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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #67
🕑 Added 2025-06-04 23:58:17 +0000 UTCGale made his way toward the collapsed Marine, boots crunching lightly over the marble floor. The guy was still breathing—barely—but Gale figured he had a good ten minutes to live, fifteen tops if the guy had a strong constitution and a really good grudge to cling to.
He was just about to kneel when two towering Celestial Dragon guards stepped into view, stomping over in their clunky, full-body armor like medieval vending machines.
Gale frowned. “Hey. What are you two doing?”
The guards didn’t answer at first. They just bent down and—like they were taking out the trash—started lifting the Marine by the arms and legs.
“We’re going to throw him away,” one of them said, tone as bland as stale bread. “Can’t have blood staining the floors of Pangaea Castle.”
Gale’s jaw tensed. Throw him away? Like he was a sandwich wrapper?
He took a breath. Deep. Controlled. He tried to be civil, because he was wearing the uniform and wasn’t supposed to go around punching armored meatheads in the diplomatic wing of the most dangerous castle on the planet.
“Listen,” he said slowly, calmly, politely, “the guy’s still alive. I can save him if you just put him down. Gently. Like he’s a human being and not some—”
“The great Saint already decided,” the second guard interrupted, not even looking at him. “This man’s life is forfeit. He’s already dead.”
There was a moment of silence.
A long moment.
Gale blinked.
Then blinked again.
And then very slowly, clenched his fists so hard his knuckles popped.
He exhaled like he was trying to keep a volcano from going off in his chest.
'Okay. One last try. Let's not make this into an incident. Deep breaths, Gale. Think of puppies. Or punching bags. Or puppies punching bags—wait, no, that’s not how that works.'
He took one step forward and cleared his throat.
“Okay. Look,” Gale said, tone still polite, but barely. “I could spend a full hour telling you all the ways that sentence you just said makes zero goddamn sense. Heck, I could write an essay about how incredibly punchable that logic was. I'd even get it peer-reviewed.”
The guards turned toward him.
“But,” Gale went on, cracking his neck, “I don’t have the time. Or the patience. Or enough therapy sessions under my belt.”
He smiled. A very not friendly smile.
“So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna put him down—gently—and then you’re gonna piss off somewhere far, far away from me before I lose the last sliver of patience I’ve got left and show you just what it means to ‘forfeit’ your life.”
The two guards exchanged a glance.
There was a long pause.
Then the two guards—clearly not blessed with good survival instincts—burst into laughter.
One even doubled over, slapping his thigh like this was the funniest thing he'd seen all week. “Oi, look at this guy!” he said between wheezes. “Skinny as a bean sprout and thinks he’s scary!”
“He must be new,” the other one chuckled, stepping closer. “Probably from Marine HQ or whatever boot camp they’re dragging kids from these days.”
He reached out, hand coming down toward Gale’s shoulder, all casual-like. “Listen, brat. This isn't Marineford. This is Mary Geoise. Here, the word of the Celestial Dragons is—”
He didn’t get to finish that sentence.
Hell, he didn’t even get to touch Gale.
Because Gale’s fist suddenly shot forward, slamming into the man’s gut with a thunderous CRACK—his hand dense as a meteorite. The guard’s armor, which probably cost more than a small ship, crumpled like tinfoil under the punch.
For one glorious second, the guy hovered in the air, his body bent in half like someone hit the fold line just right.
Then he dropped like a sack of bricks.
Face-first.
Out cold.
The laughter stopped.
The second guard’s eyes widened behind his visor. The man’s grip tightened around his lance, and he lunged with the desperate, twitchy reflexes of a guy who just realized the funny little bean sprout might be a goddamn monster.
But Gale was already moving.
Before the man could thrust, Gale reached up and snatched the helmet with one hand. Just grabbed it, like he was trying to unscrew a stubborn jar of pickles.
Veins bulged in Gale’s arm. His muscles thickened, density cranking up like a dial being turned to eleven.
Metal groaned.
The helmet began to cave in slowly under the pressure, warping and squealing like it was in pain. The man inside it definitely was.
“Lemme guess,” Gale growled, staring the guy down through the gaps in the helmet, “you were gonna give me a whole speech too, huh? Something about ‘orders are orders’ or ‘this is above your paygrade’?”
The guard let out a panicked grunt.
“Yeah,” Gale muttered, voice low and menacing. “That’s what I thought.”
The metal bent a little more. Any further and he’d be painting the courtyard with Celestial Dragon guard brain.
Which, let’s be honest, Gale thought grimly, is probably just dust and entitlement.
But with a sigh, Gale eased off.
“It's your lucky day, tin can,” he said, and flung the guy across the courtyard like a frisbee.
He slammed into the far wall with a resounding boom, crumpling to the ground like laundry tossed on a chair.
And just like that, the courtyard was quiet again.
Gale exhaled and knelt next to the Marine, his expression softening as he quickly scanned the man’s chest. “Alright, buddy. Let’s see if you’re the lucky kind of shot,” he muttered, ripping his shirt open. “If you wake up, I'd like to know just what gave the idea you can talk sense into a Celestial Dragon...”
'Still can’t believe I had to do that,' he thought, as he began to inspect the would. 'And in the middle of the damn holy land. I swear, if this comes back to bite me in the ass, I'll kill as many celestials as I can before jumping off the Red Line...'
...
Wapol narrowed his eyes, watching that scruffy, long-haired upstart crouch over the fallen Marine like some battlefield medic in a bedtime story.
Gale—or whatever the brat’s name was—murmured something under his breath while tending to the wound, completely ignoring the fact that he'd just flattened two of the Celestial Dragons’ personal guards.
Not that Wapol particularly cared about the Marine. He couldn’t even remember if the guy had a name. But that boy… that Gale… he was a problem.
He’d seen him chatting with that old desert buzzard Cobra earlier—casually, like they were old friends. And now Cobra was using that same connection, that same puppy-eyed savior boy, to win over the other royals, no doubt buttering them up for whatever sappy idealist nonsense he planned to push at the Reverie.
And now?
Now the “young hero” was openly defying the will of a Celestial Dragon—right in the middle of Pangaea Castle. In front of kings, queens, princes, generals, and gods-knew-who else. And what was everyone doing?
Just… staring.
Mouths open. Eyes bugged. Too shocked or spineless to move.
Wapol grinned.
Oh, this was perfect. This was the moment. Time to stick it to Cobra. Time to remind everyone who really had backbone around here. Time to turn public opinion back where it belonged—with someone powerful, someone cunning, someone who eats a man whole before breakfast.
He cleared his throat dramatically, puffing his chest like a very shiny, very obnoxious pigeon.
“Oi!!” he shouted, pointing a sausagey finger at the Marines nearby. “What do you bastards think you're doing just standing there?!”
Heads turned.
“This criminal just assaulted royal guards! Hurry up and stop this arrogant little bastard who dared to defy the will of the great—!”
Something swept his legs clean out from under him.
There was a blur.
A thud.
And then Wapol was on the ground, flat on his back with his royal dignity somewhere in orbit.
“Ugh—ghrah—what the hell?!” he barked, sputtering through his drool-polished chin.
Above him stood Poqin. Still grinning. Still sipping. The man’s bottle tilted just enough to spill a little onto Wapol’s golden cravat.
“Well, well,” Poqin said lazily, looking down at him with the air of someone about to deliver a roasty proverb. “Guess the floor decided it didn’t like your face.”
He took another swig and squatted next to Wapol like he was about to gut a fish or give him life advice. Could go either way with Poqin.
“You an idiot, or just ambitious in a real stupid way?” he asked cheerfully. “’Cause let me paint you a picture, Your Roundness: that guy you’re yappin’ about just folded a royal guard like an omelette. The other one nearly got his head juiced like a grape.”
He tilted his head. “What, exactly, d’you think he’d do to you if you started screechin’ like a wounded goose?”
Wapol tried to speak. Really, he did. He even managed a couple of consonants.
“Guh—wha—I—”
“Nah, don’t strain yourself,” Poqin said, waving it off.
His grin widened as he gestured lazily at the stunned crowd of nobles and royals standing around like furniture. “You thought you were bein’ clever, huh? Tryin’ to curry favor with the Celestial Dragons? Maybe score some cheap points in front of the others?”
Wapol scrambled to his feet, brushing off the front of his robe like that somehow undid the damage to his pride. He looked around again at the surrounding kings and queens, expecting support—maybe even a few approving nods.
Instead?
Still just shock. Wide eyes. Stiff backs. Even the guy whose wife just got violated by a stray groping earlier looked like his mind just drew a blank.
What the hell was Poqin talking about? Wapol couldn’t see a single smile or smirk among them. They all looked like they were moments away from fainting.
Poqin must’ve seen the confusion on his face, because he stepped up again and gave Wapol a casual little tap on the forehead with the butt of his bottle.
“You really think any self-respecting king or queen’s gonna wear their true thoughts on their faces?” he asked, amused. “Everyone here probably had the same idea as you. Even that poor sap whose wife got second-hand violated five minutes ago.”
He pointed across the crowd at a puffy-cheeked noble man currently fuming in absolute silence, his entire face twitching.
“The only difference,” Poqin added with a grin, “is they weren’t dumb enough to actually act on it.”
Wapol’s face scrunched like he’d just eaten a lemon. His rage was bubbling now, and he was about ready to let it fly.
“Y-You filthy bald bastard—! You dare insult a royal? I’ll have your head mounted above my—!”
But Poqin just laughed and talked over him like he hadn’t even heard the threat.
“But now you’re probably wonderin’,” he mused, raising the bottle in mock lecture pose, “if they all wanted to do what you did, why didn’t they?”
Wapol blinked, thrown off by the interruption and the sudden turn in logic.
“Well sure,” Poqin continued, shrugging. “There’s the obvious: no one wants to get their spine turned into spaghetti like that guard earlier. That’s Reason A.”
He then lazily gestured behind Wapol. “But Reason B’s a bit sneakier. Go on, Your Roundness—take a look behind you. Really look.”
Wapol turned.
The Marines were watching.
And not in the obedient-soldier way he expected.
Some were glaring directly at him, like they were barely holding back from drawing their guns. Others were looking at Gale and the bleeding Marine with naked concern. One or two were already moving to help—very pointedly not arresting anyone.
Even Kizaru, lazy as ever, looked... mildly irritated.
That alone was enough to make Wapol’s sweat glands wake up.
He looked back at Poqin, who had an almost sympathetic grin now—like he was explaining math to someone who kept eating the chalk.
“You see it now?” Poqin said, voice calm but cutting. “These guys might wear uniforms, but they're not robots. That guy on the ground? He's their own. Same with the one helping him. You think they’re gonna arrest him for trying to save a fellow Marine?”
He took another drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Nah. If anything, they’re more likely to shoot you, then claim you insulted the Celestial Dragons and they had no choice... and everyone here will go along with it...”
Wapol opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No sound came out. Somewhere, a fly probably buzzed into his throat and died.
Poqin let that moment hang, then glanced across the sea of royals and nobles.
“At the end of the day, yeah... Celestial Dragons hold the leash. Everyone knows that. But it’s the Marines who gotta bite the wolves away, and you don't go around beating on the dog guarding your land...”
He turned back to Wapol, all trace of humor gone from his face now. “And every monarch here seems to understand that... except you.”
Wapol stood frozen, his usual smugness curdled into silence.
And for once, nobody rushed to speak. No one clapped. No one followed up with a joke.
The crowd simply looked between Gale—still tending to the bleeding Marine, brows furrowed in quiet frustration—and the unconscious guards on the floor, like they were finally waking up from a shared delusion.
Then, slowly, the tension began to drain from the room.
No grand declarations. No justice speeches. Just a young man doing the right thing, and a whole room of supposed “leaders” who’d just watched him do it.
