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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #74
🕑 Added 2025-06-14 06:50:49 +0000 UTCGale stood at the stern of the battleship, the wind whipping his coat around as Marineford grew smaller in the distance, slowly swallowed by the horizon like a sinking memory.
The fortress loomed less like the heart of justice and more like a really big rock that got tired of being relevant.
He let out a long sigh, the kind that carried way too many thoughts for someone his age, and turned around to lean against the cold railing.
“Yep,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket. “This is fine. Everything’s fine.”
From the folds of his coat, he pulled out a slim, leather-bound booklet—the official mission report. Or as Gale liked to call it: A Beginner’s Guide to Definitely Dying at Sea.
He flipped it open, scanning the contents with a furrowed brow. The writing was neat, orderly, probably typed up by some poor intern running on three hours of sleep and crushed dreams.
It had diagrams. It had stats. It even had a poorly-drawn sketch of Admiral Blight that looked suspiciously like someone just described “evil pirate man shrouded in mist” to a sketch artist and called it a day.
Still, the intel was better than nothing. Barely.
“Subject: Admiral Blight. Bounty: 150 million. Number of ships: 10. Crew size: 300+. Known for: fog that precedes attacks, victims suffering injuries from unknown sources, tendency to monologue (see appendix).”
Gale stared at the “unknown sources” bit, eyes narrowing. “Wow. So mysterious. So helpful.”
He flipped to the next page, and there it was again: the mist. Every sighting, every ambush, came with that eerie, suffocating fog. No one ever saw the attack coming. Just screaming, confusion, and then bodies dropping like discount mannequins during a clearance sale.
“So either he controls the weather,” Gale muttered, “or the mist’s doing more than looking spooky.”
He didn’t need to be a genius to put two and two together—and considering he’d barely passed Marine math, that was saying something. Devil Fruit. Had to be. But which one?
Fog Logia? Maybe. That would make him intangible, a nightmare in close quarters.
Paramecia? Possible—some weird environmental control ability.
Mythical Zoan? …Well. Let’s just say, if Blight turned out to be part dragon, part fog machine, and part immortal demigod, they were going to need more than three people and a boat.
Gale looked up, watching the clouds roll lazily above the ship. "Best-case scenario," he said aloud, "it's a Paramecia. I track him through the fog, line up a shot, boom. Sea stone bullet, problem solved.”
He patted the revolver on his hip. Sleek. Heavy. Comfortingly loaded with three little miracles carved from sea prism stone.
"Second-best case," he continued, flipping to the last page of the report, "it’s a Logia. Harder, yeah, but still doable. Just gotta catch him off-guard, get close, don’t die horribly—easy."
Then he grimaced.
"But if it’s a Mythical Zoan…”
He trailed off, imagining a fog-wreathed monster the size of a battleship rising from the sea, laughing like a maniac while punching holes in the sky.
“…We'll be so screwed.”
The worst part was how casual the report had been about that possibility. No fruit name. No confirmation. Just: "Abilities unknown. Possibly fog-based. Proceed with caution."
Gale slammed the booklet shut.
“‘Proceed with caution,’” he muttered. “Yeah, thanks, intel guy. Why not just write, ‘Try not to die’ and call it a day?”
Still, it wasn’t like they had much choice. Their orders were clear: support the knights, stop Blight, don’t get exploded. Simple.
Poqin had summed it up best when they boarded the ship:
“So it’s a fog monster pirate with maybe-invisibility powers, and we’re sailing into his territory without backup? Sweet. I brought snacks.”
Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. Snacks. The man brought snacks.
At least they had Isuka. She was competent. Stiff as a frozen broomstick sometimes, but solid. Probably the only one on the ship who knew which side of the cannon went boom.
Gale looked back down at the booklet one last time, reading the last footnote.
“Blight’s attacks appear coordinated, suggesting a tactician’s mind. Extreme caution advised.”
“Great,” Gale muttered. “Fog powers and a brain. Just what I needed.”
He closed the book, tucked it back into his coat, and looked out over the endless blue. Somewhere out there was a pirate admiral with a bad habit of conquering things and a potentially overpowered Devil Fruit.
And here he was. Scrawny, sarcastic, and leading a mission for the first time.
"Well," he muttered, "if I die, at least I don’t have to do any paperwork after..."
...
The captain’s quarters smelled like ink, salt, and the very specific brand of old paper that made Gale sneeze if he got too close.
A large map was spread across the central table, corners pinned down with mugs, spare bullets, and a dagger that Poqin may or may not have been using to slice apples earlier.
Gale stood over it, one hand on the table, the other rubbing his temple.
The map showed the Vashiri Archipelago and its surrounding waters—dozens of marble islands nestled like pearls in a blue sea.
It looked peaceful on parchment, almost scenic, like it belonged in a travel brochure. Too bad the reality involved a pirate admiral and fog-related murder.
He squinted at the small western island Blight had occupied.
“Okay… if we go wide around this reef,” he muttered, “we can approach from the south, using the sunrise to our advantage. Unless he has fog powers that block out sunlight, in which case, great, we die slightly more confused.”
He leaned over and scribbled something in the margins of the map, then reached for the small notebook nearby—the same one from earlier, full of half-sketched plans, to-do lists, and a poorly drawn doodle of Blight labeled “probably evil?”
Gale had passed the navigation course. Barely. Plotting a course wasn’t the problem—it was what to do when the weather suddenly decided to go full One Piece and throw a hurricane, sea king, and flaming sky squid at him all at once. Improvising was his Plan B.
Well, that and blaming Poqin.
Still, he wasn’t totally alone in this—Isuka had taken the navigation course too. And unlike him, she didn’t need flashcards and nervous breakdowns to get through it.
Maybe if one of those weird Grand Line storms hit, she'd know what to do. Hopefully.
Or throw him into the sea and do it herself. Either way, someone competent would be steering.
He was just starting to pencil out wind patterns—by which he meant he drew squiggly arrows and hoped they looked smart—when the door creaked open.
He didn’t look up.
“Unless you're a weather goddess here to personally pilot this ship, I’m not in the mood,” he said.
“Close,” came Poqin’s voice. “I’m a bald monk with no sense of direction and questionable morals.”
Gale looked up to see Poqin stroll in, casually munching on what looked like someone’s ration biscuit. Isuka followed a few steps behind, arms crossed, her frown already pre-installed.
Poqin gave Gale a wide grin. “So, Captain. What’re our chances lookin’ like? On a scale of ‘surprise party’ to ‘unmarked grave.’”
Gale didn’t miss a beat. “Somewhere between hilariously pessimistic and hope you wrote a will.”
Poqin chuckled, clearly delighted. “Nice. I didn’t.”
Gale rolled his eyes. “Of course you didn’t.”
Isuka marched over and planted herself beside the table like a storm cloud with a clipboard. “Can you two take this seriously? We have one battleship, twenty-four foot soldiers, and a fog-happy pirate admiral with a ghost fleet. That’s not a fair fight. We need an actual strategy.”
Poqin shrugged, plopping down in a chair. “We do have a strategy. Step one: improvise. Step two: profit.”
Isuka’s eye twitched. “ You know, you’re a big part of the reason I’m considering starting a mutiny.”
“Hey,” Gale said, pointing lazily with a pencil, “You'd have my support.”
Isuka blinked. “What?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t fight you,” Gale clarified. “Captaincy feels like too much work. All the responsibility, none of the snacks.”
Poqin nodded. “Yup. I vote Isuka. She has scary older sister energy. Very mutiny-compatible.”
Isuka stared at them, halfway between screaming and walking into the sea. “You’re both impossible.”
Gale gave a halfhearted shrug. “Look, I didn’t ask to be in charge, and I didn't want to either. Brannew just looked at my barely-passing test scores and said, ‘Yeah, this guy? Definitely leadership material.’ Heck, I'd go alone and swim my way to Vashiri Archipelago if I had a say in it...”
Isuka rubbed her temples. “I know... I just don't want to mess this up after the big mess at Shabondi...”
“Yeah well,” Gale said, stabbing a compass into the table for emphasis, “ that feels like a story I'd like to head, but if we die, I want the record to show that I opposed this job from the beginning.”
Poqin raised his biscuit like a toast. “To dying with dignity.”
“Can you not toast to death?” Isuka snapped.
“Too late,” Poqin said, taking another bite. “The biscuit’s spoken.”
Gale opened his mouth, already mid-sentence: “Alright, let’s focus—”
He stopped.
His breath came out in a visible puff of white mist.
He blinked.
“…Okay, weird,” he muttered, waving a hand in front of his face. Another puff. Definitely not normal. Unless they’d suddenly sailed into Winter Island: Surprise Edition, something was off.
Isuka noticed it too. “Wait… that’s not right.”
Before anyone could ask questions, the entire ship jolted sideways with a loud THUNK, like a sea king had body-checked them mid-nap. The floor tilted beneath their feet, the map sliding off the table with a flutter and landing in Poqin’s lap.
Isuka’s eyes widened. “That’s—it has to be Admiral Blight’s ability!”
Gale’s brain short-circuited for a half-second. “No way. We’re still nowhere near Vashiri!”
He bolted to the door, motioning for the others to follow. “It’s probably just the Grand Line being… well, the Grand Line! Weird, deadly, and dramatic as always!”
Poqin lazily followed behind, still munching the same stale biscuit like none of this was remotely urgent. “Y’know, I always wanted to crash into a glacier. Feels like a good story arc moment.”
They burst out onto the main deck, where chaos was already unfolding in full marine-flavored glory. Sailors ran to and fro, yelling orders, bumping into each other, ropes swinging wildly. Somewhere up in the crow’s nest, a panicked voice shouted:
“Icebergs! Icebergs port side! And starboard! And—EVERY SIDE!!”
Gale rushed to the railing, his boots thudding on the slick planks. The sea ahead looked like a battlefield of floating frozen giants. Gigantic ice chunks bobbed on the waves, some taller than their masts, others still clawing their way up from beneath the surface with sharp, splintered edges.
“Yup. That’s bad,” Gale muttered. “That’s, like, a seven out of ten on the We’re Definitely Gonna Die scale.”
Another iceberg rose with a groan and smashed into the water a few meters from the ship, sending waves splashing onto the deck. Gale stumbled back, soaked from the knees down.
He turned to Poqin, who stood nearby spinning the fallen map like a pizza. “Take the helm. Now.”
Poqin looked up. “On it, Captain. I always wanted to crash with style.”
Gale didn’t bother responding. He knew from experience that giving Poqin control of a moving vehicle was the equivalent of giving a raccoon a flamethrower—you didn’t stop it, you just hoped no one died.
As Poqin scampered up toward the helm, Gale turned to Isuka. She already looked halfway through mentally firing both of them.
“You’re up,” he said. “Get the marines on the sails. I have no idea what I’m doing and Poqin’s idea of steering is ‘aim for the least explodey thing.’”
Isuka let out a sharp breath, then nodded. “Fine. But if this ship sinks, I’m haunting you both.”
“Joke’s on you,” Gale said, already jogging across the deck, “I’m already haunted. By the ghost of bad decisions.”
She spun on her heel and barked commands at the crew like she’d been born on a ship. Within seconds, the panic started turning into action—ropes were pulled, sails adjusted, and the crew snapped into motion.
Gale ran back to the front, hand on the railing, eyes on the frozen maze ahead. The mist still clung to the air, curling low along the deck like it was watching them. Waiting.
Was this Blight’s doing? Could his power really stretch this far? Or was the Grand Line just feeling extra spicy today?
Either way, they had icebergs to dodge and a kingdom to save.
He grabbed the speaking tube and yelled into it, “Poqin! Whatever you do—don’t steer us into anything!”
The reply came instantly, full of joy and zero responsibility: “No promises!”
Gale sighed.
“Should’ve joined the Revolutionaries instead,” he muttered. “Bet they don’t have surprise iceberg ambushes.”
And then the next iceberg loomed into view, massive and shimmering like a frozen mountain.
“...Probably.”
