The arena was… dramatic. Like, overcompensating levels of dramatic. Massive coliseum stands loomed overhead, packed with a roaring crowd of spectators who apparently had nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon than watch a bunch of weirdos beat each other senseless.
The sky above was clear, blue, and annoyingly cheerful—an odd contrast to the storm of chaos about to unfold below.
Gale stepped out onto the arena's main battlefield: a circular, elevated platform suspended high above the ground. There were no railings, no safety nets, just sheer drop on every side. Whoever built this thing had clearly said "OSHA compliance? Never heard of her."
All around him, the other contestants filtered in, filling the vast space shoulder-to-shoulder. Gale estimated there had to be over a hundred of them—each more colorful, bizarre, and violently enthusiastic than the last.
There was a guy covered entirely in bandages, a woman with a flaming whip, someone riding an ostrich, and even one dude who looked suspiciously like a sentient loaf of bread with arms due to his strange build.
'I swear to God, if Breadman survives longer than me, I'm quitting this universe.'
Gale adjusted the gloves on his hands, trying to focus. He could feel the low hum of tension rising through the crowd of fighters. Muscles tensed. Weapons were unsheathed.
Trash talk began in at least eight languages. A burly guy two steps to his right had already started foaming at the mouth. This was it. The storm before the storm.
Then, from his perch on a smaller, elevated platform that had risen above the battlefield like a very smug pimple, he appeared.
The commentator.
Gale narrowed his eyes. That guy. That guy. The one who'd spent an entire day hyping up boring, over-designed try-hards like they were gods reincarnated. He looked the same—snappy red suit, ridiculous sunglasses, and a voice that sounded like he drank a gallon of energy drink and gargled gravel every morning.
"Hellooooooo, ladies and gentlemen!" the commentator boomed, arms outstretched as if he were the messiah of mayhem. "Are you ready for BLOODSHED?!"
The crowd exploded in cheers. Gale's ears rang.
"I am your magnificent host for today's event," the commentator continued. "And it is my distinct pleasure to oversee the most anticipated free-for-all in tournament history: the Battle Royale Qualifier!"
The man's grin widened. "Now, before we begin, allow me to lay down the rules—simple enough even for you meatheads to follow!"
Gale exhaled. Here we go.
"One! If you lose consciousness, you're out!" the commentator shouted, holding up a finger. "Two! If you're thrown off the platform, you're out! Three! If you surrender—yep, you guessed it—you're out!"
The crowd chanted along, clearly familiar with the rules, or just very good at counting.
"Four!" the commentator said, letting the dramatic pause hang. "Intentional killing is prohibited. However… if someone happens to die by accident, or because they're too stubborn to surrender…"
He gave a theatrical shrug.
"...Well, tough luck. Should've trained harder!"
Gale resisted the urge to sigh. 'Great. So if I kill someone by mistake, I'm a murderer. If someone kills me by mistake, I'm just a learning experience.'
The commentator clapped his hands. "Now then… combatants, prepare yourselves!"
A loud cheer rippled through the fighters. Steel sang. Knuckles cracked. A woman nearby started foaming at the mouth in perfect sync with the guy from earlier. Gale took a deep breath and settled into a stance. His eyes flicked across the crowd around him, scanning for threats—which was everyone, really.
'Okay. Surrounded on all sides. Kiwanu's drills from Torino Island should cover this. Keep your center grounded. Eyes sharp. Use the opponent's momentum against them. Don't let yourself get distracted by shiny objects or taunts involving your mother.'
Then he noticed something… odd.
People were stepping away from him.
He blinked. The contestants near him weren't closing in, weren't shifting to attack or test his guard. Instead, they were… making space. Like a school of fish dodging a hungry shark. A solid ten-foot radius around Gale had cleared, turning into a bubble of peace in the otherwise rapidly unraveling chaos.
Fighters clashed all around him. Blades clanged, fists flew, the guy on the ostrich was jousting someone with a trident—but no one came near Gale.
They didn't even look at him. One guy did glance over, met Gale's eyes… and instantly turned in the opposite direction, body stiff like a man who just saw his own funeral.
'Wait… are they avoiding me?' Gale thought, stunned.
He glanced around again.
Yep. Full-on avoidance maneuver by the other contestants.
"Seriously?" he muttered. "Did that slap give me legend status or something?"
A voice somewhere in the chaos screamed, "DON'T TOUCH THAT GUY! HE SLAPPED BOB INTO A WALL!"
'Oh my god, that guy's name was Bob?'
So there he stood, alone in his little anti-social circle, while battle erupted all around him like a bar fight with a budget.
Gale's expression deadpanned.
"This is somehow more awkward than being attacked," he muttered. "At least when people are trying to kill me, I know where I stand."
And so, with fists clenched, stance steady, and zero enemies interested in attacking him, Gale prepared for whatever came next…
As for what came next?
Well… it came quickly.
The strange silence around Gale didn't last long. The chaos around him parted like a mosh pit making way for the guy with a flamethrower—and once again, the crowd began to shift. Contestants near him started shuffling back, not in fear of him this time, but something—or someone—approaching from the other side of the arena.
More fighters backed off, some practically tripping over themselves to put extra distance between them and whatever was coming. It was like watching a human curtain peel open to reveal the main act. Another vacuum of calm started forming, just like the one around Gale… and then the two bubbles touched, merging into one big awkward anti-fight zone.
Okay, Gale thought, adjusting his stance. 'Either I'm about to meet my evil twin, or this is the world's weirdest crossover episode.'
Finally, at the center of the clearing, a middle-aged man stepped into view.
He was calm. Collected. Wore a pristine white gi with a red sash tied around his waist. His short, graying hair was combed back, and a neatly trimmed beard framed a weathered but strikingly sharp face. His posture was relaxed, hands behind his back, like a man out for a casual stroll instead of a deathmatch.
The only thing remotely aggressive about him were his eyes—dark, focused, and carrying the weight of a thousand *"I told you so"*s.
Gale tilted his head. 'Was this guy someone important? He looked like the final boss of a dojo drama.'
The man stopped a few paces away and gave Gale a smug little smirk.
"You seem confused," he said, voice smooth and deep, like a late-night jazz host who could also kick your teeth in.
Gale scratched the back of his head. "I mean, yeah. I was expecting, you know… a fight. Punches. Kicks. Screaming. Mild concussions. But people are avoiding me like I just coughed during a pandemic."
The man chuckled—a surprisingly light, almost jolly sound.
"Of course they are," he said. "You knocked Bob unconscious with a single slap."
"Yeah, and?" Gale replied, blinking. "I figured someone else would want to take a swing. Y'know, avenge Bob or whatever."
"Everyone here," the man said, gesturing to the chaos around them with a slight nod, "is more or less on Bob's level. You sent him flying like a flyweight in a typhoon. They want nothing to do with that."
Gale scoffed. "And yet they still want to fight Rigel?"
The man's smirk turned thoughtful. "They don't want to fight Rigel," he said. "Not really. They want to stand near Rigel. To say they were in the same arena. Surviving long enough to rank in the top ten in this farce would be enough to elevate their standing in this twisted country."
He paused, eyeing Gale more closely.
"They're not fighters. They're opportunists."
Gale frowned, arms crossing. "So… the bar's on the floor. Got it."
A beat passed.
"Wait, what about you?" he added, nodding at the man's own buffer zone. "They're giving you the plague treatment too. You got a Bob slap under your belt?"
The man smiled wider. "Something like that." He stepped closer, unbothered by the growing silence between them. "But unlike the rest of these insects, I don't care about proximity to power. I care about beating Rigel."
Gale raised a brow. 'Bold words coming from a guy dressed like he teaches tai chi at sunrise.'
"Oh?" Gale said. "So, unlike these people, you think you stand a chance?"
"Only I do."
There was no arrogance in the man's voice. Just calm certainty.
Gale couldn't help but grin at that. The guy might've looked like he was two weeks away from a bad back and a pension, but something about him clicked. Confidence like that didn't come from delusion—it came from experience. And judging by the respect-fueled fear everyone else was giving him, the guy had earned it.
Still, Gale wasn't about to be outdone in the smug department.
"Well," he said, cracking his knuckles. "You'll have to survive the qualifiers first. I hear they're full of slappers these days."
The man chuckled again, eyes narrowing slightly at the edge of Gale's challenge. "The smart choice would be for both of us to conserve our strength. Let the small fry eliminate each other while we watch from the safety of our respective vacuums."
Gale shrugged. "Yeah. That would be the smart thing."
They stared at each other for a moment, both grinning now.
"But let's be honest," the man added, voice low with anticipation, "that would be way too boring."
Oh yeah, Gale thought, as his pulse kicked up a notch. 'This guy's definitely going to be a problem.'
And for the first time since stepping onto the platform, Gale actually felt excited.
The man adjusted his stance ever so slightly and gave Gale a small, respectful bow. "My name is Hanzo Murakami," he said. "Of the Murakami Dojo, Karate Island."
Gale blinked, then gave an awkward little wave. "Uh, yeah. Bayle. From… Jagged Peak."
He said the last part with forced confidence, like he totally didn't make it up on the spot.
Hanzo raised an eyebrow. "Jagged Peak?"
Gale nodded. "Very jagged. Lots of peaks. You'd hate it."
And just like that, no more words were exchanged.
The air between them shifted, thickened—like two cats who'd just realized they both wanted the same sunbeam. Then, without a signal or a bell or some over-dramatic announcer yelling "BEGIN!", they moved.
Gale shot forward, fists up, boots digging into the stone with practiced grace. He didn't activate his Devil Fruit powers yet—no weird weight tricks, no flashy stunts. He wanted to test the waters first. See what the old man had in store.
And to his surprise… the man met him head-on.
Their blows collided with bone-rattling force—fists, elbows, knees, all moving in a blur. Hanzo was strong. Not "gym bro with something to prove" strong, but "chop down a tree with his forehead" strong.
His punches carried a sharp, deliberate precision that made Gale feel like he was fighting a walking pressure point diagram.
Still, Gale had the edge in speed. He ducked low, spun left, twisted into a jab aimed squarely at Hanzo's midsection—
Missed.
What?
Gale blinked. Hanzo was suddenly two feet to the right. Like he'd teleported.
Gale threw another punch. Another miss. Again. And again. Every strike was just shy—his target slipping away at the last possible instant, feet gliding across the stone like he was skating on buttered air.
"The hell?" Gale muttered, stepping back, eyes narrowing. "What kind of trick is that?"
Hanzo grinned. "No trick. It's martial arts. The specialty of my dojo. 'Shifting Shadow Step.'"
Gale stared at him. "You made that name up just now, didn't you?"
"It sounds cool," Hanzo replied calmly.
He wasn't wrong.
Gale took a few steps back, catching his breath, heart still pumping from the exchange. Karate Island… That name rang a bell.
He frowned, thinking back. 'Wait… wasn't that the place where some weird long-limbed guy from CP-whatever learned some stretchy boxing nonsense?'
It was vague. Something-something Seimei Kikan? Gale honestly couldn't remember. The show had been 90% shouting and punching by that point. Still…
He glanced at Hanzo's dancing feet, the way they flickered and vanished like afterimages.
'Okay, maybe it's worth a visit someday. If this guy learned foot magic there, maybe I could too. Get myself a cool technique with a dramatic name like "Phantom Elbow Blast" or "Midnight Slab."'
"Are you daydreaming in the middle of a fight?!" Hanzo barked.
Before Gale could respond, Hanzo dashed forward, leg whipping up in a blinding crescent arc aimed for Gale's temple. A kick that would've knocked most fighters flat—or at least given them an express ticket to the nearest concussion ward.
But Gale had already checked out of the conversation.
With a sigh, he lightened his body—drastically lowering his density in a blink—and his body moved with sudden, unnatural speed, slipping under the kick like a gust of wind under a rug.
Hanzo's eyes went wide. "What—?"
"Oh, now you're surprised," Gale said, voice smug as hell. "We all got party tricks, old man."
Hanzo immediately retreated, his feet blurring again with that signature footwork—but it was too late.
Gale was already there.
No more testing. No more holding back.
He raised a single arm—flat, open-palmed, and filled with enough force to snap a boulder in two.
SLAB.
The sound cracked through the arena like thunder. The blow connected squarely with Hanzo's chest and sent him rocketing across the platform like a bowling pin on turbo mode. He flew—gracefully, tragically, and quite impressively—before crashing into the ground outside the ring with a dusty thud.
Silence followed.
Then one guy near the edge of the arena quietly clapped, very slowly, like he wasn't sure if it was allowed.
Gale blew air through his teeth and rolled his shoulder. "Welp. Guess I win."
He looked down at his hand. "Midnight Slab might actually stick…"
...
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