Wicked_Fiction
patreon
One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #132
🕑 Added 2025-09-10 23:35:10 +0000 UTCThe forest was alive with cicadas, their buzzing rising and falling like some annoying background soundtrack Gale couldn’t turn off. He swatted lazily at a mosquito, then glanced at the girl walking a few paces ahead of him.
“So,” he drawled, hands tucked behind his head, “how much treasure are we actually talking about here?”
Risa tilted her head, red bandana glinting in the filtered sunlight. “Couldn’t begin to guess.” She shrugged with the nonchalance of someone saying the weather might be nice tomorrow. “But at the very least? It should be… obscene.”
Gale frowned. “Obscene?”
“Yeah.” She grinned. “Like, the kind of pile you don’t even swim through—you just drown in.”
“…That’s oddly specific.” Gale scratched at his temple, unimpressed. “You sound like every drunk pirate with half a map and a full liver problem.”
Risa puffed her cheeks. “Tch. You asked.”
He gave her a flat look. “And I’m asking again. What makes you so sure?”
That smug grin returned. “Because it’s the treasure left behind by Captain John.”
Gale’s footsteps slowed. He blinked once. Twice. Then rubbed the back of his neck like he was trying to dig the name out of his skull.
“…Captain John?” He said it out loud, testing it on his tongue like a word from a half-forgotten dream. The syllables definitely poked something in his memory, shifting gears he wasn’t sure he wanted shifted.
Risa stopped and turned, giving him a look like he’d just admitted he didn’t know water was wet. “Wait. Don’t tell me—you’ve been living under a rock?”
“Eh,” Gale shrugged, completely unfazed. “If I did, at least I’d have shade.” He tapped his chin, squinting. “I’ve heard the name before. Definitely. Just… can’t put a face to it.”
Risa groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Unbelievable. You really don’t know the story?”
“Hey,” Gale said, pointing a finger at her. “My brain’s full of important things. Like how to not get killed by a bamboo stick. Or how to cook rabbit without burning the fur off. You know—practical survival.”
Risa rolled her eyes so hard he was almost impressed they didn’t fall out. “Fine. I’ll educate you then, oh great survivalist.”
She straightened, adopting a tone halfway between a storyteller and someone auditioning for “world’s most dramatic tour guide.”
“Captain John was a pirate captain back in the Pirate King’s era. A greedy bastard. Spent his whole life hoarding treasure—gold, jewels, rare weapons, you name it. His stash got so big his crew finally mutinied and killed him when he refused to share.”
She jabbed a finger at Gale for emphasis. “That’s how much we’re talking. A hoard so big it literally got its owner murdered.”
Gale whistled low. “Damn. Guess that’s one way to go. Imagine being killed for having too much stuff.” He paused, tilting his head. “Honestly? That’s kinda inspiring. Future Gale should aim for that level of wealth...”
Risa gave him a pointed look. “You already are...”
Gave paused, and hummed before nodding. “Now that you mention it, I guess you're right...”
Risa groaned again, muttering under her breath. “Why am I stuck with this guy…”
Inside, Gale’s brain was already doing laps, trying to remember every scrap of trivia he could about this so-called “Captain John’s treasure.”
'East Blue…? Was it East Blue?' He squinted at the canopy above like the leaves might jog his memory. 'Or was it Impel Down? No, wait—that was where everyone and their mother showed up for a jailbreak. Ugh…'
The way Gale saw it, there were two possibilities.
Option one: it was the treasure Buggy wouldn’t shut up about. Which, if true, meant Gale was about to waste precious days of his life chasing after a clown’s dream pile of gold. He scowled at the thought, but even then, it was better than the alternative.
Option two: it was that thing in East Blue. Y’know, with that guy who wound up crammed inside a tiny treasure chest for decades like a cursed action figure. Gale could see it clear as day—the pathetic little legs kicking, the ridiculous green afro bobbing in the breeze.
The image made him wince so hard his jaw tightened.
'If this turns out to be that island, I swear… I’ll stick Risa in a chest myself and string her up a tree again. Call it poetic justice.'
The thought almost made him smile. Almost.
He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and trudged forward, muttering under his breath. “Future Gale’s problem. Let him deal with the clown or the chest-goblin.”
...
Several hours later, after a trek that felt like it had shaved a few years off his lifespan, Gale and Risa finally broke through the last stretch of dense foliage.
Before them sprawled the Stormhowl village.
It wasn’t the largest settlement Gale had ever seen, but it was striking in its own way. The huts were built from thick, dark-red timber that matched the island’s coral, each roof layered with dried palm leaves and bound together with cord made of braided vines.
Smoke curled lazily from a cluster of fire pits in the center square, where strips of meat hung on racks, drying in the afternoon sun. Spears tipped with obsidian glinted in the light, stacked in racks like a warning to anyone stupid enough to pick a fight here.
Gale’s eyes flicked around, quietly impressed despite himself. 'Well… they don’t have cannons, but if someone sneezed wrong, I bet half this village could still cut a man in half with those spears. Efficient.'
They didn’t make it far before two warriors stepped in their path, crossing their spears.
“Identify yourselves,” one barked. “And speak your purpose.”
Risa straightened, tugging her bandana into place as if that made her more official. “We’re from the Redfang tribe. Our village was attacked by pirates.”
That earned the guards a glance at one another—sharp, silent, but loud enough to scream bad news. Then, inevitably, their gazes drifted to Gale.
He could feel their eyes rake over him, head to toe, like they were trying to solve the mystery of what creature he was.
“…He doesn’t look like one of ours or yours,” one of the guards finally said. His tone wasn’t curious. It was accusing.
Before Gale could open his mouth, Risa jumped in. “I met him by chance while I was being chased. He saved my life.”
She turned her head just enough to glare at him—sharp, venomous, like she wanted to burn a hole in his skull.
She, of course, left out a few minor details. Like how he had pretended to be a corpse instead of helping her, or how he strung her upside down like a pig ready for market. Convenient, really.
Gale caught her look, and instead of protesting, just grinned and shrugged like she’d nailed the truth on the first try.
'Yep. Hero of the day, that’s me. Somebody write a ballad already.'
One of the guards squinted at him suspiciously, as though debating if Gale was more trouble than he was worth. Finally, he muttered, “The elder will want to hear of this. He must know of the Redfang attack.”
The other warrior jerked his chin, motioning for them to follow.
As they entered, Gale couldn’t help but notice the stares. Villagers paused in their work—women weaving nets, men sharpening spears, kids chasing each other with sticks—to gawk openly at the stranger in their midst.
Their faces were painted with stripes of red and black, their hair braided with coral beads, their eyes sharp and suspicious.
Every glance at Risa carried sympathy. Every glance at Gale carried suspicion.
Some narrowed their eyes. Some whispered. One kid outright pointed at him and said something in a language Gale didn’t understand—but judging by how quickly his mother smacked him on the back of the head, it probably wasn’t a compliment.
Gale shoved his hands in his pockets, tilting his head toward Risa. “Really rolling out the welcome mat, huh?” he muttered. “What’s next—torches and pitchforks?”
Risa didn’t even look at him. “Just don’t make it worse.”
He smirked. “You wound me. When have I ever made anything worse?”
She shot him a side-eye so sharp it could’ve been weaponized.
“…Fair,” Gale admitted under his breath.
The guard led them up a sloping hill at the far edge of the village. At the top, a large hut sat on a raised platform of stone, its roof broader than the others, with carved posts depicting wolves mid-howl.
From here, the whole village was visible—fires glowing, villagers moving like ants, the sea shimmering beyond the coral cliffs.
Gale slowed, taking it all in. 'Great. A chief’s hut. Which means questions, speeches, and probably being threatened with spears if I say something sarcastic. Which I absolutely will.'
