One Piece: As Heavy as a Gale #136

Gale watched as two broad-shouldered villagers hauled the limp body of the second grandson out of the ring, one dragging him by the arms, the other by the legs. The man’s head lolled around like a sack of rice with a bad seam. The crowd was silent for a beat, then erupted into cheers.

Gale, however, didn’t share their enthusiasm. He let out a long, shaky sigh. The air stung against his split lips, the metallic tang of blood sharp on his tongue. For a brief, fleeting moment, relief tried to sneak in—then his body reminded him it was running on fumes, and the relief went right back out.

The bastard had been tough. Way tougher than his younger brother. Every punch was like trading tax returns with Kaido—draining, punishing, and insultingly thorough.

Gale’s entire body felt like one big bruise with shoes.

And that was saying something. Because Gale wasn’t weak. Not by a long shot.

He’d been training nonstop since the day he stumbled into Kiwanu’s care. Dodging blades, blocking fists, running until his lungs burned. Even after he left Torino, the grind never stopped. Then came Florencio—grace, precision, dodging until your enemy’s rage opened a window.

And most recently? Rayleigh.

The memory made Gale’s lip twitch. Yeah. Old man Rayleigh and his “fun ideas.”

What counted as “training” with the Dark King wasn’t punching bags or sparring matches. No, Rayleigh thought it was a good idea to toss him into the sea at Fishman Island depths and say, “Survive.”

And so Gale had survived. He’d fought sea monsters with teeth longer than ships, dodged the coils of Sea Kings big enough to wrap around islands, and endured crushing water pressure that made every bone in his body scream.

Observation Haki had flared awake down there, yes—but more than that, he came out forged, tougher, sharper. Almost a different creature entirely.

But even with all that? Even after near-drowning a dozen times, after punching a shark in the eye hard enough to sprain his wrist?

That second grandson nearly broke him.

Not just because of strength—though the guy hit like a wagon full of bricks—but because of the rules.

No dodging.

That one detail gnawed at Gale worse than the bruises. His entire style, from Kiwanu’s rough training to Florencio’s flourished lessons, had been built on staying nimble—slipping past, deflecting, weaving in and out until you saw or forced an opening.

Dodging wasn’t just a tactic for Gale. It was instinct.

And now, standing there, fists raw and jaw aching, he realized how hard it had been to fight against his own nature.

Every time a fist came at him, his muscles screamed to move, his Observation screamed louder, and his brain had to clamp down on the instinct like it was a rabid animal.

Taking those hits, bracing instead of slipping away, wasn’t just exhausting physically—it was torture mentally.

He dragged a hand down his sweaty face, muttering under his breath, “This trial isn’t about fists. It’s about watching me slowly lose my goddamn mind.”

The villagers didn’t hear him over the cheering. Risa did, though. She pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something about “idiots who volunteer for brain damage.”

Gale ignored her. Mostly because she was right.

And because the elder was already raising his cane, most likely preparing to call for the next opponent.

Luckily for Gale, the elder didn’t call for the next round. Instead, he raised his cane and declared in that booming old-man voice of his, “The trial will resume in two hours.”

The crowd booed instantly, disappointed they wouldn’t see more of Gale’s face used as a punching bag. Gale felt oddly validated by the booing, like his suffering had become their entertainment.

'Glad to know my near-death experience is family fun night.'

But one sharp glare from the elder silenced the crowd like a shut-off switch. Murmurs faded, people began to disperse, and in less than a minute the jeers turned into the bustle of villagers returning to their day.

The elder turned back to Gale, cane digging into the dirt as he leaned forward slightly. “Rest. Gather your strength. We’ve prepared accommodations.” He gestured toward a small hut at the edge of the fighting ring.

Gale, bleeding, sore, and about five minutes away from renouncing all traditions involving fists, gave the elder a tired nod and started trudging toward the hut.

Risa followed behind, practically skipping compared to Gale’s limping shuffle.

Inside, the hut was sparse—bed, chair, little table, nothing more. Gale didn’t care if it had holes in the roof. He made a beeline for the bed, sat heavily on the edge, and groaned like the floorboards themselves were stabbing him.

Risa, looking way too chipper for someone who’d been kidnapped, tied up, and slapped into a treasure conspiracy just yesterday, dragged a chair from the corner and plopped down next to him. A grin spread across her face.

“You know,” she said, propping her chin on her hand, “you’re a lot tougher than you look. I almost thought you’d keel over out there.”

Gale slowly turned his head toward her, face blank. His lip twitched just slightly before he deadpanned, “You should thank your lucky stars I didn’t die.”

Risa blinked. “Why?”

Gale’s blank stare broke into a grin, sharp and mischievous.

“…Otherwise…”

He left it hanging long enough to make her lean in, suspicious.

“…Otherwise what?” she asked finally.

Gale’s grin faded into a completely neutral, unreadable expression. “I gave instructions to my men on the battleship in case I didn’t come back.”

The sudden shift in tone was enough to freeze Risa. Her grin faltered, replaced by a hint of actual concern. “…And what instructions were those?”

Gale shifted on the bed, groaning as he stretched out like a man twice his age. Then, with the same casual tone someone might use to ask for a glass of water, he said,

“I told them to bury me under a tall tree and…” He trailed off, letting the silence hang just long enough before finishing, “…string you up on that same tree and leave you there.”

Risa blinked, then scoffed, folding her arms. “Tch. Stop bullshitting.”

One of Gale’s eyebrows arched. His face stayed neutral, calm as still water. “Am I?”

Her smirk wavered. “…You’re kidding.”

Gale didn’t answer. He just kept staring at her, flat and unreadable.

The corner of Risa’s mouth twitched. “You’re kidding,” she repeated, a little louder this time, like she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

Silence.

The twitch in her eyebrow turned into a full spasm. “Don’t just sit there, say something! You’re kidding, right?”

Gale remained motionless, expression blank, like a gravestone with sarcasm carved into it.

That was the last straw. Risa snapped and lunged at him, grabbing his collar with both hands and shaking him with surprising strength for someone who’d spent the last two days hanging upside down.

“Say it!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “Say you’re joking, you bastard!”

Gale sighed, almost bored, and planted one hand on her face. With all the effort of swatting away an annoying cat, he shoved her back until her grip slipped off his collar.

“Who knows?” he said, his grin finally breaking through.

Her teeth clenched hard enough to squeak.

Gale leaned back on the bed, lacing his fingers behind his head again. “But if you don’t let me rest, you’ll find out.”

Risa’s glare could’ve cut stone. Her jaw worked soundlessly for a second before she spat, “Asshole.”

She spun on her heel and stormed out of the hut, the door flap slapping behind her like an exclamation point.

Alone again, Gale let out a long exhale, his grin softening into something more tired than smug. 'What a pain… Still, at least it’s quieter now.'

He closed his eyes, already halfway to passing out.

...

When Gale dragged himself back into the circle, he already felt like someone had swapped his bones with lead pipes. His jaw ached, his knuckles burned, and his ribs… well, let’s just say every inhale reminded him he wasn’t built for tribal traditions.

Across from him stood the elder’s son—the father of the two grandsons he’d already flattened.

Unlike them, this man didn’t need to pose or flex; his presence alone was enough to make the crowd buzz with anticipation. Broad shoulders, arms like tree trunks, and the kind of calm expression that screamed, I don’t need to prove a damn thing, because I’ll break you without breaking a sweat.

Gale rubbed the back of his neck, muttering under his breath, “Of course it’s the dad. Can’t just stop at the sons, no, gotta go for the family pack. What’s next, the grandmother with a cane?”

The elder stepped forward, cane tapping against the dirt as the noise of the crowd quieted. His gaze swept over both men before he raised his hand.

“This is the final opponent,” he said firmly, voice carrying weight. “The last trial.” He let the words settle, then gestured toward the drawn circle in the dirt. “No more, no less. Step forward, and let your fists speak for you.”

Gale exhaled through his nose, rolled his shoulders, and muttered, “Yeah, yeah. Fists talking, lungs screaming. I get it.”

The elder’s hand cut down like a blade. “Begin.”

No hesitation.

The elder’s son stepped in and threw a punch.

And the moment Gale’s eyes locked onto it, his entire brain lit up like a bonfire. His Observation Haki screamed, his instincts begged him to dodge—but he stayed rooted, remembering the damn rules. No dodging.

Then the fist connected with his guard.

The impact jolted all the way down Gale’s arm, burning, heavy, wrong. It almost broke bone.

His eyes widened as the realization hit him like a cannonball.

Blackened knuckles. A dark sheen creeping over the elder son’s skin. The raw pressure of hardened will crashing against him.

Armament Haki.

“…Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Gale hissed through his teeth, fighting to keep his footing. His jaw clenched as the ground beneath his boots cracked. “This bastard’s packing Haki?!”

The crowd roared, ecstatic. Risa’s jaw dropped somewhere at the edge of the circle.

Gale, meanwhile, barely managed to hold back the string of curses swelling in his chest. His inner voice raged, 'Stormhowl village, your traditions, your ancestors, and especially your elder and his family—all of you can kiss my ass for this one.'

And just like that, the trial’s final round had officially begun.