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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #60
🕑 Added 2025-05-25 10:10:05 +0000 UTCIn the farthest corner of the Marineford scrapyard, where the rusted bones of retired battleships loomed like forgotten monuments, the crunch of footsteps echoed softly across gravel and broken metal.
Kuzan—Admiral Aokiji to the five people who still bothered with formalities—let out a long, drawn-out sigh as he ambled between twisted hulls and cracked decks.
“Arara... it’s been a while,” he muttered, one hand in his coat pocket, the other carrying his prized nap blindfold like a sacred relic. “Looks worse than I remember. Good to know they’re still not cleaning this place.”
He knew this path well. Every curve of ship debris, every creaky metal plate that groaned underfoot. This had been his training ground once, back when he was just a scruffy up-and-comer with a dream and no respect for ship durability.
He hadn’t really “trained” in the traditional sense. Not unless “watching Garp uppercut a battleship for fun and then doing it too until your knuckles bleed” counted as a structured workout.
Garp had given him the same amount of guidance one might give to a stubborn mule: lots of yelling, some food, and the occasional smack if your posture sucked.
But none of that mattered now. These days, Kuzan was a busy man. Admiral duties, global emergencies, the occasional war crime to prevent. No time for punching ships or dragging himself into another one of Garp’s muscle-brained schemes.
The only reason he came here anymore was for The Boulder.
Flat, wide, perfectly angled to catch the sunset breeze—The Boulder was sacred. It was, in Kuzan’s professional opinion, the best nap spot in all of Marineford.
He had others, sure. A hammock strung between two storage cranes, a bench behind the mess hall no one used, that one suspiciously soft pile of ropes by the docks... but none compared to The Boulder.
He climbed up onto it with the sluggish grace of a man who had earned this moment. His coat fluttered lazily in the wind as he stretched out, pulled the blindfold over his eyes, and sighed in pure, tranquil bliss.
And then...
Shift.
Toss.
Turn.
Twist.
Flop.
"Arara..." he muttered, adjusting his arms.
Another shift.
And another.
And then he sat up.
"...Arara," he said again, less chilled this time. He pulled the blindfold off, blinking down at the stone beneath him. Something was wrong. It wasn’t the usual smooth, welcoming slab of nap granite. It was... lumpy.
His brows furrowed as he got to his feet and examined the surface more closely.
The boulder was pockmarked with strange dents. Deep ones. Wide ones. Foot-shaped ones.
“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Kuzan mumbled.
He crouched down, pressing a hand to one of the indentations. Fresh. Someone had been dancing—or more likely, training—on his nap spot.
And judging by the footwork, the precision, the sheer inconsiderate stomping—they’d been at it a while.
Some little sword-happy gremlin had turned his napping sanctuary into a sparring mat.
“Do I not suffer enough?” Kuzan muttered. “I don’t sleep, I get yelled at in five time zones, and now this?”
He stood, brushing off his hands, and gave the boulder one last, betrayed look.
“Garp punched ships but at least he had the decency to respect nature. You stomp around for a couple of weeks and it’s like you tangoed with granite.”
He glanced around the scrapyard, eyes narrowed behind the sleepy half-lidded squint he wore like a second coat. “Who even comes out here anymore?”
He had a hunch. A gut feeling. And it smelled like "some fresh-faced recruit with too much energy and no respect for holy ground."
...
Gale trudged through the paved pathways of Marineford, jacket slung over one shoulder, mind somewhere between exhaustion and quiet triumph.
The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows over the pristine white walls and occasional cannon tower that screamed “government authority, but make it photogenic.”
It had been two months since he first set foot on this fortress-island. Two months of relentless training, near-death lectures, surprise exams, and more fistfights than he'd care to admit.
And now? He was finally done.
All three courses—passed. Hand-to-hand? Survived. Sharpshooting? Technically passed (if barely). And now, leadership? The final hurdle.
Complete.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Hah… free at last. One whole month of sweet, sweet freedom before evaluation day.”
The leadership course had been the one he'd dreaded the most. Not because it sounded hard—though, spoiler alert, it was—but because it sounded like one of those philosophical deep-dives where old guys in coats ask you what it means to lead.
He was not here for that.
But thankfully, it hadn’t been that at all. No speeches about “morale” or “earning your men's trust through mutual respect” or whatever Garp would definitely not say.
Instead, it had been plain, practical tactics. Cold, hard logistics. Just the kind of stuff that made Gale feel like he was back in Kiwanu’s murder classroom learning combat theory all over again.
Instead of “what do you do when a wild boar charges you with the intent of impaling your spleen,” it was now “what do you do when twenty pirates take over a cargo ship full of hostages and you've only got ten men and a barrel of rotten oranges.”
It was chess with real stakes, and Gale could work with that.
The workload, though? Absolutely soul-crushing. There were binders—binders—on naval formations, hostage negotiation strategies, weather patterns, battlefield positioning, signal flags, supply lines, psychological warfare, how to yell loud enough to be heard during cannon fire, and, bizarrely, emergency seagull diplomacy.
“Who even wrote that section…” Gale muttered, still sore about that pop quiz on avian treaty breaches.
But he had managed. He had pushed through it all. His Torino-forged work ethic kicked in with all the grace of a sledgehammer to the face, and he studied every night until his eyes burned and his dreams turned into flashcards.
He had absorbed in one month what most Marines struggled to cram into their skulls over a full year. And while he wouldn’t exactly call the process fun, there was a certain thrill to knowing he could now probably lead a squadron without getting everyone vaporized. Theoretically.
His legs carried him back toward the town, but his mind was still going, replaying one of the final drills from earlier that day.
"Enemy has hostages. They've fortified a warehouse. You have fifteen soldiers, two cannon teams, and one annoying pigeon that won't stop stealing your maps. What's your move?"
He’d passed that test by flanking through the docks, setting off a smokescreen, and using the pigeon as an unwitting distraction. Not his proudest moment, but hey, the hostages survived. Mostly.
Gale stretched his arms over his head and sighed.
...
With all three courses finally out of the way, Gale should’ve been thrilled. Free time. No more paperwork. No more instructors yelling about "standard Marine procedures." No more PowerPoint slides on hostage crisis protocols made by someone who clearly hated joy.
He should’ve been thrilled.
Instead, he was drooping.
Not like cool drooping, either. More like the “every step hurts and I think my spleen is trying to file a complaint” kind of drooping.
“Okay,” Gale muttered to himself as he dragged his sore body across the training yard, “in retrospect, pushing myself to the limit was a really dumb idea.”
Two days ago, he'd had the genius, absolutely galaxy-brained idea of upgrading his training regimen. Up until that point, he’d been working on mastering the basics Florencio had left behind—starting with footwork.
And to be fair, he had made progress. He’d learned how to do that tricky little stutter-step maneuver by lowering his body’s density—basically making himself light enough to float into a perfect dance of swipes, sidesteps, and cape swirls.
Gale had trained until he could pull off those footwork combos without the crutch of his Devil Fruit, and eventually, he even started mixing it in with his swordplay, dodging with a flourish, parrying with flair, and occasionally firing off a quick-draw revolver shot when the drama wasn’t enough.
“Espada y capa,” Gale whispered dramatically as he mimed a flick of the wrist. “Because stabbing someone while looking fabulous is what separates the pros from the amateurs.”
Two days ago, he’d been feeling so confident, so in the zone, that he thought: Hey, maybe I’m ready for the next level. Time to go full anime boss fight.
Which brought him to his current situation.
He hadn't even started on Florencio’s ultimate technique yet—the one where he’d casually flick his wrist, vanish from sight, and fill a training dummy with more holes than a donut factory, all while petals exploded into the air like someone dumped a flower shop into a hurricane.
Nope. Gale wasn’t even close to that. But instead of slowly working up to it like a normal person, he figured: Why not train while increasing my body’s density to the max? Y’know, just to make it harder. Toughen the muscles. Reinforce the bones. Speedrun suffering.
That lasted exactly three minutes before his legs screamed for union rights.
“Agonizing” didn’t even begin to describe it. Imagine trying to sprint through molasses while dragging an anchor and simultaneously getting slapped by gravity itself. He could barely move, barely breathe, and somehow, he kept going.
For two whole days.
And now? The boulder he used as a training partner was filled with foot-shaped dents. Like, perfectly-shaped indents. Like someone tried to stomp out a full routine of Riverdance while wearing lead boots.
Gale sighed as he looked down at his aching legs. “I don’t know what’s worse. The pain, or the fact that I kinda want to do it again.”
Was he becoming one of those people? The kind that wakes up at 5 a.m. for self-inflicted suffering? Was this how Kiwanu felt every day? Did the Torino tribesmen infect him with some kind of warrior’s guilt?
He paused mid-step, rubbing the back of his neck.
“…Or maybe I’ve just completely lost it.”
...
Putting all thoughts of training, crushed boulders, and questionable life choices aside, Gale finally reached the small Marine town nestled at the edge of Marineford’s main island.
The sun was starting to dip, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets, and his legs were doing that weird shaky thing where they couldn’t decide if they were bones or wet spaghetti.
His little house—more like a refurbished supply shack with a fresh coat of paint and a slightly judgmental door—came into view. Gale unlocked it, pushed the door open, and was immediately hit with the faint scent of incense and mischief.
“Poqin,” Gale sighed as he stepped inside. “Tell me you brought booze.”
The robe-wrapped monk sitting cross-legged on Gale’s couch smiled like a man who knew exactly what buttons to push and had a small collection of them in his pocket.
“Didn’t bring any,” Poqin said cheerfully, sipping tea like a fraud. “Because we’re going to get some. Right now.”
Gale blinked. “You... want me to walk again?”
“You’ll live,” Poqin said. “Besides, this isn’t just any booze. We’re talking warehouse number ninety-nine.”
Gale frowned. “That the one with the stupidly oversized padlock and armed guards and a dog that bites people’s souls?”
“The very same,” Poqin said with a grin. “Inside are a couple barrels of Algrund’s Flame. Brewed somewhere the sun doesn't shine... or was it somewhere the place doesn't set...?”
“Anyway, it's Aged five hundred years. Infused with volcanic herbs. Tastes like cinnamon and judgment. Apparently prepared for some big-shot dignitary arriving tomorrow.”
Gale stared at him.
“…And you want to steal it?”
Poqin shrugged. “Liberate it.”
“Right. Of course. You realize I’m technically a Marine, right?”
“Technically, so am I. But spiritually?” He gestured at Gale’s general existence. “You’re just a very well-dressed pirate with a badge.”
Gale exhaled through his nose, dropped his sword belt by the door, and limped to the couch. “No thanks. I’ve had enough training-induced death wish for the week. Breaking into a guarded warehouse just sounds like too much of a pain in the ass.”
He flopped onto the couch beside Poqin, rubbing his temples.
There was a long pause.
Then, Poqin leaned in, smile widening.
“Did I mention it was brewed in Elbaf?” he said slowly, “A barrel of the stuff would make a perfect gift for a certain blonde giantess.”
Gale froze.
His brain short-circuited.
“…you son of a bitch,” he said, standing up and cracking his knuckles, “I’m in.”
Poqin extended a hand. Gale took it, and they shook with all the solemnity of two idiots who were about to ruin someone’s logistics report.
Somewhere across the base, a logistics officer sneezed violently and had no idea why.
Gale grinned, the pain in his legs forgotten, adrenaline already starting to kick in. “Alright, monk. Let’s go commit some low treason.”
