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One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #104
🕑 Added 2025-07-25 00:22:12 +0000 UTCThe bar was unusually quiet. Not silent—there was always the faint hum of life outside, distant chatter from the bubble-coated streets of Sa
The bar was unusually quiet.
Not silent—there was always the faint hum of life outside, distant chatter from the bubble-coated streets of Sabaody, and the occasional groan of wood from the bar’s age—but quiet in the sense that no one was cracking jokes, throwing punches, or snoring face-down into a mug.
Ren was leaning back with his boots on the table, spinning a spoon between his fingers like a knife-thrower who’d missed the whole point of the job.
Gale sat across from him, slouched, arms crossed, and looking like a man who’d been force-fed a moral dilemma for breakfast. Again. Shakky stood behind the bar, as always, calm and collected, like the bartender version of a retired war goddess.
“So,” she said, lighting another cigarette. “The auction’s in four days. Location’s changed—underground theater in Grove 1. Reinforced stage, new security protocols, latest tech. Real fancy.”
Gale already didn’t like where this was going. Anything with “underground,” “security protocols,” and “latest tech” in the same sentence usually led to blood, explosions, or worse—paperwork.
Shakky placed a sheet on the counter. “And here’s the guest list. Bidders, observers, thugs who think they’re blending in, and the idiots who actually think they’re subtle.”
Ren tilted his head. “This one’s name is literally Gulag the Butcher...”
“Subtle like a cannon in a bathtub,” Gale muttered.
Shakky continued, tapping names with her finger as she listed them off: “Couple of Doflamingo’s family members and old associates... some guy named Magnon...”
Gale’s face twitched. “Oh, that slave mongering, piece of shit, tub of lard... I was hoping I'd never see him again....”
“Well, he’ll be there,” Shakky said, ignoring the jab. “So will a few rookies trying to make a name for themselves by crashing the party once the dragons get their prize and clear out. Just waiting to rob the auction once the deal is done.”
Ren scoffed. “Typical pirates...”
The more she talked, the more names she dropped—mercenaries, bounty hunters, black market dealers with half a conscience, pirates whose bounties made the paper curl from heat—the deeper Gale sank into his seat. This whole thing stank of complications.
Too many eyes, too many guns, too many agendas. Honestly? It sounded like a logistical nightmare and a moral migraine. And worst of all, there was no punchline. Just a grimy auction where the prize was some poor bastard with steady hands and bad luck.
He was halfway into planning a graceful retreat—maybe fake a fever? Pull the old “suddenly needed on another island” routine—when Shakky slid another paper across the counter.
“This,” she said, “is the list of Celestial Dragons attending.”
That pulled both Gale and Ren upright. Shakky didn’t even look up as she said, “Security will be heavier than usual. Word is, a full Mary Geoise protection detail’s being deployed. Maybe even Cipher Pol.”
Gale picked up the list, ready to skim it lazily, confirm it was a suicide mission, and be done with it.
And then his eyes landed on a name.
Shepherd Vlancio.
The air changed.
Gale didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
A face flashed in his mind—smooth, bloated, wearing that smug, perpetual sneer that made you want to commit a felony just by looking at it. But what hit harder was the image of a hand. Missing a finger. Torn off during a very specific moment.
His expression hardened. His jaw clenched. Somewhere deep in his chest, something went click.
He jabbed a finger at the name.
“You sure this guy’s gonna be there?”
Shakky leaned over the bar, squinting at the name Gale had pointed at. The smoke from her cigarette coiled lazily between them, like it too was trying to get a better look.
“Shepherd Vlancio, huh…” she said, exhaling slowly. “Y’know, you might not think it, but that stab wound he took? Wake-up call.”
Ren narrowed his eyes. “That so? Which part—the stab, or the part where he nearly pissed himself?”
Shakky chuckled. “Bit of both, I’d say. He’s got this twitch now—flinches every time someone breathes too loud. No Celestial Dragon’s as painfully aware of their mortality as Vlancio right now.”
She tapped her ash into a tray shaped like a Marine’s helmet—ironic touch, Gale thought, but very her.
“And get this,” she continued, tone light but laced with weight. “He’s desperate to get the surgeon. Desperate enough to show up in person. Word is, he’s already selling off his own stock to other Dragons just to scrape together enough money. That stab scared him real good—he thinks he’s living on borrowed time.”
Gale didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to.
He moved slowly, like a thought was crawling across his brain on all fours and finally stood up tall enough to kick him in the gut. Without a word, he reached for the bottle of rum on the counter—half-full, good quality stuff, not the usual swill—and uncorked it like it owed him money.
“Alright,” he said, voice low, gravelly.
He set the money down where the bottle had been. A little extra. Consider it a tip for existential clarity.
“I’m in.”
Ren raised an eyebrow. “What, that’s it? One name and boom—you’re onboard?”
Gale didn’t answer. He just turned toward the door with that same quiet, steady energy. The kind that made you think twice before asking questions.
Shakky narrowed her eyes. “And where exactly are you going?”
Gale paused in the doorway. Didn’t look back, just tilted his head enough to be heard.
“Gonna need to make some preparations,” he said casually. “Y’know—gear, contacts, prebaring snacks. The usual.”
Shakky gave a small smile. “We’ll keep planning. You’ll be in the loop.”
“Appreciated,” he muttered.
Then he stepped outside and was gone, coat flaring behind him like a cape he hadn’t quite earned but was wearing anyway.
Shakky exhaled a long stream of smoke as Gale disappeared.
She glanced at the empty doorway, then at the name on the paper again.
Shepherd Vlancio.
She didn't know what the bastard had done, but the look on Gale's face was something she'd seen enough to recognize.
“I almost feel bad for him...”
...
The sky over Sabaody was the color of gunmetal. Not quite black, but getting there—like the world was holding its breath for something violent.
Gale stood near the edge of a narrow rooftop, arms crossed, surveying the wide plaza that led to the infamous underground theatre beneath Area 1.
This was where the big events went down—the secret auctions, the slave trades, the off-record "entertainment" the World Government pretended not to know about.
It was a perfect place to lose your soul… or a surgeon.
Tonight, it was crowded. Thugs patrolled the outskirts in pairs. Bored, half-alert guards stood around like badly dressed furniture.
The underground entrance, hidden behind a marble colonnade, was subtle—but not to someone who knew what to look for. And Gale? He’d read enough reports about the place for two lifetimes already.
He wasn’t dressed like himself tonight. Gone were the brown leathers and scrappy marine cadet look. In their place was something darker, sharper. A full black ensemble—tight at the joints, loose at the limbs—built for mobility.
A ragged black cloak hung off his shoulders, weathered enough to look like it had stories of its own. And his face was hidden beneath a dragon-shaped mask, long-jawed and cruel, red eyes glinting faintly in the twilight.
The return of Bayle from Jagged Peak.
He hated the name. Sounded like something from a third-rate fantasy novel. But it worked once, and Gale was surprisingly unimaginative when it came to disguises.
He waited. Watched. Counted patrol routes. Ignored the part of his brain that really wanted to pee—because dammit, nerves always hit the bladder first.
Finally, when the timing lined up, he moved. Fast.
One guard, young, scrawny, and leaning on his rifle like it was a cane, barely had time to blink before a shadow swooped down and yoinked him into the alley.
The guard didn’t even get out a full scream. Just a muffled “HRK—?!” and a pair of flailing boots.
Inside the alley, Gale had him pinned to the wall with one hand, his dragon mask inches from the kid’s face.
“Where’s the surgeon?” he asked flatly.
The guard blinked. “Wh—who?!”
Gale tilted his head. “The one that’s not here by choice. You know, the one people are drooling over like he's a damn unicorn in a lab coat.”
“Y-You mean the slave surgeon?”
“Oh good,” Gale muttered. “He’s got a brand now. Perfect.”
He tightened his grip just enough to be threatening but not enough to crush the windpipe. “Where?”
“C-cellblock C! Sub-level three! Behind the—nghh—mirrored wall! Past the weird pervert long leg tribesman with the whip!”
Gale paused. “...That last part sounds like a you-problem, but noted.”
He let the guard drop like a sack of regrets after a quick headbutt, already vanishing into the shadows before the poor guy could crawl away.
Lowering his density, Gale melted into the spaces between movement. Every step was silent, every breath nonexistent. He darted past hired thugs like a rumor—never fully seen, never fully gone.
A flicker in the corner of the eye. A shifting shadow. Some unlucky soul dropped their cigarette and watched it roll uphill.
“Must be a ghost,” they muttered.
“Or a rat.”
“Maybe a ghost rat.”
Nobody looked twice.
By the time Gale reached the sub-levels, the air had changed. It was colder here. Moist. Smelled like blood, disinfectant, and shame. And probably feet.
He slipped through the mirrored wall—standard illusion for auction facilities—and peeked inside.
The cell was dimly lit, lined with reinforced glass. A single figure sat at the center.
Slim build. Short, dark hair. Black jeans, dirty boots. Cuffs made of seastone, shackled to the floor like a rabid dog. His chin rested against his knee, arms looped around his legs, head tilted slightly as if trying to bore a hole into the wall with sheer disdain.
And that glare. Gale swore the guy's eyes alone could curdle milk.
“...Trafalrgar Law,” Gale muttered under his breath, because of course it was.
