The ship graveyard behind Marineford was quiet—eerily so.
It was a place most marines avoided. Maybe it was the towering carcasses of shattered warships, rusting anchors the size of houses, or the broken figureheads jutting from the soil like bones of fallen giants.
Or maybe it was just the atmosphere—the sense that something had ended here, and whatever it was didn't want to be disturbed.
But Gale liked it. It was peaceful, in a morbid, depressing kind of way. Nobody ever bothered him out here.
Standing among the skeletal remains of ships, he slowly unsheathed Florencio's sword for the first time since the day the old man died.
A low, familiar shing rang out, crisp as ever.
The blade gleamed with a soft, silvery shimmer under the fading sun, the edge still immaculate, still sharp enough to shave clouds. Gale smiled, almost involuntarily. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt as he let out a slow breath.
"Been a while," he murmured to the blade, as if it could hear him. Hell, maybe it could. Wouldn't be the weirdest thing he's seen lately.
This was the first time he'd dared to draw it. Not because he feared the blade, but because he feared what it meant. Carrying Florencio's sword wasn't just about style—it was a legacy.
And for the longest time, Gale didn't think he had the right to claim it.
But today? He figured he could at least borrow it. Just for a spin.
He took his stance. Left hand behind his back, sheath tucked neatly against his waist. The blade pointed forward, low and relaxed.
Nothing fancy. Just clean, minimalistic movements. He stepped forward and flicked his wrist, the tip of the blade darting like a dragonfly over water. A thrust here. A diagonal slash there. Short. Precise. Elegant.
With every flick, the blade responded like it already knew what he wanted to do.
"Almost like it was forged for this exact fighting style," Gale muttered sarcastically, then snorted. "Wow, who would've thought? The guy who used the style also forged the sword to match it. Big twist."
He took a few more swings, testing speed and angle. The air around the blade hummed faintly.
Then his eyes landed on a tall mast half-buried in the ground nearby. A perfect target.
He inhaled deeply and raised the sword upright in front of his face, letting the tip glide in a slow circular motion.
And then—
Petals.
Rose petals, faintly glowing and swirling like dancers around him, bloomed into existence in midair. His grin widened.
Finally.
He flicked his wrist again, and the sword came down with a fluid motion—just one clean, practiced swing. The petals scattered, flying forward with impossible velocity, and punched holes clean through the mast like paper bullets.
Gale was already moving.
A whisper of wind marked his sudden disappearance as he activated Florencio's signature footwork technique—Aliento del Viento.
He reappeared behind the mast before the sound of his step had even finished echoing.
Groooaaaaan.
The mast trembled and gave one last, sad creak before splitting diagonally down the center. The top half slid off and fell to the side with a heavy, echoing thud.
Gale exhaled through his nose and gently slid the blade back into its sheath with a soft click.
The smile on his face now was smaller. Calmer. Less smug, more… thoughtful.
He turned his eyes to the darkening sky. The first stars had already started to poke through the fading blue.
"…It's getting dark," he muttered. "I should head back."
He turned, letting the last breeze ruffle his coat, and began the walk out of the graveyard. The petals behind him slowly dissolved into nothing.
He wasn't on Florencio de la Rosa's level.
Not yet.
But someday?
He might just catch up.
...
Gale was reclining on a golden chaise lounge, half-draped in velvet, surrounded by incense and soft lighting. The air smelled like strawberries and sin.
Around him, an ensemble of stunning, scantily clad women laughed at his every joke, sighed at every smirk, and leaned in just a little too close with every breath.
One rested her head on his chest. Another traced a finger along his jaw. A third whispered something in his ear so sultry it could've been banned in five countries.
He grinned like a smug king on a throne made of ego.
"Yes, ladies," he said, voice smooth as silk, "you may touch the abs. I permit it."
Just as he was about to lean into the main event, one of the women—an especially curvy brunette with eyes like melted chocolate—opened her mouth and said in a very masculine, very familiar voice:
"Oi, get up, lazyass."
Gale's eyes snapped open.
He was back in his quarters. His pillow was damp with drool. His hair looked like he lost a fight with a tumble dryer, and his face was twisted in a mix of confusion, despair, and sheer existential rage.
Standing over him was Poqin, holding a steaming cup of something that definitely wasn't coffee, grinning like the human equivalent of a broken alarm clock.
"…I have never wanted to murder someone as badly as I do right now," Gale muttered, voice gravelly, face still crunched like he bit into a lemon in his sleep.
Poqin took a sip of his suspicious drink. "You can try later. Right now you need to get up. Sengoku wants to see us."
Gale buried his face in his palms and growled something deeply unholy about Poqin's ancestors, their goats, and at least three separate bloodlines.
Then, groaning, he sat up and ran a hand through his bird's nest of a hairstyle.
"What the hell does he want now…?" he muttered, rubbing the crust from his eyes.
Poqin raised a brow. "You picked the worst possible day to sleep in."
Of course he did.
As Gale tugged on his shirt and slung his cape around his shoulders, he muttered, "Of course... the one time I decide to rest, reality decides to schedule the apocalypse."
They left the room and made their way through the halls of Marineford, past saluting soldiers, gossiping ensigns, and a suspicious-looking seagull wearing a baby marine cap for some reason. The pair reached Sengoku's office and, after a knock, heard the gruff "Enter" from within.
Inside, Fleet Admiral Sengoku was finishing a stack of paperwork, looking like he'd fought a war with a pen and barely survived. He didn't even look up as they entered, so they stood at attention like proper marines while the sound of scribbling filled the room.
At last, he set his pen down and looked up with his signature "I have no patience left for anything" expression.
"Break's over," he said flatly. "Time to be deployed."
Gale blinked. "Will Isuka be deployed with us? And… where to, sir?"
Sengoku nodded once. "Isuka was deployed yesterday."
Gale raised a brow. "Okay... so where to?"
"You," Sengoku said, fixing Gale with a steely gaze, "are going to Sabaody Archipelago."
Gale brightened as he turned to Poqin. "Nice. Vacation spot. Heard the soap bubbles are great this time of year."
Sengoku's expression soured instantly. "It's the furthest thing from a vacation spot right now. And only you are being deployed there."
Gale's grin slowly faded. "...Wait, what?"
Poqin tilted his head. "Then where am I going?"
Sengoku leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. "Garp personally requested you. He said, and I quote, 'I need someone lazy, annoying, and impossible to break to keep my blood pressure steady.'"
"Charming," Poqin muttered. "Do I need to sign something to refuse this assignment, or is a simple no enough? "
Sengoku ignored him.
"Vice Admiral Momonga is heading there as we speak. You'll be joining him."
Before either of them could process what was happening, the fleet admiral cleared his throat sharply and called, "Come in, Vice Admiral."
The door creaked open, and in walked Momonga himself—stoic, unreadable, with an aura that screamed don't test me. He walked right up to Poqin and, without saying a word, placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
Poqin finally seemed to snap out of it.
"Wait, wait, hold on—! I don't wanna work under that crazy, violent old—"
The door slammed shut before he could finish.
The silence that followed was… tranquil.
Gale stood there, eyes still fixed on the closed office door like it had just committed a crime. He raised his hand solemnly, palm sideways in mock salute.
"Rest in peace, monk," he muttered with deadpan reverence. "You deserved better. But also... not really."
Sengoku cleared his throat, very pointedly.
Gale blinked, quickly snapping to attention with the grace of a cat falling off a windowsill and pretending it meant to. "Right, sir! Focused. Professional. Not mourning my partner who just got kidnapped by Momonga."
Sengoku narrowed his eyes, but let it go with the air of a man who had already accepted this was his life now. "So. Sabaody."
Gale tilted his head. "Yep. That's the one. What exactly am I supposed to be doing there, sir? Polishing bubbles?"
"Restore order," Sengoku said flatly.
Gale stared at him. Blinked. "Restore order?" he repeated, as if trying to confirm Sengoku hadn't just told him to singlehandedly turn back a hurricane with a stern glare.
Gale wasn't some expert strategist, but Sabaody Archipelago? That place was right next to Marineford. It was basically the back porch of the World Government.
Given that the Celestial Dragons used it like their personal shopping mall, it was supposed to be the most secure crossing point into the New World there was—at least the front half of it.
The other half had always been a little… stabby. But overall? "Restore order" felt like saying "go clean the ocean."
Sengoku leaned forward. "As you know, pirates go to Sabaody to coat their ships before descending to Fishman Island. It's the only route into the New World avalable to criminals."
"Right…" Gale nodded slowly, "Pirate car wash, got it."
"By all means, it should be chaos," Sengoku continued, "but we'd managed to keep most of it under control with a regular marine presence."
He didn't have to say the next part. Gale felt it in his bones before the words even dropped.
"...Until recently," Sengoku finished.
Gale's brows knit together, realization dawning like a slow sunrise. "Until we had to go chasing revolutionaries."
Sengoku gave a grave nod. "We've had to divert manpower from everywhere. Even Sabaody. The power vacuum left behind was quickly filled by pirates, bounty hunters, gangs, and anyone else looking to take advantage."
Gale rubbed his temples. "So let me get this straight: the one place crawling with Celestial Dragons is now overrun by people who might not be willing to bow when told to?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
"And you want me... one guy... to restore order?" Gale raised an eyebrow. "Sir, I'm flattered. And alarmed. But mostly flattered."
Sengoku looked at him with the tired glare of a man who was very aware he was sending a sarcastic gremlin into a diplomatic powder keg.
"I'd have preferred to send someone else, but all high-ranking marines are busy making up for lost time. Also, you won't be alone. The Sabaody marine branch will be at your disposal."
Gale exhaled, scratching the back of his head. "Cool. No pressure. Just pacify an island of maniacs. Love it."
"Pack your things," Sengoku said, already returning to his paperwork. "You leave tomorrow. Dismissed."
Gale saluted. "Sir, yes, sir."
...
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