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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #53
🕑 Added 2025-05-18 03:33:46 +0000 UTCThe docks of Foosha Village were livelier than usual that morning. The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and wood polish, seagulls cawed overhead, and a small crowd had gathered to see the Marines off. It had been two weeks since Garp’s ship had anchored here, and now the time had come to leave.
Gale stood near the ship, arms crossed, watching as crates were hauled aboard and ropes were coiled with military efficiency. The sun was still low, casting long shadows across the docks—and right in the middle of it all was Luffy, dramatically waving around a giant flag that read “SEE YA, GRAMPS!”
Gale sighed. “We were here two weeks. Two weeks. And somehow I’m still surprised by him.”
“Surprised by who?” asked Poqin, appearing beside him with a duffel slung over one shoulder and his usual unreadable monk-face.
Gale jabbed a thumb toward Luffy, who had now climbed on top of a barrel and was shouting something about becoming King of the Pirates to a flock of totally indifferent seagulls.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Gale muttered. “Kid’s got heart. Fire. Spirit. But also? No brain cells. Just vibes.”
Poqin hummed thoughtfully. “Reminds me of you, honestly.”
“I have plenty of brain cells,” Gale protested.
“Sure,” Poqin said, already walking away. “You keep telling yourself that.”
Still, he couldn’t deny it. These two weeks had been exhausting in ways training never could be. Luffy was… well, Luffy. Trying to keep up with his logic was like trying to wrestle fog. Or a rubber fog. That punched you.
But none of that really mattered. Because in between the madness, the yelling, and the increasingly questionable meals Luffy tried to “cook,” Gale had made real progress.
He’d finally mastered Florencio’s footwork.
It had taken mornings of balancing on fence posts, afternoons dashing through the forest at full tilt, and one particularly humiliating incident involving a chicken coop and a very aggressive rooster—but he’d done it. The signature rhythm was now burned into his legs, flowing like the beat of a dance he couldn’t quite hear yet.
All that was left was to pair it with Espada y Cappa—and then, finally, he’d be ready to start learning the actual sword style. The one with all the roses and dramatic flourishes and—if he was being honest—probably a lot of sneezing. He was still not over how Florencio was allergic to his own aesthetic.
Beyond that, Gale had also spent a fair bit of time at the bar, doing his best to charm Makino. It was hit or miss. Mostly miss. She laughed at his jokes, smiled politely when he complimented her, and didn’t throw anything at him, which felt like progress.
But still, her attention never really lingered. Maybe if he had more time, he could’ve chipped away at whatever calm wall she kept between her and the world.
But time was the one thing they didn’t have.
“Oi, Gale!” Garp’s voice boomed from the deck. “You planning to stand there all day with that lovesick look or are you gonna board like a proper marine?!”
Gale rolled his eyes and hoisted his pack. “Coming, sir,” he shouted back, dragging out the ‘sir’ just enough to be respectful and mildly irritating.
As he approached the ramp, he gave Makino one last glance. She stood with Luffy, hands folded in front of her apron, a small smile on her face. Their eyes met, and she gave him a short nod. Not a romantic farewell, but not cold either.
Maybe, just maybe, she’d remember him.
They pulled away from the dock to cheers, waves, and Luffy yelling something about “meat treasure maps.” The ship creaked as it picked up speed, sails filling with wind as they left the quaint little village behind.
Garp stood at the helm, arms crossed and grinning like this was just another Sunday.
“We head for the Calm Belt first,” he barked to the crew. “Then we hit the Tarai Current straight into Marine HQ. No detours. No pit stops. And no more babysitting!”
His eyes flicked toward Gale for just a second. Gale wisely chose not to respond.
As they cut through the waves, Gale leaned on the railing, watching the coastline shrink. A warm breeze rustled his coat, and he took a deep breath.
No more distractions. No more pitstops. Just the Calm Belt, the Tarai Current, and then… Marineford.
He grinned, adjusting the worn grip of his sword.
“Alright, old man Florencio,” he muttered under his breath, “let’s see what all this rose petal nonsense is really about.”
...
The Grand Line’s weather was having one of its episodes again.
The sky overhead was split in two—one half clear blue and sunny, the other a thunderstorm that looked like it had been dragged out of a sea god’s bad breakup.
Waves thrashed against Garp’s ship like angry toddlers, and the wind kept changing directions as if it couldn’t make up its mind. Typical Grand Line nonsense.
Amid all this chaos, Gale was in the middle of footwork drills, moving across the deck in flowing, precise steps, his cape fluttering behind him like he actually planned to look that dramatic.
He pivoted, slashed, spun, ducked a random flying fish (didn’t even flinch), and came to a sudden halt with his blade outstretched—just in time to avoid slipping on a wet plank.
Graceful as hell, he thought, then immediately tripped over a mop bucket.
Poqin, sitting like a lazy cat on a barrel near the mast, didn’t even blink. He took a slow sip from a dark bottle—rum, presumably, though Gale had no idea how the monk kept getting alcohol aboard a Marine vessel.
The man probably had a stash hidden inside a hollowed-out cannonball.
“You okay down there, swordsman?” Poqin asked, one brow raised, not bothering to move an inch.
“Do I look okay?” Gale groaned from the deck, rolling onto his back with his sword still clutched like a teddy bear. “I swear this damn ship is cursed.”
Poqin shrugged. “More like you’re cursed with a sense of balance that’s allergic to water.”
“I’ve got perfect balance,” Gale muttered, sitting up and brushing off sea foam. “It’s the weather that’s drunk.”
“Sure,” Poqin said, taking another sip, “blame the sky.”
Gale huffed and stood, twirling his sword once before sheathing it. Training was going fine, aside from the weather and the occasional flying seagull ambush. He could feel his control over Florencio’s footwork growing tighter—like a dance he was finally syncing with. His movements flowed smoother now, his instincts sharper.
But even that satisfaction wasn’t enough to suppress a long, tired sigh as he leaned against the rail and stared out at the absurd mess of sea and sky.
“This trip,” Gale muttered, “was supposed to be simple.”
Poqin gave a low hum. “You mean the trip that started with us being dragged behind the ship on ropes?”
“Okay, fair,” Gale admitted. “But after that, it was supposed to be simple.”
He let the wind tousle his hair as he stared into the distance, remembering just how not simple things had gotten.
Halfway through the Calm Belt, Marine HQ had called in. Something about a high-priority escort to Impel Down—some criminal who was awaiting judgment in Enies Lobby.
Garp, naturally, took the detour without blinking.
Again.
Because apparently, being the legendary “Hero of the Marines” meant schedules were more of a suggestion.
First, there was the stop at Foosha Village, which was totally just a personal detour so Garp could yell at his grandson. Nothing important, right?
Except—plot twist!—Gale and Poqin had noticed something weird tied up behind the ship when they first came aboard. Like a massive, tarp-covered lump dragging through the water like a bad idea.
Well, turns out it was a Sea King.
Yes. Garp had caught one. Again. The same Sea King, apparently, that Luffy would go on to punch into early retirement on his first day as a pirate. And as it turns out, this was Garp’s second time dragging it to shore like some kind of aquatic warning sign.
The first time? He’d brought it to keep Luffy, Ace, and Sabo from setting sail too early. It had worked—for like five minutes—before a certain red-haired pirate showed up, offered the kids some life advice, and scared the damn Sea King off by losing an arm.
Gale had heard all of this while overhearing a conversation between Garp and one of the crew, and he had to double check he hadn’t passed out drunk and imagined it.
“How the hell did he even find the same Sea King again?” Gale had asked later.
Poqin’s answer had been simple: “Don’t question it.”
And so Gale didn’t. Because Garp was Garp, and the world just bent around him like gravity trying to avoid getting punched, and he probably went through the trouble of finding the same sea king just because it bit off Shanks' arm.
Now, days later, as the ship rolled through the swells toward Impel Down, Gale rested his arms on the railing and let out another long sigh.
“This is our second detour,” he muttered. “If anyone calls me a flight risk again, I’m suing for irony.”
Poqin raised his bottle toward him in a mock toast. “To justice.”
Gale snorted. “To surviving long enough to get there.”
...
The weather hadn’t let up. Of course it hadn’t—it was the Grand Line. If the weather did settle down, Gale would start checking for apocalyptic signs.
But today, Gale didn’t care.
He stood barefoot on the deck of Garp’s ship, sword in hand, gliding through forms like the sea beneath him was steady and polite. Which it absolutely wasn’t.
Waves rocked the ship unpredictably, and every few minutes a fish launched itself out of the ocean like it was trying to win a gold medal in synchronized annoyance. One particularly shiny one whizzed past his ear.
Gale didn’t flinch.
He pivoted, vanished in a blur of footwork, and reappeared a few meters away with a precise thrust. Slash. Parry. Spin. The wood beneath him creaked. The ship tilted. His balance didn’t budge an inch.
He flowed through his drills like water in motion—controlled, focused, and somehow still dramatic enough to make an old flower-sniffing swordsman proud.
When he finally stopped, his chest rose with calm breaths, not exhaustion. His sword lowered smoothly, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Much better,” he murmured to himself.
From his usual barrel-throne near the mast, Poqin tilted his head and raised yet another bottle of rum he’d definitely stolen from somewhere.
“See? Told you it was a skill issue.”
Gale gave him a side-eye. “Zip it, drunk monk.”
Poqin grinned wider, clearly satisfied. “I speak only truth.”
To be fair, he kind of did. Gale had come a long way since that first week of flopping around like a landlubber trying ballet on a trampoline. Now? He could finally feel it.
The flow of motion, the rhythm of the sea beneath his feet. He was almost ready.
Florencio’s sword style—it was elegant, layered, filled with flourishes that were as much poetry as they were murder. Gale had been drilling footwork for weeks, building the foundation.
But practice alone wasn’t enough.
You could only slash the air so many times before it started feeling like shadowboxing with a cloud.
He needed someone to spar with. Someone who wouldn't explode or accidentally fall overboard. Someone with actual technique. He was just about to ask Poqin if he felt like getting smacked around a little for the greater good when—
“Looks like you're in need of a training partner, kid. How about you spar with me?”
Gale turned to see Bogard—yes, that Bogard—leaning against the rail like he’d been standing there the whole time. Which, knowing him, he probably had been.
The guy moved quieter than a whisper in a padded room.
“I’ve been watching you train the last few days,” Bogard said, walking over, arms relaxed, eyes sharp as ever. “You’ve improved.”
Gale blinked. “I was gonna ask Poqin, actually…”
“Too late,” Poqin said quickly, raising his hands. “You're stuck him now. I’m not getting my ribs bruised for free.”
Gale smirked. “Yeah, fair. You’d probably just dodge and drink at the same time.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Bogard drew his sword in a single, fluid motion. Not flashy—just efficient. There was something in the way he moved that made Gale instinctively shift into stance.
The kind of calm presence that came from years of experience and the unspoken promise that he could end the fight in one move if he really wanted to.
“We’ll be arriving at Enies Lobby soon,” Bogard said, voice even. “I’ll be busy once we dock. Let’s make these last few days count.”
Gale nodded, grin spreading across his face. This was it. This was the kind of pressure he needed. A real test.
Enies Lobby… the name rattled something in his head. He didn’t remember much about it from the anime—blame it on the fog of reincarnation or, more likely, the idiotic decision to stop watching anime in his past life because “it wasn’t productive.”
Yeah. That was coming back to bite him hard.
Still, he wasn't ignorant of the world. The Tarai Current, for example. That came from a book he’d skimmed while stuck on Torino Island. Dangerous waterway, weird whirlpool mechanics, current like a rollercoaster from hell.
Pretty sure it made no sense even by Grand Line standards.
But beyond that, and the most important point plots? Just flashes. A giant gate. Waterfalls. A lot of yelling and dramatic music, probably. Something about a pigeon?
He exhaled slowly and raised his blade, focusing on Bogard.
Fine.
If he couldn’t rely on memory, he’d rely on training. He had a sword, a will, and a grumpy Marine legend ready to beat some sense into him.
And honestly? That was more than enough.
