That’s… a very shiny name.”
“It’s not just the name that’s shiny,” Poqin muttered, squinting at Aldric’s armor. “You think he buffs that thing with perfume?”
Isuka coughed into her hand.
Remiel ignored them. “The Gilded Thorn is the prince regent’s pet project. A knightly order in name, but in practice? A glorified drinking club with a taste for dramatic entrances and no grasp of tactics.”
Ser Aldric puffed his chest slightly. “We serve with honor.”
“You serve with poetry and dueling gloves,” Remiel snapped. “I’ve seen more discipline from barn cats.”
Aldric opened his mouth, then thought better of it. “Regardless. The young prince is in danger. And the Thorn is cut off.”
Remiel looked about ten seconds away from screaming into a pillow. Instead, he turned to Aldric with a barely restrained growl. “Go get some rest. We’ll handle it.”
Aldric’s jaw twitched, but he gave another stiff bow and left the room, his armor jingling like a sack of rich-boy regret.
As the door shut, Gale looked at Remiel, one eyebrow raised. “You uh… don’t seem too fond of your fellow knights.”
“I don’t have anything against Aldric,” Remiel said wearily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “He’s earnest. Loyal. Would probably jump off a cliff if the prince told him it was noble.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Remiel gestured vaguely in the direction Aldric had gone. “The Gilded Thorn are a bunch of pampered braggarts who spend more time composing victory ballads than actually fighting. I once saw one of them challenge a goat to a duel.”
Poqin let out a low whistle. “Did he win?”
“No.”
“Did he live?”
“Also no.”
Gale snorted and turned back to the map. “Alright. So now we’ve got a town full of pirates, a missing prince, and a bunch of cosplaying aristocrats trapped behind enemy lines.”
He looked at Remiel. “I’m guessing we’re going in after them.”
Remiel nodded grimly.
Gale cracked his knuckles. “Cool. But next time we walk into a war room, someone warn me if I’m gonna need a pocket translator for knightly nonsense.”
The rooftops of the occupied town were slick with sea mist, the tiles beneath Gale’s boots still warm from the day’s heat. Not that he was really using the tiles—he was more or less gliding across them, weightless and silent as a drifting feather. Literally.
He darted from one roof to another, his body density reduced to near nothing, each landing no heavier than a falling leaf. Not a sound. Not a ripple in the night air. Just the faint flutter of his coat and the occasional whisper of fabric against wood as he moved. He was, for all intents and purposes, the world’s least threatening ghost.
A very fast, mildly sarcastic ghost.
If someone sees me, he thought, crouching low and crawling along the ridge of a slanted rooftop, they’ll probably think I’m a stray cat with commitment issues.
The town below was dark, but not dead. Fires burned in barrels, giving off a low orange glow. Pirates shuffled about in twos and threes—some guarding, some drinking, some having loud debates over whose turn it was to watch the tied-up prince, apparently.
The plan was already set. Remiel, Isuka, Poqin, and the rest of their merry band of sleep-deprived marines were waiting outside town, hidden in the forest near the stream they called "the Spout.”
Come dawn, they'd strike.
The only difference was that Gale was here now, ahead of schedule. He had one job tonight: get in, find the prince, and get him out before the pirates could slap a hostage sticker on his forehead.
Simple enough, Gale thought, narrowing his eyes at the patrols. Infiltrate a pirate-occupied town in the dead of night. Alone. Surrounded. No backup. No pressure.
Two buildings stood out among the others. One, a large estate house at the far end of the plaza, practically reeking of pirate boss energy—torchlight flickered from every window, and guards lounged at the door with all the subtlety of a tavern brawl.
The second was less obvious: a barn. Smaller, quieter, but oddly well-guarded for a structure that probably didn’t house anything more valuable than old hay and traumatized chickens.
Big boss or hidden hostage? Gale tilted his head, watching as two pirates at the barn lit lanterns and checked their weapons. 'Yeah. No pirate keeps livestock guarded that tight....'
Moments later, Gale slipped in through a loose rafter at the barn’s roof, body as light as breath. He lowered himself onto a beam and flattened his silhouette, barely visible even in the shadows.
The scent of hay, dust, and damp wood filled his nose. And something else.
'Is that... aftershave?'
Down below, the situation immediately explained itself.
A short young man—bare-chested, red-faced, and glaring death at the world—was tied to a wooden pillar in the middle of the barn. He was wearing nothing but his underpants, a sock on one foot, and an expression of pure, princely rage.
“I dare you,” he snarled, struggling against his bindings. “Untie me, knave! I demand satisfaction! A duel! A proper one, with swords and honor and pants!”
Two pirates lounged nearby, arms crossed and grinning like toddlers watching a cat stuck in a bag.
“Is this guy serious?” one of them snorted. “You got beat in full armor, and now you wanna swordfight in your skivvies?”
The other pirate—who had apparently stolen the prince’s fancy gilded helmet—mockingly placed it on his own head and strutted around.
“Oh ho ho!” he declared in a laughably bad noble accent, sticking out his gut. “Look at me! I’m a Princeling of Vashiri! I charge headfirst into battle with my daddy’s money and my nanny’s bedtime stories! And now look at me—tied to a pole in my royal knickers!”
The first pirate let out a cackle and added, “And to think you were gonna ‘liberate’ the town. From what, fashion sense?”
Gale resisted the urge to groan. 'Yep. Definitely the Gilded Thorn.'
The prince, to his credit, spat back at them with absolute fury. “You think this humiliates me? I was born to rule! You barnyard brigands will rue the day you mocked Prince Cordavin Augustus!”
There was a pause.
Then one pirate whispered to the other, “Did he just say barnyard brigands?”
“Yeah,” the other nodded. “He’s definitely got a poetry tutor. What a loser.”
Gale sighed through his nose, slowly shaking his head on the beam above.
'Well,' he thought, 'he’s not the most graceful royal hostage I’ve ever seen, but at least he’s got spirit. And… exceptionally white socks.'
The pirate in the helmet laughed again and gave a mock bow. “Take a good look, Prince Underpants. The boss is gonna parade you around like a trophy once we move out. Might even let the crew take turns playing poking you with a cutlass...”
The prince’s expression turned thunderous. “Mark my words! When my knights come, you’ll wish—”
Gale dropped down silently behind the beam, still hidden.
He didn’t make a sound. Not yet.
But as he lowered himself closer to the rafters above the pirates’ heads, his eyes narrowed.
From his perch above the rafters, Gale peered down at the two pirates like a kid eyeing the last two slices of cake—except these slices were idiots, standing just a little too close together for their own good.
A slow, mischievous grin crept across his face.
Oh, this is it. This is the moment. The rare, blessed alignment of fate itself...
Two enemies. Standing side by side. Unaware.
The perfect setup for that move.
Yes... that.
The ancient martial technique passed down by siblings and bar brawlers alike. The noble art of…
BONK.
The universe, clearly a fan of slapstick, seemed to shimmer in approval.
Gale took a deep, satisfied breath and dropped from the rafters. His boots hit the floorboards with a purposeful thud, not silent like before—no, this needed a little drama.
Both pirates whirled around in confusion, eyes wide, mouths opening like they were just about to say “huh?” or “who the hell are y—?”
Too late.
Gale lunged forward and clapped a hand on each of their heads like he was about to say grace. Then, with a gleeful grin, he slammed their skulls together.
Clunk!
One went down immediately, crumpling like an origami frog.
The other just blinked… then stumbled back, dazed but somehow still standing.
Gale stared at him for a beat, frown forming.
The pirate stared back.
'Oh right… the helmet,' Gale remembered, watching the brass dome wobble slightly on the man’s head. 'Of course. The one time I go for style points...'
“Ruined it,” Gale muttered, sighing as he pulled his sword free from its sheath—not even the blade, just the handle—and thwacked the pirate square in the liver with surgical precision.
The man let out a soft “mph!” and collapsed like a sack of wet laundry.
Gale dusted his hands and turned toward the hostage.
Prince Cordavin Augustus stared back at him, jaw hanging slightly ajar, expression caught between awe and outrage. He was still in his underpants, socks bunched up, ropes around his chest like a badly wrapped holiday roast.
Gale walked over casually, crouched beside him, and began untying the ropes. “Yes, yes, I’m here to rescue you. No need to cry or write sonnets or anything.”
The prince, who had apparently been holding in his thoughts for all of five seconds, immediately burst out, “You honorless cur! You attacked them from behind! A true knight fights fair! With warning! And honor!”
Gale paused, blinking at him.
Then looked at the unconscious pirates.
Then back at the prince.
Then at the sock that had somehow worked its way halfway off one of the royal toes.
“…You do realize they were holding you prisoner in a barn, right?” Gale said, deadpan. “In your underwear. While wearing your helmet.”
The prince huffed. “I don’t care! Ambush tactics are for scoundrels and back-alley thieves! You should have challenged them like a man, and not struck them from behind as a coward would!”
Gale went back to untying the rope, muttering under his breath, “Technically they turned around before I knocked them out, so…”
He gave the final knot a tug, freeing the prince’s arms. “Which makes it completely honorable. You're welcome, Your Underpantsness.”
Cordavin sat up straight and proud, as if he hadn’t just spent the last hour being mocked by men who thought ring toss was a valid interrogation method.
“I suppose I must thank you, mysterious, villainous rogue…”
“Gale,” he supplied flatly.
“…But I shall be reporting this less than honorable behavior to my father.”
“Oh no,” Gale said with a smirk as he stood. “Guess that means I’ll never get invited to the next fancy dinner where everyone pretends the soup’s not cold.”
The prince blinked at him.
“I’m kidding,” Gale added. “Sort of.”
With the pirates unconscious and the hostage secured—if still dramatically underdressed—Gale made for the barn door, motioning for the prince to follow.
'Dawn’s coming,' he thought, stepping back into the night. 'Time to give the rest of these pirates a reason to be superstitious... but first I gotta get this idiot out of here...'
