Wicked_Fiction
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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #70
🕑 Added 2025-06-09 02:23:09 +0000 UTCThe woman’s train of thought screeched to a halt when she caught sight of a figure leaping from ship to ship like some overly confident acrobat in a recruitment commercial.
A young man landed squarely in front of her with an unnecessary twirl and the cocky kind of grin that said “I don’t actually have a plan, but I look damn good pretending I do.”
He drew a rapier with a flourish. Not a big, intimidating broadsword, or a cool, ninja-style short blade—no, a rapier. Elegant, refined, and impractical for anything but duels and dramatic entrances unless you have years of training.
Just like hers...
'Huh. Fancy-boy's got taste.'
Beyond him, she saw the merchant ship she’d been oh-so-theatrically sprinting toward. It was already surrounded—Marine ships cutting off its path like wolves on a carcass.
Judging by how fast the cannons were being wheeled into place, it wouldn’t be floating much longer. That was fine. The ship had never really mattered. It was a decoy, and her frantic dash toward it had been just one big, messy piece of misdirection.
Sure, she'd hoped for a little less chaos in the execution, but chaos was like a second language to the Revolutionary Army by this point.
She turned her attention back to the man blocking her way.
He stood calmly on the dock, the sun glinting off his blade, the sea breeze tugging at the half-buttoned shirt he wore like a pirate who got halfway through dressing and gave up.
He wasn’t dressed like a Marine. No stiff blues, no overly serious epaulets, no “justice” kanji screaming across his back like a desperate Tinder bio. He wasn’t one of the Celestial Dragon guards either—those guys wore enough metal to qualify as siege equipment.
But he was here to stop her.
That much was clear.
Still, there was something about his expression. Not hostile—not the relentless, slobbering “I’m-gonna-be-the-hero-today” look every other Marine had been throwing at her since the chase began.
It was… curious. Studious. The kind of look a swordsman gives someone they might get to cross blades with—and also the kind of look she'd get from the odd drunk pirate who thought a drink and a bad pickup line was a valid opening move.
She smirked.
'interesting...'
Meanwhile, Gale stood there, still holding his sword in one hand and trying very hard not to look impressed. Which was difficult, because he was impressed.
The woman had just cut through an entire line of Marines like they were made of tissue paper, and now she was grinning like she’d just caught the bartender eyeing her tab and deciding she looked too cute to charge.
'Okay, he thought, she’s fast, dangerous, and probably insane. My type, basically.'
Still, orders were orders, and unfortunately those orders came from an admiral who could kick a laser through a mountain. That tended to motivate a guy.
He cleared his throat, raising the tip of his rapier slightly. “Hi there. I’m supposed to stop you,” he said, flashing a crooked grin. “Not super excited about it, but, y’know. Job’s a job.”
The woman finally came to a stop, the sound of her boots skidding against the dock echoing just long enough to feel dramatic. She raised her rapier, the polished blade catching the sunlight as she fell into a low duelist’s stance—graceful, practiced, and just a little bit smug.
“As it so happens,” she called out, her voice light and breezy despite the chaos all around them, “I’ve also got a job to do.”
Gale exhaled slowly through his nose, adjusting his grip on his own blade. “Well… sounds like we’ve got ourselves a classic philosophical dilemma.”
She tilted her head.
He shrugged. “Unstoppable force, immovable object, all that. Can’t be helped.”
“Then,” she said, smile spreading, “there’s only one thing to do.”
Before the sentence was even finished, she stepped forward and vanished.
Gale’s smirk tightened into a line as his eyes tracked the flicker of motion. He took a step of his own—then blinked out of view in a flash, the air around him warping faintly with a soft crack of displaced wind.
They met in the middle with a clash of steel, their blades kissing and sparking midair like two old friends who never quite liked each other.
The impact reverberated through both rapiers, sending shudders up their arms. Their eyes met in that split-second, and something flickered behind the tension—recognition.
'Wait… how does she—'
No time. No time for doubt, for second guesses, for whatever weird déjà vu was trying to crawl out of his brain. Instinct took over. Gale gritted his teeth and shifted his weight, throwing more strength into his right arm. He powered through the woman’s defense, knocking her rapier off-angle with a screech of metal on metal.
She stumbled back half a step, light on her feet. But Gale wasn’t done.
He dropped low, one hand reaching behind his back in a sweeping motion as he stepped in again.
His sword arm shot forward with precision—center mass, controlled thrust, just enough force to knock the wind out of someone without gutting them like a fish. Ideally.
But she wasn’t panicking.
Far from it.
Her blade dipped down and caught the thrust with its flat, expertly guiding it aside. Then she moved in close, too close for a follow-up swing. Her elbow snapped forward like a spring-loaded trap and cracked against his cheek.
Gale saw stars.
He stumbled back with a grunt, one hand to his face. “Ow. Ow.”
His tongue poked around his mouth, checking for loose teeth. Nope. Just blood.
He spat red onto the dock and glared at her. “You hit like a truck.”
She blinked. “I don’t know what a truck is… but I’m pretty sure that’s not a polite thing to call a lady.”
Gale wiped his mouth, still scowling, but it was the kind of scowl that had a grin hiding underneath. “Yeah, well… lady or not, seems like I can't afford to be a gentleman anymore....”
“Then would the gentleman like a matching bruise for the other cheek?” she offered sweetly, already repositioning her stance.
'Yup, Gale thought. Definitely my type. Unfortunately.'
Gale exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, pushing aside every stray thought, flirty impulse, and intrusive wow, she really is hot when she’s trying to kill me observation. Time to stop screwing around.
He hadn’t planned to take this seriously. Honestly, he was just going to throw in a few flashy moves, let her run off if she got too annoying, and file it under “Attempted Effort” for Kizaru’s ever-expanding list of Things He Didn't Actually Care About.
But now?
Now it wasn’t about Kizaru. Or the mission. Or some vague sense of duty.
Now it was about Florencio.
Gale’s grip tightened on the hilt of his rapier. He could still hear the old man’s voice in the back of his head—half stern, half poetic nonsense. “Your sword is not for show, chico. Each cut you make, you sign your name across the world.”
And Gale wasn’t about to sign that name with a big fat L in his first real fight since the man’s death.
He took one step forward.
“Ready or not—” he said, and then vanished, not even bothering to finish the line.
He reappeared right in front of the woman, his body low, his fist already swinging down like a meteor. “—here I come.”
But she wasn’t rattled.
Not even close.
Without missing a beat, her off-hand shot behind her back and came back with a gleaming dagger—slender, curved, and clearly not just for decoration. With practiced ease, she raised it, catching Gale’s rapier between the blade and guard.
Metal screeched, sparks flew, and then she twisted, flicking her arm aside with a move so smooth it was almost disrespectful.
But Gale was just as fast.
Her sword arm pulled back, thrusting forward like a striking cobra, the tip of her rapier zeroing in on his exposed midsection.
Damn, she’s fast—
Gale’s hand went to his cape in a flourish, sweeping it around with a dramatic flair that would’ve made Florencio weep tears of pride—and probably correct his footwork mid-duel.
The cape wrapped around the blade, catching and redirecting it with a tug and twist. Steel slid harmlessly past him, biting nothing but air.
But both of them had tried to overpower the other’s weapon. The force of their counters pulled them forward—an awkward tangle of momentum and crossed wrists—until they found themselves chest-to-chest, breath mingling, swords locked somewhere between them.
And they both froze.
Just for a second.
It was too much.
Way too much.
Gale’s brain, already running on half-sarcasm and leftover breakfast fish, was currently doing its best impersonation of a dial-up connection trying to load a ten-hour video. The way she moved—fluid, measured, familiar. The dagger in her off-hand. The rapier in her dominant. The white rose in her hair. Seriously?
A rapier and dagger style? In the exact same rhythm as espada y capa, down to the way she planted her back foot before a thrust?
That wasn’t a coincidence. That was a carbon copy.
Gears in his head, long neglected and rusted from years of not dealing with emotional baggage, were finally turning. Wires were sparking. Dots were being connected with the urgency of someone suddenly realizing they forgot their own birthday.
He tried to ignore the growing suspicion, focus on the fight, on her movements, on everything but the thing forming in his gut like a pit.
Kiwanu’s conditioning had taught him to clear his mind completely in combat—only the opponent mattered, not their name, not their face, not their criminal record or tendency to make him feel like he was fencing against a ghost.
Just react, that was the mantra. But right now, even that wasn't enough to block out the nagging voice yelling in his skull.
His eye met hers—sharp cheekbones, sweat tracing a line down her brow, intensity like a live wire.
And all he could think was Holy hell, she fights and looks too much like him...
Florencio.
He saw Florencio in her everything.
"...So," Gale said slowly, the words tasting strange in his mouth, “you wouldn’t happen to be named Alma, would you?”
Time stopped.
For real this time—not just the dramatic slow-motion stuff. She froze like someone had hit her with a Sea Prism Stone to the soul. Her whole posture stiffened, like her spine had turned to iron.
Her lips parted like she was about to speak, but whatever came out would not be for public consumption.
And then the ground exploded.
Gale didn’t even have time to curse before he flung himself back, heels digging in as the earth beneath them buckled like dough under a fist. Cracks spiderwebbed outward.
A massive hand—a freaking giant hand—burst upward from the ground, fingers wide like it was catching a falling star.
Alma didn’t hesitate. She leapt into the waiting palm like she’d done it a hundred times before. Her body still tense, but her eyes never leaving Gale.
She looked down at him from the hand’s perch. “Who are you?” she demanded, breathless but guarded, something wild and uncertain flickering behind her eyes.
Gale, for once, was not in the mood to joke. Which, honestly, scared him more than the giant hand. His mind was spinning so fast he thought he might throw up. In one afternoon, he'd managed to:
Confirm the identity of the Celestial Dragon responsible for wiping out Florencio’s estate.
Accidentally fight a woman who not only used his master's sword style, but—
Might actually be Florencio's presumed-dead daughter.
Honestly, this was either the most incredible coincidence in the history of sword fights... or... he didn't even know what to compare it with...
Gale took a steadying breath, trying to find the words. His throat felt dry.
“My name,” he said quietly, “is Harlow Gale.”
He lifted his rapier slightly—Florencio’s signature flourish. “I’m the last student of Don Florencio De La Rosa.”
The effect was immediate.
Something cracked in Alma’s expression. Not just shock—no, this was deeper. It was grief. Pain. And something else too—anger. Not at him, but at the world for not letting ghosts stay dead.
Her hands curled into fists. Her jaw clenched.
“I will remember that,” she said, voice low and shaking with the weight of too many buried emotions.
And with that, the giant hand slipped back into the earth like it had never been there, dragging Alma with it. The cracked ground sealed shut behind her, leaving nothing but torn dirt, broken cobblestones, and one extremely confused swordsman in a slightly scorched cape standing alone in the street.
Gale stared at the spot she’d vanished from, eyes wide.
Then finally, he let out a long breath and muttered, “...Man, I was so not ready for that level of drama today.”
Comments
Wicked_Fiction
It's more like narration, but I seenit now that you've pointed it out.
Heraclitus
A one piece character referencing a tinder bio in their internal monologue is odd.
