One Piece: Light as a Gale

The six Blight clones circled him like wolves with too much theatrical flair.

Mist coiled and hissed beneath their boots, and their glowing green eyes watched Gale with the same smugness you'd expect from a professor who just handed out a surprise final exam and then said, "It's open book… but I wrote the book, and it's in Latin."

Gale gritted his teeth, rapier held loose at his side, revolver tucked back under his coat. His mind spun, trying to stitch together a plan that didn't end with him being fog-punched into orbit.

"Great," he muttered under his breath as he sidestepped a scythe-shaped swipe and narrowly ducked a hammer-fist of mist. "Back to square one. Surrounded. No idea where the real Blight is and these clones hit like a fleet of trucks..."

He lashed out with a slash—clean, elegant, a true de la Rosa strike. The kind that should've bisected a man from the soul outward. It cut clean through a Blight clone's chest… only for the fog to knit itself back together, smug as ever.

"Okay, rude," Gale muttered, twirling the sword back into ready stance. "Honestly starting to miss the ex-Marines. At least they bled when you poked 'em."

He leapt back, giving himself a few precious seconds to think. He still had one seastone bullet—one. And that was good news now that he knew Blight wasn't a Logia. But it meant nothing if he couldn't even see the real bastard.

"Ugh," he groaned. "You know what I need? Binoculars. Fog-dispersing binoculars. No—a fan. A fan the size of a battleship."

Another attack came in—this one a spinning barrage of mist-made scimitars. Gale blocked, deflected, grunted, and skidded. His coat was scorched from friction. His wrist throbbed.

"Okay, plan time," he said aloud, panting. "If I can't find him… then I gotta reveal him. Not just part the fog. Blast it."

It was stupid. Possibly lethal. Definitely Poqin-level stupid.

But it was a plan. A nonsensical one.

He took a deep breath. A long one. In through the nose, out through the oh-god-I'm-about-to-die. Then—he stood tall. Shoulders back. No more dodging. No more dancing. Just… bracing.

One of the clones lunged, jagged tendrils of fog swinging like morningstars.

Gale didn't flinch.

Instead, he focused. Condensed.

His body started to shimmer slightly—then groan.

"Stupidest thing I've ever done," he muttered. "And that includes that time I tried to beat a sea king with capitalism..."

His skin hardened as his mass increased. Muscles didn't bulge. They compressed. His frame thickened. The ground beneath his feet cracked and cratered. His sword—no longer just a blade, but a lever of mass and pressure—twitched slightly in his grasp.

And then… he grew.

At first it was subtle. Then undeniable. His silhouette expanded outward and upward, his bones and muscles densifying as he exerted full control over his Devil Fruit. His clothes stretched taut, his boots embedded into the dirt.

The Blight clones paused for a fraction of a second, clearly uncertain if this was some elaborate Marine bluff or the beginning of a kaiju transformation.

"Yup," Gale muttered through gritted teeth, "this is happening. This is real. This is big-boy mode. Mega-Gale, now with 200% more trauma and zero patience."

More fog attacks came crashing down—but he barely staggered. He winced, sure. Grunted, absolutely. But he took them. His body tanked every strike with an audible clang.

He was burning stamina like a bonfire on payday. But he could take it. For a little while, at least.

Then his eyes snapped open, wide with realization.

He wasn't just growing. He was pressurizing.

If he could hold it just a bit longer—store all that potential in one brutal burst—then maybe, maybe, he could part the fog long enough to glimpse the coward hiding behind his mist curtain.

"This," he muttered, locking his arms in place like coiled springs, "is either gonna be epic… or get me turned into a pancake."

He grinned.

"Either way… let's pop some fog."

Gale muttered the words like a battle cry and snapped his arms wide. Then, with the force of a man declaring war on nature itself, he clapped his hands together.

The sound—if you could call it that—wasn't sound at all. It was pressure incarnate. An explosion without flame. A thunderclap forged from density and desperation.

The shockwave ripped through the island.

Up on the city wall, Marines and knights clutched their ears and screamed. Some collapsed to their knees, eardrums on the brink of mutiny. The ones who had only just recovered from the giant sword swing looked like they'd seen God. And then his boss.

Even Poqin—who'd just speared a former Marine with a stolen spear while shouting something about overdue bar tabs—went airborne for a solid second before he managed to cling to a particularly massive chunk of broken statue.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT GUY EATING?!" he screamed over the wind, coat flapping like a flag in a hurricane.

Down below, the fog didn't just part—it vanished. Like it had been peeled off the battlefield by a divine squeegee. Blight's clones? Gone, shredded into vapor in less than a breath. The ex-Marines got scattered like marbles, some rolling into craters they didn't remember standing near.

Even the ground groaned.

Gale, panting like someone who'd just run a marathon up a staircase made of taxes and heartbreak, scanned the now-cleared field. His eyes flicked left to right—until they stopped. And what he saw made his whole brain short-circuit.

There.

Atop a gentle slope just ahead.

A chair. Wooden. Creaky-looking. And on it—Blight.

But not the monster Gale had imagined. Not the fog-wreathed demon or smug villain monologuing from a misty perch.

No.

This Blight looked…

Dead.

Well. Almost.

He was rail-thin, like someone had sucked the life out of him with a straw. One arm gone below the shoulder. Skin like weathered parchment, stretched over bones. His coat, though still clinging to his skeletal frame, was riddled with holes. His face was more scar tissue than skin. And his eyes—while still carrying that eerie glow—looked… hollow.

The dramatic tension evaporated like the mist before.

"Huh…" Gale muttered, blinking. "You've gotta be kidding me..."

Still, the moment's absurdity didn't stop him from raising his fist. Giant, gleaming, and dense enough to punch through mountains—or at least really annoying retired Vice Admirals.

The ground cracked beneath his stance as he reeled it back.

This was it. The final hit. No tricks. No clones. Just justice via fist.

And then—he wavered.

A cough. Sharp. Wet. Painful.

Blood spurted from his lips like a pop of red against the gray battlefield. His skin lightened. His shoulders shrank ever so slightly. A tremor ran down his spine.

"Ah," he muttered, "and there it is. The price tag."

That last move had cost him everything. Strength, stamina, maybe a few years off his life. At this point, he wasn't even running on fumes—he was running on the memory of fumes. But still… he had one punch left.

Just. One.

He forced himself forward. The wind howled around his fist as it surged down toward Blight.

And Blight… smiled.

The ancient man's lips curled, slow and peaceful. Not mocking. Not even triumphant. But… calm.

He stood. Shaky, like a breath of wind could topple him. But steady enough.

And then—he opened his arms wide.

Not to attack.

Not to block.

But like someone greeting an old friend.

Or welcoming an ending.

Gale's eyes widened. Time slowed to a crawl. The weight of the moment crushed the breath from his lungs.

But there was no turning back now.

His fist—dense as grief, swift as fury—descended.

And Blight?

He stood there.

Waiting.

...

On the city walls, everything was quiet. Too quiet.

Isuka's eyes were locked on the fog, narrowed with suspicion. Something was happening. She could feel it in her bones. Beside her, Remiel gripped the hilt of his sword so hard his knuckles were white beneath his silver gauntlets.

The Marines Gale brought were lined up along the battlements, some trying to look confident, others just trying not to vomit from the tension. Behind them, the guards and armed citizens shifted nervously, murmuring prayers, insults, and general existential complaints under their breath.

Then, without warning—

BOOM.

No, not boom.

The sky broke.

An explosion of pure pressure cracked through the air like a tidal wave of thunder. The entire wall shook beneath their feet. Bricks trembled. Helmets flew. A couple of city guards just flat-out collapsed, screaming and clutching their ears.

Remiel staggered back, ears ringing. "WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE SAINTED SCEPTER WAS THAT?!"

Isuka didn't answer. She couldn't. Her ears were ringing so loudly it felt like someone had stuffed two firecrackers in her skull. She clutched her head, grimacing, her jaw clenched as the sound echoed across the mountains, rattling the windows of the city itself.

And then—

Debris.

Rocks. Chunks of earth. Craters-worth of dirt and twisted metal came hurtling out of the mist like someone had upended a mountain and thrown it at them.

"TAKE COVER!" someone shouted—probably one of the veteran Marines—but it was lost in the chaos.

Marines threw themselves behind battlements. Knights raised shields. Isuka ducked behind a ballista as a boulder the size of a wagon smashed into the side of the wall and exploded into rubble. Splinters of stone sprayed like shrapnel.

For a moment, they thought the worst was over. But then—

The fog began to part.

Not drift. Not fade.

Part.

Like some divine hand had split it down the middle.

And through that massive, yawning corridor of cleared mist, they saw him.

Gale.

But not the Gale they knew.

The Gale standing out there now towered above the battlefield like a goddamn folk tale. His cloak whipped behind him like a tattered banner.

His sword hung at his side like a skyscraper-sized needle.

And then—

He moved.

The fist came down.

There was no scream. No roar. Just the impact.

CRASHHHHHH.

The ground didn't just crack. It split open. The shockwave that followed kicked up another wave of air so strong it flattened trees on the edge of the forest and knocked half the guards on the wall flat on their asses.

A few unlucky citizens were sent flying into hay bales, wagons, or just the comforting embrace of unconsciousness.

Remiel could only stare.

"What… what is he?" he muttered, mouth dry.

Isuka didn't respond.

She was too busy watching the mist tear away completely. Watching the battlefield reshape itself around a single man. Watching Gale stand at the heart of the crater he'd created, steam rising from his back, blood at the corner of his mouth, but eyes still locked forward.

Like the fight wasn't over yet.

Like the storm was still coming.

And he was ready.

She lowered her hand from her ear slowly and exhaled one word:

"…Showoff."

...

The world stopped shaking, but Gale's legs hadn't gotten the memo.

Back at his normal height, he stood in the middle of what could generously be called a landscape and less generously a crime scene.

The once‑green hill now resembled a cratered moonscape, littered with splintered trees, overturned boulders, and the occasional ex‑Marine groaning into the dirt.

Every breath felt like breathing through gravel. Every muscle hummed like a broken cello string trying to snap.

'Stay up,' he told his body. 'Just stay upright for fifteen more seconds.'

He scanned the ruins. No fog. No glowing green eyes. No smug laughter echoing in Dolby Surround. Blight—wherever the real one had been hiding—was gone. Vanished as neatly as a magician yanking a tablecloth.

Which should have been comforting.

It wasn't.

Because someone was still there.

Maybe twenty paces away, standing calmly amid the dust. Dark clothes. Samurai mask gone. Sharp lines on a tired face. The Palace‑Garden assassin.

Their eyes locked. Even through exhaustion, Gale's grip tightened around his sword hilt. One more round? He had zero juice left, but pride was a terrifying fuel.

The assassin's hand drifted to his katana, fingers brushing the tsuba. His narrowed eyes said he'd noticed exactly how wobbly Gale's knees were—like windchimes in a typhoon. For a second, Gale expected cold steel and a cold end.

Instead, a sigh.

The assassin lifted his hand from the katana. He gave a tiny, almost respectful nod—half apology, half "you're not worth finishing like this"—then turned and walked away into the debris‑strewn dusk.

Gale blinked. "Well… okay then."

Adrenaline, sensing its services were no longer required, punched out for the day. His vision tunneled. Legs buckled. Stub‑born, he tried to lock his knees—

Nope.

Gravity hit hard. He tipped backward like a felled statue, arms flopping uselessly.

'I really hope there's no sharp rocks behind me,' was his final coherent thought.

The sky spun.

Then everything went black—just dust, distant shouting, and the taste of iron on his tongue fading into nothing.

...

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